Looking for Me.

gold-oval-mirror-l-e27044dcce9ba1a4Call me self absorbed, I’m pretty sure I’m just human, but I go through life looking for me.  I read books looking for myself in the author or the characters.  I unconsciously compare myself to everyone I see.  Every message or podcast I hear, I relate to my experiences and I evaluate myself based on the new information I am learning. That’s normal, right?

I don’t mean to be egotistical, I just only know me. I only hear my own thoughts. I can only compare life to my own experiences.

I think in searching for myself in the world around me, I’m still really just trying to understand who I am and how God made me. I find that I’m not the person I used to be or thought I was.

As often as I’m looking, I never completely find myself in others. I am a perfectionist, but I’m a lazy perfectionist.  I’m just now realizing this because I’ve always been so laid back-except when it comes to a few things that are very important to me.  For instance, I’m an adamant rule follower.  I don’t care what you do, but I’m doing things the right way (or feeling super guilty about it).  At the same time, I am a skeptic at heart. I question everything and unless I know the reasoning behind it, I won’t follow your rules at all.  I am absolutely a feminist fighting the curse, but I also really love to serve my family and husband and I don’t mind putting their needs ahead of mine. I’m super passionate, but also very insecure (probably because I’m not perfect and I expect myself to be).  So when my heart leads me in a certain direction, my fear of failure makes me stay right where I am.

So I read these “self help” books and look for myself in the pages, but when I can’t find myself, it makes me feel I’m beyond help.

Aren’t we all looking to relate to someone else in this world?

Being unique makes me feel like I’m not doing it right.

Being unique makes me feel like I’ll never fit in; like I’ll never be able to connect with others in a meaningful way.

It beats me down and makes me feel like a failure.


But God created me, uniquely me, on purpose, right?  So I would have a new perspective and a refreshing voice in the midst of sameness.

When I feel like there is nothing new under the sun and that makes me feel like my life is meaningless because everything has been said already, I’m reminded that my voice has not yet been heard.  All voices are meant to be heard.


Please tell me I’m not alone in thinking this.

Please tell me I’m not alone.

Unique, but not alone.

Black and Blue




I just don’t know what to say.

My heart is broken.  It’s bruised.  It’s black and blue.

I haven’t said anything about police brutality because there are always a lot of factors involved. And until we know all of the facts about each case it’s hard to make any objective judgment.

I have been treated poorly by policemen multiple times myself. My first time being pulled over was because I was in a park after hours.  It was dark and I was asked to exit my vehicle while it and I was searched.  The cop called for backup and when nothing was found I was told I was “boring” and sent on my way with a fat ticket.  I’ve had a cop lie to my face.  I’ve had a cop leave me crying on the side of a sketchy road in the middle of the night, as my car wouldn’t start, after giving me three tickets for two violations.  I’ve had a cop advise me not to make an official statement because it would make the property value of the city go down.  But in each time I’ve come across a rude or tyrannical police officer, I never once feared for my life. In fact, when I see the police cars patrol my neighborhood, I feel safer.  I can’t judge every police officer by the few bad ones I’ve encountered.  For the most part, they have trained and sacrificed to protect my family and me. And I am truly thankful.

But after the recent events, my heart breaks for the black community… again.  I have been able to discount statistics due to so many surrounding factors.  I have excused past police shootings because people, even without weapons, can still be a fatal threat to others.  But this week, it has become very clear that policy needs to change.  If the law finds that shooting a man with his hands up because you are afraid he may have a gun nearby is sound and just, it’s time for a policy change.

Zianna is right.  Black people shouldn’t have to feel this way.  An entire people group should not be afraid of the people who have vowed to protect them.  It’s a problem.  It’s a problem that causes more than “unrest.”

Watch this. The whole things is good but if you’re pressed for time watch from 3:45-12:43.

One thing may lead to another to cause statistics that seem unfair.  It’s time to find the root of these statistics. It’s a vicious cycle that police fear black males because black males are statistically committing violent crimes at a higher rate than any other race proportional to their population.  Is it possible that black males feel the whole system disrespects them, is unfair, and untrustworthy?  Would changing the rules of engagement to include “tase first” help?  I’m not the expert here but I can question the experts and call for conversations to begin.

Because I’ll say it again: that’s what will help.  Conversations.  Face to face.

When I saw him from afar, I thought he was a bad dude.

When he got closer, I thought he was just an animal.

When he got closer, I recognized that he was a human.

When we were face to face, I realized that he was my brother.

-American Proverb


Seek Joy.

My boys and I love an adventure.

When we decided to start geocaching this summer I told my boys all about how we would have a mission all summer long, everywhere we went.  We searched out geocaches in our neighborhood and close by parks, we found some in Oklahoma City with Grandma.  Admittedly, the heat made the mission less fun.  That and we all got poison ivy.

But the thrill of a quest, something to find and accomplish gave our summer a little extra adventure.


Today and every weekday for the past month, Isaac woke up with silent tears in his eyes dreading a new day of school.  Honestly, I think middle school is going to be more fun than elementary school for him, but he’s in a very busy season.  Isaac’s school starts an hour later than Asher’s and by the time he gets home from school he has an hour or less of free time (none at all if there’s homework) before dinner and football practice most days. On Wednesdays he has even less time because piano lessons are before football.  He really needs his free time and he’s just not getting enough.  By the time football is over, the days will be shorter and I fear he’ll still be missing that time in the sun.


Every. Single. Day. I explain why he has to go to school and how it’s hard, but good for him.  We talk about all the best parts of school: seeing his friends, his favorite classes, how funny his science teacher is, dismissal…  We have to take each task every morning and evening (because he starts dreading the next day at bedtime) one step at a time like someone in recovery.

“You don’t have to go to school right now, you just have to brush your teeth.”

Every. Single. Day. It breaks my heart.

Today, Isaac, you have a mission.  Your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to seek out the joy.  Dig, scrounge, chase the moments in your day that make you happy.  Do you get to sit by the window and the sun shines through and warms your arm on your desk?  Let that make you smile.  Were you first to your lunch table? Take pride in that small moment.  Did you feel the breeze circling through the bus on your ride home?  Take it in and let it fill your soul.  Life is good, baby.  Life is hard, but it is good.  Every single day is one day closer to the end of 6th grade.  You’re going to make it.  I believe in you.

Choose joy.  Take the challenge.  Change your mind.  And pray for the help it will require to make the change.

All my love,


14 Years


Today is Randall and my wedding anniversary.  For fourteen years on August 30th we’ve gone to the World’s Fair Pavilion in Forest Park for a picnic like we did (to a much larger scale) on our wedding day.

Today is a busy day and the best time to celebrate was for an hour this morning over breakfast. The morning was hectic trying to get the boys out the door and get the house ready for someone to come in and do some work on our interior doors and baseboards.  I spent the time cleaning toilets and swiping floors and picking up dirty underwear and the 3 bajillion Nerf darts all over the house.

I washed my face but didn’t even have time to put on makeup.  I put up my hair and tried to brush the flyaways back into a pony tail. I hurried to the car to try to get the most time together in peace on our anniversary.

We held hands over coffee and talked about our favorite moments over the last fourteen years. We talked seriously about where the future is taking us. We reminisced about what we were doing fourteen years ago at this moment.

Randall, fourteen years ago I was younger, thinner, unscarred by the weight of carrying our children.  I wore a summery white dress, had professional make up on, and my hair professionally done.  We were surrounded by all of our family and friends, great food and a great party.

This year is real life.  The honeymoon is officially over.

But you know what? Fourteen years ago, I barely knew you.  I barely knew me!  We’ve grown together and created a beautiful family.  Our marriage is stronger and better with each passing year.

Randall Lawton, I love you from the bottom, top, and center of my heart.  I thank God for you, our marriage, and whatever strange events had to fall into place to bring us here, today, right where we are.


Invitation to the Table

A year or so ago our church invited Nikki Lerner, a culture coach, diversity teacher, and amazing musician, to talk to our staff and worship team.  She spent the day talking to our staff members about multiculturalism in the church and that evening, some of our worship team gathered together to hear her speak about multiculturalism in worship.

I was a part of the team that gathered that evening.  We started off in a small conference room, sitting around a table and eating desserts.  There weren’t enough chairs around the table so when I saw Nikki and some other leaders enter the room, I got up and stood so she could take my seat.

Later after a beautiful, holy moment of worship, Nikki laughed ironically about how she had been talking to the staff all day about how churches often stick to the majority race and don’t cater to other cultures. Then she showed up this evening and there literally wasn’t a seat at the table for her.

Table 082316Without thinking I said, “I got up so you could have my chair.” To which she replied, “I didn’t see you.”

I regretted immediately saying anything.  I talk a lot, but I usually don’t want to bring any attention to myself.  I ruminate over things I say for days.  My heart still pounds when I think about the last post I wrote on racism. Can I use the word black in that context? Was I not considerate enough of other people’s feelings?  Who am I to say these things or make these assumptions or to stand up for things I don’t understand?

No one.  I’m no one.  But I’m not going to wait until I understand everything and live perfectly before I start standing with my black friends and family.

I learned a valuable lesson that night.

Imagine you were in a room full of people.  There is one empty seat at the table and 10 people standing around waiting for a seat, but you were the only one in the room of your race, or gender, or religion.  It is likely that you wouldn’t take that last seat unless someone offered it to you, right?  I wouldn’t.  I probably would still decline after an invitation. But that’s me.

Leaving an empty chair at a table full of white people is not enough.  It’s time that we, as white people extend an invitation to our friends of color.  Invite people in the minority to the table.

Being kind is not enough.  The one thing that will change the world between races is relationship.  (<– Click this.)



When I saw him from afar, I thought he was a monster.

When he got closer, I thought he was just an animal.

When he got closer, I recognized that he was a human.

When we were face to face, I realized that he was my brother.

-African Proverb


10,000 Hours

Malcolm Gladwell says that it takes 10,000 hours of deliberate practice to achieve mastery in a field.

I have been a parent for almost 100,000 hours.  About 98,526 hours as of this moment.  Subtract an average of 8 hours a day for sleep (though new parents know you don’t ever get that much sleep!) and the time that I’ve had both kids in school and that’s still 51,062 hours I have been consciously and physically parenting. So, I guess I’m gonna call that mastered.  Bam. That’s Gold Medal level parenting right there.








Just don’t google the “10,000 hour rule” and read the titles to all of the articles there discounting that it’s even a thing.  And don’t pay any attention to the fact that as your kid changes you have to change your parenting.  Or that the parenting that works for one kid doesn’t for the other.  Or that what used to be a good parenting practice, is now considered inappropriate according to the American Academy of Pediatrics. And don’t even think about how I’ve had an amazing partner doing a good portion of the work, or that I’m not even very good at math, so I may be completely wrong about how long I’ve been parenting… You know what, never mind.

Black Olympians Matter

I haven’t said a lot about the racism that is making headlines lately for a lot of reasons. I will admit that ignorantly, I just had no idea racism was still a problem this far north in the US. My eyes were opened when my neighbor started flying a confederate flag just days after the Michael Brown shooting.


A bunch of stereotypical southern 20 something boys moved in three houses down in 2014. When I say “southern” I mean our street was now lined with pick up trucks blaring country music while overall-wearing boys played football in the middle of the street. It’s not an exaggeration to say that they had an easy chair in the back of a pick up truck in the driveway and on any given afternoon, 6 boys would be sitting in and around it, drinking cheap beer, and chewing on long stems of grass.  Seriously.


I don’t mind a little bit of character in my neighborhood. I pride myself in the diversity I find living within walking distance of an Islamic mosque, Hindu temple, Catholic and Lutheran church, as well as a well known Christian Science school just down the street. So a few good ol’ boys would just make it all the more exciting, but I could not tolerate blatant racism in my neighborhood.


I passed by in unbelief for a couple of days and just couldn’t take it any longer. One evening, driving by, I pulled over and asked the group of boys if they were new to the neighborhood and who actually lived in the house. They said one boy lived there but he was in the back yard at the moment. I asked if that was his confederate flag. They responded with a glowing, “Yes, ma’am.” I asked if they were sporting some Southern pride (Yes, ma’am) or racist pride. “Well, everyone has their own opinions.”


To which, I responded, “Yes, but given the present circumstances, flying that flag just seems tactless.”


“Everyone has their own opinions, ma’am” he repeated.


“I guess you’re right.” I said in disbelief. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” And I drove off.


Those boys lasted about a year and then moved somewhere else. I found myself praying for rain because they wouldn’t fly their flag when the weather was bad. We didn’t see it all winter but it came out again in the spring. One neighbor said she called the police to ask them to take it down. I’m sure that can’t be legal, but she said maybe because of the size of it, or the fact that it was flying on the back of a pickup truck, the police succeeded in making them take it down.


In the days and months to come, I realized how prevalent racism was in my own backyard. I had no idea. My parents talked to me about race growing up. They taught me to love everyone equally. They made fun of my grandma for always mentioning that her friend Betty was black. “My black friend Betty,” she would always say. We had friends who were black, it just didn’t seem to matter much to me. I judged a person by the content of their character, not the color of their skin. I honestly didn’t think racism was still a thing among people in suburban St. Louis County.


But my parents never taught me about systemic racism* or white privilege. I don’t think they knew much about it themselves.


Since the events in Ferguson, a place I spent half of my childhood in, I’ve learned a lot about white privilege and racism and I’m trying to constantly learn more.


So when I read a Facebook post the other day questioning the importance of Simone Manuel’s history making gold medal, I made an audible pshhh. Asher heard me say it and asked why I had made that sound.

Simone Manuel wins Gold
via www.nydailynews.com

I told him that for the first time in history an African American woman had won the gold medal in an individual swimming race but some people are questioning why that’s a big deal. They think, black people have had the same opportunity to achieve swimming goals as white people, why is it significant that this is just now happening?


I told Asher that those people would be wrong. It is very sad that black people are not treated the same way as white people in our country. Yes they can vote, yes they can sit where they want on a bus, and are no longer slaves but the fact that they once were, still very much matters.


You see, just two generations ago, black people weren’t allowed to swim in public pools with white people. When they were legally forced to desegregate, many pools chose to close rather than let black people into their white run pools. You can change the laws but you can’t change the people. This resulted in a disproportionate amount of black people who don’t know how to swim even today. I read that anywhere between 58% and 70% of all African Americans do not know how to swim.


If your parents didn’t know how to swim, it was likely that you never learned because they couldn’t teach you. So if someone in Simone Manuel’s family history broke the mould and taught their child to do something their parents couldn’t teach them how to do, that is a big deal.


And that’s what we have to do, too. I can’t ignore my own white privilege or the racism that exists all around me anymore. I have to make my kids aware of the brokenness of this world in order to fix it. If white people aren’t aware of the rampant racism in our city who will help? You may be thinking that you’re not racist and that you treat everyone equally and that’s all you can do. My parents did an excellent job teaching me to love my neighbors no matter who they are but it has become clear that treating people kindly is not enough to change the world.


What can we do? Well, to start off:

1) Educate yourself on the state of racism in this country. White privilege is a thing. Privilege doesn’t mean that you’ve had an easier life than anyone else, educate yourself on what it does mean.

2) Talk to your kids about what you’re learning.

And 3) start praying and thinking about how we can support our neighbors of color. I mean, who better than a middle class white woman to stand up to her racist white neighbor? People of color aren’t going to change the mind of someone who is already set against them but we can speak for them in many situations.


What else can we do? I have some ideas I’ll post about in the days to come but I’m still learning so feel free to comment below with your suggestions.







Jesus, may we follow in your example to love our neighbors sacrificially like you showed us how. Show us how we can stand up for black lives as someone who can’t relate to their experiences. Show us how to make real change in a country that has such deep roots in partiality. May we be your ambassadors bringing light back into this dark world.


*If you don’t have time to watch the whole 15 minute video, just start at minute 7.

I’m Learning.

My boys just started school again, This kid is in 6th IMG_0439

and this one is in 4th grade.



I can’t believe that my oldest is in middle school! I tried to imagine what he would be like when I used to look at his expressive, three-year-old, chubby face.


I had no idea he would grow into the beautiful boy he is now. I had no idea that he’d love football so much that he genuinely enjoys wearing pads that weigh more than he does and practicing for hours in the summer heat. I had no idea that he would be so musically intuitive (though I should have guessed with so much of those Littleton genes). I had no idea that those blue eyes would so rarely look me in mine, but when they did, I would melt so completely.


I’ll be honest; my sweet Asher hasn’t changed too much in the seven years since I took this photo.


He still is so full of energy, loves food and animals, and surprisingly at nine and a half years old, he still hides every time he knows I’m looking for him. But that big ball of energy that gave him the nickname of Bash as a baby is growing into a reserved and introspective boy. He has few close friends but will usually choose to stay home rather than go out. He learns from everyone around him and is paying attention when you think he’s just snuggling with the puppy.  And the freckles on his nose make my heart leap every time he is quiet long enough for me to catch a glimpse of them.


I’ve been learning a thing or two in the past few years, as well.

I’ve learned that I’m a perfectionist. A lazy perfectionist, but a perfectionist nonetheless.


I’ve learned that the world is not as I thought it was. My eyes have been opened to a lot of pain and disparity all around me, and that’s a good thing.


I’ve learned that as much as I pride myself in my introversion, I am in desperate need of people.


I’d like to use this blog to explore these topics in the days to come.


May the things I am learning, open your eyes as well and give you a small glimpse of who I am and who I am still becoming.