Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Raspberry’s Myers-Briggs Results

    INFJ.

    Introverted. Intuitive. Feeling. Judging.

    And after reading the description, my first thought, was, “Well, that explains some things.”

    My second thought was, “I feel personally attacked.”

    I don’t believe a personality test can reduce an entire human being to four letters. I’m complicated. You’re complicated. We’re all walking combinations of personality, experience, upbringing, faith, trauma, choices, habits, and approximately seven things we should be discussing with a therapist.

    But I do love anything that helps me understand myself a little better. And INFJ gave me something to think on.

    I – Introverted

    This one surprised absolutely no one.

    I like people. I just tend to like them individually. Give me one person, a cup of coffee, and a conversation about life, God, childhood, relationships, regret, dreams, or why we are the way we are, and I’m in.

    Put me in a room with 40 people making small talk? I suddenly remember an urgent appointment I have with my couch.

    Being introverted doesn’t mean I don’t like people. It means that solitude restores me. I need quiet. I need to time to think. And after enough social interaction, my internal battery starts flashing: 5%. Low Power Mode. Find pajamas immediately.

    N – Intuitive.

    This might explain why absolutely nothing is allowed to simply be something in my brain.

    A raspberry isn’t a raspberry. It’s a metaphor for fragility, protection, sweetness, suffering, identity, and somehow God’s redemption.

    A watering can isn’t a watering can. It’s a symbol for stewardship.

    A routine isn’t a routine. It’s a blog post about discipline.

    I am constantly looking underneath things. What does this mean? Why did it happen? What is this teaching me? What pattern am I seeing? Sometimes that’s insightful. And sometimes I imagine God looking down at me, like, “Girl…it’s literally just a raspberry.”

    F – Feeling

    This doesn’t mean I am incapable of logic. It means values and human impact matter tremendously when making decisions.

    I care about how people feel. I care about why people behave the way they do. I can spend an embarrassing amount of time trying to understand someone’s perspective – even when I disagree with it.

    I have historically treated certain emotions like subpoenas requiring my immediate appearance.

    I’m learning not to do that anymore. Because feelings contain information, but they don’t always contain instructions.

    J – Judging

    This one sounds meaner than it actually is. “Judging” doesn’t mean I sit around passing judgement on everyone. It refers more to preferring structure, decisions, planning, and closure.

    I mean…have you met my bullet journal?

    I like plans. Lists. Calendars. Routines. Goals. Categories. I can take an ordinary notebook and turn it into a small corporate headquarters for my entire existence.

    Does everything go according to plan? Nope.

    But there will be a plan if it doesn’t go to plan.

    What fascinated me the most, though, wasn’t any individual letter.

    It was the contradictions.

    I love people…but need emormous amounts of time alone.
    I feel deeply…but I’m increasingly learning not to react immediately.
    I crave meaningful relationships…but superficial socializing exhausts me.
    I love structure…but my brain can simultaneously contain seventeen unrelated thoughts.
    I want to understand people…but sometimes I desperately want people to understand me too.
    I can be compassionate toward someone else’s flaws while being incredibly hard on my own.

    In other words…apparently my personality is “Come sit beside me and tell me everything about your soul – but please don’t stay too long because I need to finish my task list in my bullet journal.”

    Accurate.

    There are things about this personality that I genuinely appreciate. I care deeply. I notice things. I love meaningful conversations. I naturally search for patterns and meaning. I want my life to matter. I want people to feel heard. I think deeply about my values and whether I am actually living in accordance with them.

    There are qualities I don’t want to lose, but every strength can become unhealthy when it isn’t stewarded well.

    And then there’s the other side.

    Empathy can become taking responsibility for emotions that aren’t mine. Introspection can become overthinking. Wanting harmony can become avoiding unnecessary conflict. Understanding someone’s perspective can become excusing behavior I shouldn’t excuse. Wanting to be understood can become overexplaining. Idealism can become disappointment when actual human being stubbornly insist on being human beings. And caring deeply can become exhausting when I forget that I am not personally responsible for fixing everything I care about.

    That’s where a personality test becomes useful to me. Not as an excuse. As information.

    My personality explains me. But it doesn’t excuse me. Saying, “Sorry, I’m an INFJ,” doesn’t excuse unhealthy behavior any more than saying, “That’s just how I am.” If anything, knowing my tendencies gives me greater responsibility for managing them.

    If I know I overthink, I can learn when to stop. If I know I avoid conflict, I can practice speaking honestly. If I know I absorb other people’s emotions, I can learn where they end and I begin. If I know I need solitude, I can intentionally make room for it instead of becoming exhausted and resentful.

    Self-awareness isn’t permission to remain exactly as we are. It’s information we can use to grow.

    At the end of the day, God made a person, not a personality.

    Four letters don’t tell me who I am. He does. INFJ may describe some of my tendencies, and it may help to explain why I process things the way I do. It may even help me laugh at myself.

    But it isn’t my identity. I’m still responsible for my character, my choices, my habits, my relationships, my obedience, my growth.

    A personality test can tell me something about how I’m wired, but it cannot tell me who I’m becoming. That is determined by what I repeatedly choose to do with the personality I’ve been given.

    INFJs are the most rare personality type, only making up 1-2% of the testing population.

    I’m a deeply feeling introvert who loves people but would also appreciate it if everyone left by 7 p.m. A planner who knows life cannot be controlled. An idealist learning to make peace with reality. An overthinker learning when thinking has stopped being useful. A person who looks for meaning in almost everything.

    And you know what? I kind of like her.

    Not every part of me needs to be corrected. Some parts need discipline, healing, maturity. Some might even need a nap.

    But some parts just need to be appreciated.

    And maybe that’s one of the best things self-awareness can teach us: Growth isn’t about rejecting who we are. It’s about learning to steward well what we’ve been given.

  • Wrong Raspberry

    I used to be terrified of being wrong.

    Not necessarily about little things.

    If I confidently tell you that Target closes at 10 and it actually closes at 9, I’ll survive.

    I’m talking about being wrong about things that matter.

    Wrong about another person.

    Wrong about someone’s intentions.

    Wrong about a decision I made.

    Wrong about something I believed.

    Wrong about myself.

    Those kind of mistakes use to feel really threatening.

    Because somewhere along the way, I confused being wrong with being bad.

    And those are not the same thing.

    Being wrong used to feel like an indictment.

    If someone told me I’d hurt them, my first instinct was often to explain. That’s not what I meant. You misunderstood me. And here’s what you did. You don’t know the whole story.

    Sometimes those things may have even been true. But I was so busy defending my intentions that I couldn’t hear someone else’s experience. Because admitting I was wrong felt like admitting something much bigger. Maybe I am the person they say I am.

    So I defended. Explained. Justified. Argued.

    Anything to escape the discomfort of being wrong.

    What I am learning is that being wrong is actually pretty normal. This may come as a shock, but apparently, I am a human being. Which means I am going to get things wrong. Frequently. I will misread situations, make assumptions, fly off at the mouth. I’ll remember conversations differently than someone else. I’ll make decisions with incomplete information. I believe things today that 10-years-from-now me will shake her head at.

    And none of that is necessarily evidence of bad character. It’s evidence that I’m human. The problem isn’t being wrong. The problem is becoming so committed to not being wrong that I become unwilling to learn.

    There is so much freedom in the phrase, “I was wrong.” Three words. No dissertation. No closing argument. No Power Point presentation containing seventeen exhibits explaining why I technically had a point. Just…I was wrong. The freedom in admitting it lies inside the fact that I don’t have to defend it anymore. I don’t have to build arguments around it. I don’t have to rewrite history to make myself look better. I don’t have to convince everyone else that I’m not a horrible person.

    I can simply learn something…and move forward.

    I can change my mind.

    That’s another unexpected freedom of getting older.

    For the better part of my existence, Batman has been my favorite superhero.

    And when someone would come at me with their favorite, I pulled out my metaphorical notecards and lectured them on all of the reasons why Batman was superior.

    Well, I went to watch the new Spiderman last night with my boys.

    And I loved it.

    I remember thinking as we left the theater that the movie was superior to any Batman movie ever made. And then having a mini-identity crisis because I’ve argued for 25 years that Batman was better.

    Who even am I?

    But then I realized that I’m allowed to change my mind. About movies. Superheroes. People. Relationships. Parenting. Marriage. About what success looks like. About what I want. About things I once defended passionately.

    Changing my mind does not always mean I was foolish before. Sometimes it means that I know something now that I didn’t know then.

    And growth should change our minds on occasion. If I believe the same things at 60 that I did at 20, I hope it’s because those things have survived 40 years of examination…not because I was too proud to reconsider them.

    A willingness to be wrong means we are teachable. I can’t ask God for wisdom while simultaneously insisting I already know everything. I can’t ask people to be honest with me and then punish them when their honesty makes me uncomfortable. I can’t grow while protecting every old version of myself. If growth starts with, “Maybe I was wrong about that,” that is okay.

    And a little side note – being wrong doesn’t mean the other arguing party is right. This matters, too. Life isn’t always divided neatly into little black and white boxes. I can acknowledge I was wrong without accepting responsibility for everything. I can apologize for my behavior without agreeing with someone else’s entire interpretation of me. I can say, “I shouldn’t have done that,” without also saying, “Therefore, everything you believe about me is true.” Accountability doesn’t require self-erasure. I’m still learning that the world is mostly gray.

    I don’t need to win every case against myself. I spend enough of my time working around arguments, evidence, facts, and competing versions of events. I don’t want to turn every relationship into a courtroom, too. Sometimes there doesn’t need to be a verdict. Sometimes two people experience the same situation differently. Sometimes I hurt someone when I didn’t mean to. Sometimes someone hurt me when he/she didn’t mean to. Sometimes everyone involved could’ve better handled a situation. And sometimes…I was simply wrong. Period.

    God corrects without condemning. Correction doesn’t mean rejection. He can show me something ugly in myself without declaring that everything about me is unredeemable. He convicts me without abandoning me. He prunes without destroying the entire plant. He says, “This needs to change.” And I can receive that correction without collapsing into shame.

    I’m no longer interested in being right at all cost. I want to be honest. Teachable. The kind of person who can hear something uncomfortable and at least consider whether there’s truth in it.

    Sometimes I’ll analyze and still disagree. Sometimes I’ll realize I was partially wrong. And sometimes I’ll have to swallow my pride and say, “Yep, that one’s on me.”

    There is so much freedom in that. Because I don’t need a spotless record to have integrity. In fact, maybe integrity isn’t about having a spotless record at all. Maybe it’s about being willing to tell the truth about the record I actually have.

    I will be wrong again.

    But that doesn’t terrify me the way it once did.

    Because being wrong gives me an opportunity to learn.

    And learning gives me an opportunity to change.

    And I would rather be a woman who can change than a woman who has to be right.

  • Ripened Raspberry

    I’m 39.

    39.

    That’s almost 40.

    Which means I’ve been an adult for over two decades, technically.

    I should’ve listened to my parents when they told me I should’ve tried longer to stay little.

    I moved out young, got married young, had kids young…

    Now I have a whole career. I pay taxes. I make appointments without needing to be reminded.

    And yet there are still moments throughout my regular days when I look around for someone more qualified than me to answer a question of some sort…

    …before realizing…

    …it’s me. I’m the qualified one.

    Apparently.

    To be honest, it’s not the emergencies that make me feel mature. Like when my son thought he broke his ankle at school last week. Or when my husband’s body decided to become infected with cancer. Or when my own doctor told me my iron was so low that an IV iron infusion was likely the only remedy, notwithstanding surgery.

    I realize I’m a grown up because my tastes have changed. My preferences are different than they were 20 years ago. And I handle chaos differently.

    1. I get excited about home decor. Not clothes anymore – I wear leggings pulled up to about my bra line about 6 days a week. And a giant sweatshirt, regardless of the weather. But the ice cream cone canisters I bought for my kitchen? My new, slim, beige, 29 gallon trash can? The orange bedding that perfectly matches the curtains in my bedroom? Don’t threaten me with a good time.
    2. I order groceries online. I started doing this during the COVID pandemic. And I haven’t stepped foot inside a Walmart in months. It’s probably not beneficial in the way that I’ve become more secluded, but it is beneficial for my lumbar spine.
    3. I say things my parents used to say to me. Now I tell my son that he needs to try to stay little longer. And he won’t listen – just like his sister didn’t. Just like I didn’t. Sorry, Mom and Dad. You were right.
    4. I become genuinely excited when plans get canceled. Younger Raspberry was all, “Let’s go somewhere!” Now Raspberry is like, “Oh, you can’t make it?” That’s terrible. I’m devastated. Please excuse me while I immediately take my pants off. That level of joy is known only to introverts and lottery winners.
    5. I have opinions about appliances now. Mark 2026 in your respective calendars as the year I had a total come apart over a drink fridge. And the year I bought a new vacuum cleaner, a carpet shampooer, and a cart upon which to organize said vacuum cleaner and carpet shampooer. I used to have dreams. Now I have preferred dishwasher specifications.
    6. I understand, now, why grown ups want “nothing” for their birthday. As a kid, this baffled me. What do they mean they don’t want anything? Well, they did. Just nothing tangible. What do I want for my 40th birthday? Peace. An uninterrupted bath. Maybe a dinner that doesn’t require clean up afterwards. And please don’t make me pick the restaurant.
    7. I have a drawer full of cords I refuse to throw away. Do I know what they plug into? No. Have I used them in the last 8 years? No. Can we throw them away? Absolutely not. Because the moment I do, something in this house will require a Mini-USB cable manufactured during the Obama administration. And I’m not falling for it.
    8. I say this phrase out loud: “That’s too expensive.” I remember being 16, making $3.50 an hour, plus tips, at this little hole in the wall restaurant, using every spare penny to pay for Abercrombie and Aero. And while I’ve never made more money than I currently do, there are things I just won’t buy. Manicures. Name brand Frosted Shredded Mini Wheats. A bra with underwire. Did y’all know area rugs run upwards of $800 now?!?
    9. I feel unreasonably accomplished when the entire house is clean. There is a brief and glorious window when the dishes are done, the counters are scrubbed, the laundry is folded, the trash has been taken out, the floors are vacuumed, and everything is where it belongs. And for those eleven minutes, I have conquered adulthood.
    10. I realize that I’m the person someone else comes to for answers. This one isn’t funny…well…it’s a little bit funny, because I’m not sure who authorized this. But somewhere along the way, I became the go-to girl. The person my son comes to and asks, “What should I do?” And sometimes, I actually know. Not because I have life figured out (I don’t). But because I’ve lived enough of it to know that most problems eventually pass. Most mistakes teach us something. Most disasters look smaller after a good night’s sleep. And sometimes, being a grown up isn’t knowing exactly what to do. It’s just the willingness to stay calm long enough to figure it out.

    Maybe that’s what adulthood actually is. Not finally reaching some magical age where I feel completely competent. But slowly accumulating enough experience to realize that nobody knows exactly what they’re doing. We’re all just paying bills, Googling things, calling our moms, praying for wisdom, buying unnecessary storage containers, and hoping no one notices that we are figuring it all out as we go.

    So…yes. I’m 39. I’m unquestionably a grown up. And if you need proof, please see the below photograph of my kitchen canisters.

  • Raspberry Soapbox

    A long time ago, I began writing a list entitled, “Tiny Hills…upon which I’ll Die.” I wasn’t going to publish it on any public platform – especially not this one – because I never want to invite controversy. But in the spirit of full transparency, I offer said list below. Consider me uncomfortable.

    1. The American healthcare system is a scam. Insurance companies underpay. Doctors overcharge. There’s a “specialist” for every illness in the country. Society in general is more medicated than it’s ever been, yet sicker than it’s ever been. I’ll even go a step further and say that I firmly believe the cure for cancer exists. But…since said cure isn’t profitable, it is conveniently not available.
    2. Android > iPhone. I’ve never had an iPhone. I’ve played with a few. Not a fan. Not as user friendly as Apple says. Easily broken. And no feature as cool as what Samsung offers.
    3. Dinosaurs still exist today. A couple of points here. Number one, you’ll never convince me that the t-rex didn’t fly. Those little arms weren’t arms at all – they were bone structures perfectly designed to assist wings meant for soaring through the air. As evidence, I point you to every Biblical reference to dragons. Two, while science today is modern and advanced and sporadically friendly, it is not so modern or advanced or friendly that it has allowed us into the deepest parts of the ocean. And there’s no telling what’s down there.
    4. Water tastes better in a Stanley. Unlike the aforementioned points, I offer no evidence to back this up. This is pure opinion. And maybe it’s just because I personally drink more water when my engraved, cobalt companion is within reach, but I firmly believe it.
    5. The generally adopted idea that we all say things we don’t mean when we’re angry is categorically inaccurate. I think people say exactly what they mean when they’re angry. I think rage makes people brave. Confident. Gutsy. I pray consistently that the Lord helps me keep my mouth shut, and I am never more proud of the quiet than when I’m mad.
    6. The perfect temperature is 68 degrees. At 68 degrees, indoors, you can wear a sweatshirt and cover yourself with a blanket. At 69 degrees and higher, you sweat to death, sweatshirt or not…blanket or not. A cool, calm, and collected 68 degrees…with the ceiling fan on. That is the sweet spot.
    7. I don’t buy into the widely accepted concept of forgiveness. Therapists, TikTok, even Christians tell us that we *have to* forgive for our own sake, but we don’t have to let those who betray us close to us again. I don’t understand that. If Jesus did that…if He forgave me but never embraced me…would that be true forgiveness? Forgiveness, by definition, is “to cancel a debt.” The emotional credit score, if you will. I totally see the benefit of keeping a metaphorical armed guard at the gate of your heart. But I can’t say I agree with the rest. Forgiveness, to me, doesn’t exist without second chances. Or third or fourth…forever until the betrayal is set right. To say you forgive someone while simultaneously writing them off – in my opinion – is hyprocritical.
    8. As a millennial – Friends was the best t.v. show. NSYNC was the best boy band. Batman is the best superhero, mostly because he’s not a superhero at all – he’s just rich. And Harry Potter is overrated. MySpace was way more fun than Facebook. Chickfila always sounds yummy. Fruitopia was delicious. And Joey should’ve chosen Dawson.
    9. Things for which fathers are praised are a mother’s obligation. Example – when my daughter was young, her dad and I enrolled her in dance classes. Our custody schedule rotated week-to-week, such that I took our daughter to her dance classes during my custody, and the next week, her dad took her. One particular week, during my custody, my daughter’s tights suffered a tear caused by her booster seat. And at dance class that evening, another mom made a comment about said tear, perplexed as to why it existed in the first place. I’ll never forget the piercing judgment that accompanied comments about how I shouldn’t have her in dance at all if I couldn’t afford the appropriate attire. The very next week, my daughter’s dad took her to dance in no tights at all, and that very same mother flirtatiously congratulated him for being “such a good dad.” That judgment is universal. Moms handle schedules and appointments and homework and meals and birthday parties and bed times…with little to no room for error. Because it is expected. Dads? If they don’t show up it’s because they’re working to provide for their kids. Or because they weren’t reminded and that’s Mom’s fault. Somehow, some way, all is forgiven. And if they do show up, they are met with sincere compliments and invisible trophies. There are good dads out there – this is true. I have one…well, I have two, actually. But as a general rule, they don’t get lost in the details. They just show up…when they can…and soak in all of the credit. While moms are too harshly criticized for their best efforts.
    10. Naps, baths, and snacks solve most problems, at least temporarily. Not because they actually solve problems. But because (A) they distract you; (B) they relax you; and (C) they give you breathing room and time to pray.

    I hope you’re finding something good in your day.

  • Unmotivated Raspberry

    Until very recently, I thought motivation came first.

    I’d clean when I felt motivated. Exercise when I felt motivated. Write when I felt inspired. I’d have the difficult conversation when I felt brave. I’d pray when I felt like I’d earned some time with God.

    Start “tomorrow.”

    The problem is that darn word. “Felt.” Tomorrows came and went and I never “felt” like it.

    Feelings are only good leaders for about five minutes at a time. Feelings are gifts. They’re information. They deserve to be acknowledged and addressed. But they’re terrible managers. Because if I only do what I “feel” like doing, my life will be built around comfort instead of conviction. And that’s dangerous.

    The life I want requires more than motivation. There are plenty of mornings when I don’t feel like getting out of bed. I don’t always feel like putting sunshine on my face or reading my Bible or folding the laundry or paying bills. Or choosing patience. Or writing another blog post.

    If I waited until those things sounded exciting…

    …I’d still be waiting.

    The discipline associated with an amazing life is hard to achieve. I lack discipline in so many aspects of my life. One of the biggest lies I used to tell myself was that disciplined people simply wake up “feeling” motivated.

    I no longer think that is true.

    I think people who truly check the attribute of “disciplined” have learned to act independently of how they feel. And not because they ignore their emotions, but because they refuse to let temporary emotions determine permanent direction.

    And for me, there hasn’t been a trick or hack that has improved my level of discipline.

    I am a feeler. A deep feeler. And some days I don’t feel confident or joyful or even close to Jesus. Some days I’m sad and discouraged and distracted and insecure. And on those days, I wallow. I sleep. I let the laundry pile up. A life built on feelings changes direction with the weather.

    But here’s the thing. My values? Those stay the same.

    I want to be honest whether I feel like it or not. I want to be faithful whether I feel like it or not. I want to be a loving wife and mother, a prayer warrior, a kind friend.

    Those decisions are not emotional. They’re intentional.

    I have missed out almost every time I have waited for the perfect mood.

    How many books never get written because the author wasn’t inspired? How many apologies are never spoken out loud because someone wasn’t ready? How many prayers go unanswered because the request was never…requested? How many dreams stay dreams because motivation never showed up?

    I’m guilty of all of that.

    But in my life, I’ve noticed that motion – often times – is what creates motivation. I almost never “feel” like getting out of bed on the first alarm. But when I wake up and start my day early – before the snooze button even becomes an option – I don’t regret it. I don’t always “feel” like working from the monotonous task list that consumes my day. But once I begin, the jobs get done. I don’t always “feel” like reading the Bible. But I have never closed it wishing I hadn’t opened it.

    Sometimes the feeling doesn’t come first. The action does.

    Speaking of Bible, Jesus didn’t wait until He felt like it. The Word doesn’t portray a man who made decisions based on comfort. And if He had, there’d have been no crucifixion or resurrection or the thing we rely on today – grace. His life was not governed by what was easiest. It was governed by obedience.

    That challenges me.

    So instead of asking myself if I “feel” like doing something, I am trying to ask if the thing I need to do is consistent with the person I’m trying to become. I am not great at it yet, but I recognize it, nonetheless.

    There will always be days when I don’t feel like it. Days when motivation sleeps in. Days when fear is loud and discipline feels too heavy.

    But I am learning that the life I want isn’t built solely on days when inspiration is in the driver’s seat. It’s built on days I quietly choose to show up anyway. Because someday, I want to look back and realize that I didn’t let my feelings write my story…that I allowed my values to write it instead. The woman I’m becoming isn’t built by what my feelings tell me I can handle. She’s built by what I choose to do, especially on days when I don’t feel like it.

  • Raspberry Happies

    I live in the United States…in the South.

    The real South.

    And if it isn’t already a known fact, I’ll be clear – we do things different down here.

    Our diets. The way we dress. Our accents and vocabulary.

    A “happy” in the South is a tiny gift – given “just because” – that makes the receiver feel warm and fuzzy. We don’t just call them presents. We name them something related to the result we’re after.

    So today I thought I’d break up the monotony of my usual overly analytical content to list a few things that I think make a day better.

    1. Getting to sleep in and/or take a nap. I’ve been without my Vyvanse for two days which is why this is the first bullet point.
    2. Coffee that is made for you and brought to you without your having to ask.
    3. The chills that come with good worship music. The kind that bring you to tears because the lyrics and voices catch your soul at exactly the right moment.
    4. When a t.v. series that you’ve been engrossed in finally comes to a close and the ending is a perfect cocktail of satisfaction and relief.
    5. Finishing a tube of chapstick. A reminder that you didn’t lose it.
    6. Putting on the perfect pair of jeans.
    7. A fresh set of perfectly filed, perfectly glued nails. The ones that make you feel like the best kind of girly.
    8. A clean house. The kind of clean where you are actually sore from a hard day’s work.
    9. Google Memories. “On this day seven years ago…” And with the click of a button you’re right back to parenting toddlers and robbing Peter to pay Paul. The good ole days.
    10. From a vice perspective, a crisp, cold Dr. Pepper.
    11. Climbing into bed with fresh sheets and just-shaved legs.
    12. A clear face. Perimenopause skin is a real pain.
    13. Completing your daily task list on the clock. To be able to finish your work day on a high note, without worrying that responsibilities will carry over to tomorrow.
    14. A compliment. Any compliment, literally. That you look younger than your actual age. That you have neat handwriting. That the meal you prepared really hit the spot. A little pick-me-up to push you out of survival mode and into the next obligation.
    15. Orange cat videos. I don’t know why they make me laugh so hard.
    16. An unexpected text from a friend who wants nothing except to say hello.
    17. A hug from your son. It probably goes without saying that hugs make a mom feel warm, fuzzy, accepted, and successful.
    18. Planning. At least for those who love to plan things – vacations, Christmas decor and themes therein, home remodels, birthday parties, anniversary trips – sometimes planning – especially when the Vyvanse is Vyvanse-ing – is even more satisfying than the execution.
    19. Getting to pee after you’ve held it for a really long time. I write that – here and now – because I really have to pee.
    20. The perfect back crack. What can I say? The need for an aligned spine increases as you approach 40.

    I hope you all find a little “happy” during your day today.

  • Merciful Raspberry

    I am quicker to forgive other people than I am to forgive myself.

    If someone makes a mistake, I find myself wondering what he/she has been through, what he/she is carrying, what placed that person in his/her position.

    But when it’s me, the verbiage is different. How could you? You knew better. You ruined everything.

    And that’s the PG rated version. I’ll spare you the more intense, heavier thoughts and accusations. But there have been times that I have looked at myself in the mirror and talked to myself in ways that…well…let’s just say I’d never say some of those things to anyone else, no matter what they’ve done.

    It’s amazing how much grace I can extend outwardly while refusing to receive any myself.

    I know my motives. And I think part of the reason forgiving myself is so hard is because I know more than anyone else does. I know the thoughts I had before I made the decision, the warning signs I ignored. I know the moments I could’ve turned around, the opportunities I wasted. So while other people see my actions, I know the circumstances leading up to them. And that makes self-forgiveness feel complicated.

    It has taken a year of therapy to recognize that guilt serves a purpose. I’ve learned not to hate it. And I’ve forced myself to sit in it and process it. Healthy guilt is a gift. It tells us that something in our lives is out of alignment. It leads to confession. Toward repentance. It prompts us to make things right when and where we can. Without guilt, I might never recognize what in my life needs to change.

    But guilt is also meant to be a doorway, not an address.

    Shame – on the other hand – is different. It whispers something guilt never does. Instead of, “I did something wrong,” it says, “You are something wrong.” Guilt points to a behavior but shame attacks identity. On good days, I know the difference. On bad days, my vision becomes clouded with the tally marks that I’ve created in my brain – summing up how many times I have messed up.

    And on those bad days, I convince myself that shame is synonymous with accountability. I think that if I keep punishing myself – if I keep spouting vicious insults to myself in the bathroom mirror – if I refused to let go of any failure – it somehow proved that I was truly sorry. I thought that if I stopped replaying my mistakes, that would mean I wasn’t truly sorry…that if I stopped condemning myself, I was minimizing what I’d done. So shame became a card I still carry in my back pocket like it is evidence of repentance.

    My mistakes have cost me relationships with people I still cry for. Almost daily, I grieve someone who has left me because I could not meet their expectations at one point or another. And it is really hard for me to forgive myself because I’ve lost those people. My brain doesn’t know how to release my failures because those failures have hurt people I love. It’s almost like I can’t be okay until they are okay…like I have to grin and bear this until they come back, as if restoration of past relationships is somehow the only thing that will prove I’m worthy of acceptance.

    My therapist says that I can acknowledge that my choices hurt people. And I can grieve what cannot be undone. And I can accept consequences…while still believing that God is not asking me to spend the rest of my life hating myself.

    I know my therapist is right.

    But I don’t know how to do that.

    I can open my Bible and read stories of redemption over and over again. The prodigal son. Peter after he denied Jesus. Paul after literally murdering Christians. The adulterous woman.

    Those stories make me smile and feel warm inside. I celebrate God’s grace for them.

    But then I close the Book and bury my head into a pillow without ever considering that that same grace applies to me…as if His mercy has an exception clause with my name on it.

    Forgiving myself requires a certain level of trust, and the reality is I don’t trust myself. I can’t pretend nothing happened. I can’t pretend the consequences I’m currently living in will disappear overnight.

    I told the Lord last night, “My faith hasn’t altered. But my willpower isn’t reliable.”

    I have asked Him so many times to deliver me from myself. I have asked Him to soften the hearts of people I’ve lost. I’ve asked Him to remove from me whatever parts cause so much hurt and chaos in the lives of others. Sometimes I ask Him to forgive me, even though I know He already has.

    Sometimes I’m fine. Sometimes I can make it through the day without dwelling on my Scarlet Letter. There is no rhyme or reason or pattern in my life that helps me recognize when shame is going to rear its ugly head. And the truth is that I’ll never forget the lessons or try to rewrite history.

    But I don’t want my past to always be the only thing I see when I look at that mirror, and I don’t want to stunt my growth with daily ruminations that confirm I’ll never be more than my worst choices. So I am challenging myself to believe that He died for me as much as He died for everyone else. I want to believe He is changing my heart – little by little – because that is what I have asked Him to do.

    The word “repentance” is a noun. Its literal meaning is, “the act of changing one’s mind.” Which I have done. The verdicts I hand myself…the rejection I’ve confronted…the shame I fist fight…none of those things are more righteous than His forgiveness. If I can learn to sit in self-forgiveness instead of my failures, then said failures no longer get to write the last chapter of my story. So that’s the goal.

    Fingers crossed.

  • Raspberry Harvest

    I plan. I’m a planner.

    It’s the execution part that stresses me out.

    Lists. Checked boxes. Bullet points. All neatly looped together with perfectly colored highlighters and my favorite pens.

    For a long time, I thought being productive meant crossing things off of that list.

    If I was constantly moving…answering emails, scrubbing counter tops, decluttering, or otherwise solving problems, then I was obviously making progress.

    Right?

    Not necessarily.

    I’ve learned that there is a difference between being productive…and simply staying busy.

    Busy feels important. It gives me a strange sense of accomplishment. My calendar is full. My bullet journal is in pristine condition, equipped with trackers and themes and doodles. My task list is on constant cycle.

    And somewhere along the way, I started wearing exhaustion like a badge of honor, like I’ve somehow earned the right to exist in the world because I can truthfully say, “I’ve just been so busy.”

    But in my life, sometimes “busy” is just another way of avoiding things that matter the most.

    If I’m busy, I don’t have to think about the past. I don’t have to miss my daughter. I don’t have to RSVP to a lunch invitation. I don’t have to worry over my health or church attendance. I don’t have to sit with uncomfortable feelings.

    Busy often distracts. When I’m anxious, I think I become extremely productive. Or at least it looks that way on the outside. I’ll organize a drawer or answer emails or rearrange a bookshelf. I’ll research something I don’t actually need to know. Order a new area rug. Or – yes – I’ll admit it – draft a blog post. Anything…except the thing that’s actually bothering me.

    Busy asks, “What else can I fit into today?“

    But productivity has purpose. It’s not about doing “more.” It’s about doing what matters. Sometimes the most productive thing I accomplish all day is having a difficult conversation I’ve been avoiding. Or cry into a pillow until “it” doesn’t hurt anymore. Or take a shower and get dressed when all I want to do is cry into said pillow.

    Productivity can mean taking a walk to clear my mind. Or praying before making a decision. Or sitting quietly with my husband after dinner. Or watching a movie with my son in the dark, just for the sake of spending time with him.

    Productivity builds. It asks, “What actually needs my attention?“

    Jesus was never in a hurry – a concept that has never been lost on me, even if temporarily forgotten. He ministered for three years. He was followed – literally. He was constantly needed, being pulled in many directions. Yet He was never frantic. He stopped for interruptions. He took detours to reach certain groups of people. He withdrew to pray. He rested. He said no. Jesus wasn’t driven by urgency. He was driven by purpose. And that matters.

    I am not great yet at measuring my days from a place of productivity. I stay busy because stillness makes me uneasy. Sitting means I have to think and feel and pray and process. Like I said, planning is my forte, and I think it’s because busyness gives me a good hiding place. But staying busy has convicted me in a way that has me asking different questions at the close of every day. Instead of tabulating how much I’ve gotten done, I wonder if I spent my energy on what mattered. If I loved well. Kept my word. Made room for the Lord. Moved toward the woman I want to become. Those things don’t always produce the longest checklist, but I am hoping they produce a meaningful life.

    Some of the most fulfilling things don’t appear “productive.” Going to therapy. Reading the Bible. Taking a nap because your body tells you it’s time to take a break. Apologizing. Forgiving someone. Putting my phone down. Snuggling with my dogs. Laughing with my family. Listening instead of talking. Nothing that would earn me a promotion. But things that fill me up.

    My ultimate goal isn’t to be the busiest person in the room. It’s not to fill every hour or impress people with how much I can juggle.

    The goal is to create space for the Lord to – first – reveal to me what is important. And as those things have been revealed to me, I need to focus more on those things. The second goal is to build a life that reflects my values. And some days that means accomplishing a lot. Other days, it means sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee and asking the Lord to order my steps for the day.

    Productivity isn’t necessarily measured by how full my calendar is.

    It’s measured by whether the things filling it are producing the kind of life I hope to live.

    Because at the end of my life, I don’t think people will remember many “good” things about me, least of all how busy I am. So the least I can do is the right thing – to the best of my ability – from here on out.

    A full schedule and a full life are not always synonymous. It’s just up to us to decide which one packs the biggest punch.

  • Raspberry Acceptance

    I’m 11 months into a personal growth journey.

    I started first with the goal to understand myself. My defense/coping mechanisms. My survival tactics. My interpretations of various events throughout my life. Basically…why am I the way that I am?

    Overlapping that was a goal to change the parts of myself that were intolerable. Destructive patterns, unhealthy routines, bad habits.

    So I’ve spent a lot of the last year thinking about growth. And there are still parts of myself that need refining.

    I heard someone say today that we cannot call ourselves self-aware if we only consider our bad qualities and not the good. And that gave me pause, because I felt conviction around that statement.

    For as much time as I’ve spent in the last year focusing on what pieces of myself need to be altered, I have taken very little time to appreciate the positive traits that I possess. So I take time to do that now, and I intend to revisit this post in the future, should I ever forget or lose sight of how complex I truly am…how complex any human being is.

    1. I hope I never lose my sense of curiosity. I hope I never stop asking questions. About people. About God. About why the world works the way that it does. Curiosity has a way of keeping us humble. The moment I think I have it all figured out is probably the same moment I’ve stopped listening.
    2. I hope I never stop believing that people can change. I have needed grace too many times to believe otherwise. While it is true that some people won’t change, that does not mean change is impossible. I don’t want to become so cynical that I stop leaving space for redemption.
    3. I hope I never lose my sense of wonder. I want sunsets to continue to stop me. I hope thunder continues to make me sleepy. I hope I always make note of the first cool breeze every fall. I hope coffee always tastes like a small gift. Life is too beautiful to become numb to it.
    4. I hope the ability to laugh at myself never disappears. I’m sure I’ll always say awkward things. I’ll forget why I walked into the kitchen. I’ll take too long to tell a joke. I’ll wave back at someone who wasn’t waving at me in the first place. I’ll say. “Excuse me,” to a mannequin (that has actually happened) or get into the wrong vehicle (also based on true events). But life is a little lighter when we don’t take ourselves too seriously, and I love to laugh.
    5. I hope I never stop admitting when I’m wrong. I won’t lie – it bruises my pride. But it protects my character. And after so many prideful moments, I’d rather have an uncomfortable conversation than a comfortable lie at this point.
    6. I hope I never lose compassion. Even when people make decisions I don’t understand. Even when someone hurts me. Even when it’s easier to judge. Compassion does not excuse behavior. But it does acknowledge the human complexity I mentioned earlier, and it remembers that every person is dealing with circumstances I cannot fully see.
    7. I hope I never stop learning. I hope I’m still reading books, asking questions, and changing my mind when truth requires it. I want to always be willing to say, “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”
    8. I hope I never stop loving my family in ordinary ways. Dinner. Good morning texts. Showing up. Listening. Laughing together during a movie. The older I get, the more convinced I am that – much like change – love is found more in ordinary moments than in grand gestures.
    9. I hope I never stop choosing peace over proving a point. There was a time when I needed the last word, but now I’d rather have a good night’s sleep. Not every misunderstanding needs to be corrected or even addressed. Not every opinion deserves my attention. While I don’t subscribe to society’s definition of “protecting my peace,” I do believe that peace is too precious to spend it carelessly.
    10. I hope I never stop depending on God. I do not claim to be wise, but I do know that not much good has come from my desire to have control over my life or anyone else’s. Every time I have convinced myself that I can do life on my own, I’ve discovered how much I need Him. Not just during the hard seasons. Not just on days when I’m sad or lonely or overwhelmed. I need Him every day.

    I hope I keep growing. I hope I become wiser. Kinder. More patient. More disciplined. More like Jesus.

    But I also hope I never outgrow the best parts of who God created me to be.

    The ability to laugh. The willingness to learn. The courage to apologize. The desire to love well. The hope that people can change.

    If those things are still true about me after this second wind of my life is complete, I think I’ll have lived a pretty good life.

    Growing isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about becoming – more fully – the person He intended me to be all along.

  • Fruitful Raspberry

    Love. Joy. Peace. Patience. Kindness. Goodness. Faithfulness. Gentleness. Self-control.

    Matthew 7 and Luke 6 emphasize that a person’s actions – their “fruit” – reveal true character, just like a tree’s fruit identifies the tree.

    And when we consider “fruit,” we typically think about tangible, seeable things.

    A degree. A promotion. Weight loss. Debt paid off. A published book. A bigger house.

    And those are wonderful things. But lately I’ve wondered if the most important fruit in my life is the kind no one else can measure.

    No one can count the number of times I interrupted a destructive thought before it took root. Or how many conversations I chose not to have because they wouldn’t produce peace. No one sees the prayers whispered before my feet ever hit the floor in the morning. No one notices the moments I pause before responding instead of reacting.

    Those types of victories do not come with trophies, and they don’t earn applause.

    But I think He notices.

    There are fruits that never make the highlight reel. The decision to tell the truth when a lie would’ve been easier. Choosing patience with someone who is having a hard day. Keeping my word when no one would even know if you didn’t. Admitting I’m wrong. Remaining faithful on a week that I don’t “feel” like it. Getting back up – recovering – after I’ve made a mistake. Forgiving someone who may never ask for it.

    Those things aren’t impressive. But they quietly change us.

    I used to think growth would feel dramatic. Like fireworks. Like reaching a finish line.

    And instead, it has felt more like…taking root. Like something invisible is planted to first grow underground. It is slow. But it is steady.

    And there are days that I don’t feel like I’m changing at all. My triggers are the same. My impulses are the same.

    But then I look back to this time last year and I realize…

    I don’t react the same way I used to. I don’t chase the same thing or panic as quickly. I don’t need everyone’s approval. I tell the truth faster. I’m quicker to apologize. Pray. Pause.

    And I wouldn’t put any of those things on a resume, but they are fruit.

    Jesus never promised that we’d be recognized by our achievements. He said we’d be recognized by our fruit. Not by how impressive we appeared or how successful we became…but by what our lives consistently produced, none of which fit neatly into a spreadsheet.

    Peace cannot be weighed. Kindness can’t be set against a ruler. And we cannot calculate faithfulness on a graph. But those are the very things God calls fruit.

    Sometimes I wonder how often I miss celebrating what He is actually growing because I am too busy measuring what the world notices. Maybe the greatest victory this year wasn’t something anyone else noticed.

    Maybe it was the argument I didn’t start. The text I didn’t send. The temptation I resisted. The thought I wouldn’t entertain. The apology I offered. The promise I kept.

    Maybe that’s the harvest

    I’ve spent a lot of my life keeping track of things are not easy to count. This season, I’m trying to pay more attention to things that are not.

    Am I becoming more patient? Honest? Dependable? Peaceful? Compassionate? More like Jesus?

    Because if the answer is yes, then something beautiful is growing…even if no one else ever measures it.

    The sweetest fruit often grows where no one is looking first – not because it is hidden from the Lord, but because He’s more interested in changing our hearts than impressing the crowd.

    I think that’s been one of the biggest lessons of my last year. I have spent less time asking if everyone else sees said change and more time asking if I am actually becoming different. The latter is a quieter question – but it’s the one that bears lasting fruit.