Carry on Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life by Glennon Doyle Melton

8/12/2019 Carry on Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life by Glennon Doyle Melton

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Dedication

One night my mom, isha, was visiting and she asked to talk to

me privately. She looked nervous. We walked into my bedroom

and leaned up against the bed pillows together. We talked, slowly

and carefully, about my writing. She told me how beautiful she

thought it was and how hard it was for her to read. She described

the pain she felt when she read about my secret life and how

confused she was that it all happened while we did our very best

to love each other. We talked about how scary it is to share these

stories with friends and strangers.

We cried a little and laughed a little, too. But they were teary

laughs.

We talked for a long time, and then it felt as if we were almost

done. I was sad, because I wanted to stay on that bed with my

mom forever. I thought about that in the quiet for a while. I

wondered what she was thinking. Ten my mom looked at me

and her lip quivered and even though she was very, very scaredshe said,I am so proud of you. I am in awe of what you and God

have done together. You have to tell your stories. Tis is what you

were meant to do. Dont stop telling your stories, Honey.

It was like when I told her I was pregnant, and she was very,

very scared, but she looked straight at me and said, Glennon, you

dont have to marry him if you dont want to. We can raise the baby

together. We can handle this.


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It was like when my baby sister, Amanda, announced she was

moving to Africa to save little girls from an epidemic of childrape. And even though my mom was very, very scared, she even-

tually said, Its what you need to do. Go.

People are always calling my mom an angel, but I think she

is a warrior.

And I want her to know that this book, and every single word

that I write, is for her.


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Don't Carpe Diem

Every time Im out with my kids, this seems to happen:

An older woman stops us, puts her hand over her heart

and says something like, Oh Enjoy every moment. Tis time

goes by so fast. Everywhere I go, someone is telling me to seize

the moment, raisemy awareness, behappy, enjoy everysecond,

etc., etc., etc.

I know that this advice comes from a good place and is offered

with the very best of intentions. But I have finally allowed myself

to admit that it just doesnt work for me. It bugsme. Tis CARPE

DIEM message makes me paranoid and panicky. Especially dur-

ing this phase of my life while Im raising young kids. Being

told, in a million different ways, to CARPE DIEM makes me

worry that if Im not in a constant state of profound gratitude

and ecstasy, Im doing something wrong.

I think parenting young children (and old ones too, Ive

heard) is a little like climbing Mount Everest. Brave, adventur-ous souls try it because theyve heard theres magic in the climb.

Tey try because they believe that finishing, or even attempting

the climb, is an impressive accomplishment. Tey try because

during the climb, if they allow themselves to pause and lift their

eyes and minds from the pain and drudgery, the views are breath-

taking. Tey try because even though it hurts and its hard, there

are moments that make it worth the hard. Tese moments are so


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intense and unique that many people who reach the top start

planning, almost immediately, to climb again. Even thoughany climber will tell you that most of the climb is treacherous,

exhausting, killer.Tat they criedmost of the way up.

And so I think that if there were people stationed, say, every

thirty feet along Mount Everest yelling to the climbers, ARE

YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF!? IF NO, YOU SHOULD BE!

ONE DAY YOULL BE SORRY YOU DIDN ! RUS US!!

ILL BE OVER OO SOON! CARPE DIEM! those well-

meaning, nostalgic cheerleaders might be physically thrown from

the mountain.

Now Im not suggesting that the sweet old ladies who tell me

to ENJOY MYSELF be thrown from a mountain. Tey are won-

derful ladies, clearly. But last week, a woman approached me

in the arget line and said the following: Sugar, I hope you are

enjoying this. I loved every single second of parenting my two girls.

Every single moment. Tese days go by so fast.At that particular

point in time, Amma was wearing a bra she had swiped from

the cart and sucking a lollipop she undoubtedly found on the

ground. She also had three shoplifted clip-on neon feathers stuck

in her hair. She looked exactly like a contestant from oddlers and

iaras.A losing contestant. I couldnt find Chase anywhere, and

ish was sucking the pen on the credit card machine WHILE the

woman in front of me was trying to use it. And so I just lookedat the woman, smiled, and said, Tank you. Yes. Me too. Iam

enjoying every single moment. Especially this one. Yes. Tank you.

Tats not exactly what I wanted to say, though.

When Dorothy Parker was asked if she loved writing, she

replied, No. But I love havingwritten. What I wanted to say

to this sweet woman was, Are you sure? Are you sure you dont

mean you love having parented?


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I love having written. And I love having parented. My favorite

part of each day is when the kids are put to bed and Craig andI sink into the couch to watch some quality V, like Wife Swap,

and congratulate each other on a job well done. Or a job done,

at least.

Every time I write something like this, readers suggest that Im

being negative. I have received this particular message four or five

times: G, if you cant handle the three you have, why do you want

a fourth?Tat one always stings, and I dont think its quite fair.

Parenting is hard. Just like lots of important jobs are hard. Why

is it that the second a mother admits that its hard, people feel

the need to suggest that maybe shes not doing it right? Or that

she certainly shouldnt add more to her load. Maybe the fact that

its so hard means she IS doing it right, in her own way, and she

happens to be honest.

Craig is a software salesman. Its a hard job in this economy.

He comes home each day and talks a little bit about how hard

it is. But I dont ever feel the need to suggest that hes not doing

it right, or that hes negative for noticing that its hard, or that

maybe he shouldnt even consider taking on more responsibility.

And I doubt his colleagues come by his office to make sure hes

ENJOYING HIMSELF. Im pretty sure his boss doesnt peek in

his office and say: Tis career stuff, it goes by so fast. ARE YOU

ENJOYING EVERY MOMEN IN HERE, CRAIG???? HEFISCAL YEAR FLIES BY!! CARPE DIEM, CRAIG!

My point is this: I used to worry that not onlywas I failing to

do a good enough job at parenting, but that I wasnt enjoyingit

enough. Double failure. I felt guilty because I wasnt in paren-

tal ecstasy every hour of every day and I wasntMAKING HE

MOS OF EVERY MOMEN like the mamas in the parent-

ing magazines seemed to be doing. I felt guilty because honestly,


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I was tired and cranky and ready for the day to be overquite

often. And because I knew that one day, Id wake up and the kidswould be gone, and Idbe the old lady in the grocery store with

my hand over my heart. Would I be able to say I enjoyed every

moment? No.

But the fact remains that I willbe that nostalgic lady. I just

hope to be one with a clear memory. And heres what I hope to

say to the younger mama gritting her teeth in line:

Its helluva hard, isnt it? Youre a good mom, I can tell. And I like

your kids, especially that one peeing in the corner. Shes my favorite.

Carry on, warrior. Six hours til bedtime.

And hopefully, every once in a while, Ill add, Let me pick up

that grocery bill for ya, sister. Go put those kids in the van and pull

on up.Ill have them bring your groceries out.

Clearly,Carpe Diemdoesnt work for me.I cant even carpe

fifteen minutes in a row,so a whole diem is out of the question.

Heres what does work for me:

Tere are two different types of time. Chronos time is what we

live in. Its regular time. Its one minute at a time, staring down

the clock until bedtime time. Its ten excruciating minutes in the

arget line time, four screaming minutes in time-out time, two

hours until Daddy gets home time. Chronos is the hard, slow-

passing time we parents often live in.

Ten theres Kairos time. Kairos is Gods time. Its time outsideof time. Its metaphysical time. Kairos is those magical moments

in which time stands still. I have a few of those moments each

day, and I cherish them.

Like when I actually stop what Im doing and really look at

ish. I notice how perfectly smooth and brownish her skin is. I

notice the curves of her teeny elf mouth and her almond brown

eyes, and I breathe in her softishysmell. In these moments, I


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see that her mouth is moving, but I cant hear her because all I

can think is: Tis is the first time Ive really seenish all day, andmy Godshe is so beautiful.Kairos.

Or when Im stuck in Chronos time in the grocery line and

Im haggard and angry at the slow checkout clerk. But then I

look at my cart and Im transported out of Chronos. I notice

the piles of healthy food Ill feed my children to grow their bod-

ies and minds, and I remember that most of the worlds mamas

would kill for this opportunity. Tis chance to stand in a grocery

line with enough money to pay. And I just stare at my cart. At the

abundance. Te bounty. Tank you, God. Kairos.

Or when I curl up in my cozy bed with my dog, Teo, asleep

at my feet and Craig asleep by my side, and I listen to both of

them breathing. And for a moment I think, How did a girl like

me get so lucky?o go to bed each night surrounded by this breath,

this love, this peace, this warmth?Kairos.

Tese Kairos moments leave as fast as they come, but I mark

them. I say the word Kairosin my head each time I leave Chro-

nos. And at the end of the day, I dont remember exactly what my

Kairos moments were, but I remember I had them. Tat makes

the pain of the daily parenting climb worth it.

If I had a couple Kairos moments, I call the day a success.

Carpe a couple of Kairoses a day.

Good enough for me.


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On Crying and Pedaling

For Robert

I think what were supposed to do down here is bring heaven toearth, and I saw that happen once. I experienced heaven onearth.

Years ago I participated in the AIDS ride as a fundraiser for

AIDS research. Tousands of people raised money by pledging

to ride their bicycles 280 miles from North Carolina to Washing-

ton, D.C. I was one of these thousands of people.

I was not the most likely candidate because Id never done

anything for charity, ever. Unless you count my spring break

trip to an Indian reservation, but that was mostly to score pey-

ote. Decreasing my candidacy further was my absolute hatred of

physically hard things.

For example, trying to unlock a door that wont unlock has

been known to leave me on my front step in a puddle of tears.God, I hate that. Te finding of the keys in my purse, the identifying

of the correct key on the ring, the continuous turning of the key, the

trying of the other keys, the dropping and retrieving of the keys, the

juggling of bags and the whining kids and the sweat.Life is so hard.

When Chase was eight, he started asking about bad words.

We decided to teach him all of them so theyd lose their allure,

but I couldnt bring myself to say the F word out loud. Chase


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said, Its okay. I think I know that one. Its the one you say when

you cant get the door open, right? Yes. Tat one,I said. Dontsay that one.

Still, I agreed to do the AIDS ride. Im not really sure why. I

think I just wanted to be the sort of person who did those sorts

of things. I think its nice that God makes things magical even

when we do them for lame reasons.

Most of the AIDS ride was hellish. Partly because I hadnt even

sat on a bike since I was seven. I didnt even have a bike. Every

time Dana asked me to train with her, Id remain on the couch,

close my eyes, and tell her I was training through visualization.

And although I did quit smoking and drinking as part of my

preparation, I didnt officially start quitting until 2:00 a.m. on

race day. Tis quitting method was less helpful than my drinking

buddies had promised it would be.

Also, we rode our bikes one hundred miles a day in ninety-

five degree heat.Our bottoms were so blistered and chapped that

hourly we had to apply a product Id have preferred never to

discover called Butt Paste. At the end of each godforsaken day

we rolled into camp and peeled off our soaking bike shorts to

shower alongside other riders in a RUCK. Honestly, I dont

know if Ive ever even riddenin a truck. Ten we had to go to

sleep in a field. It was like Woodstock with no music or drugs.

Just pain. And there were terrifying Wizard of Ozlike storms atnight and our tents leaked. So we lay in our own personal freez-

ing ponds all night until we heard the fire alarm indicating it was

time to ride again. Ten we stood up and put helmets on our

soaking heads and put our blistered, red, screaming butts back

on our bike seats. I spent most of each day pedaling and crying.

Crying and pedaling.

I wasnt the only one crying. I might have been the only one


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crying because of severe alcohol and nicotine withdrawal, but

there were lots of tears. ears from the suns brutality and fromwitnessing the relentless resolve of other riders. ears from pass-

ing families on the side of the road blowing bubbles and whistles

and holding posters that said: YOU ARE A HERO. Tatll tear

you up. It tore everybody up.You cant be called a hero when

youre at your absolute weakest and not cry. You just cant. So you

just cry and pedal.

Dana, Christy, and I lived together at the time, and Christy

thought that we were nuts to be doing this AIDS ride. She was

mostly annoyed because it cut so deeply into our trios nightly

wine andJeopardy!ritual. Christy wasnt used to four days with-

out us, so she drove to North Carolina and brought cookies to

our camp site. Ten she left and slept at a nice hotel. I begged

her to take me along but she said absolutely not and promised

that one day Id thank her. Its been more than a decade since

the ride, and I still havent felt like thanking her. Te next morn-

ing Christy found us again and drove beside Dana and me for

half the dayat two miles per hour, top down, smoking cigarettes

and blasting Eye of the iger and Livin on a Prayer. Waving

other cars around her for hours. Flipping them the bird when

they honked at her. Tats a friend.

Tere were rest stops along the way. Every few hours wed pull

over and find huge tents set up with volunteer medics scurryingaround to bandage wounds, oxygenate wheezers, and take the

sick to the hospital. I used these rests to inhale Power Bars, cry

more, and pop zits. Sweating constantly causes acne, and this was

distressing because there was a cute boy rider who was check-

ing me out. So I kept a mini-mirror inside my bike pants even

though it was extremely uncomfortable,and as soon as I hit each

rest stop, I whipped it out and popped zits before the cute boy


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found me. Dana watched this routine in disgust. Shed gasp for

air and pour bottled waters over her head and say: Look at you.Were DYING and YOURE PRIMPING. And Id say, Well,

HERE IS NO NEED O DIE COVERED IN WHIE-

HEADS NOW, IS HERE? Got myself a post-ride date too.

Yes. I did. Got me some digits on the AIDS ride.

Still. Tere were stretches that went on for hours. Just hours

and hours of nothing but scorching sun and pain and regret, and

all you could think about was taking back your decision to do

this crazy thing. And then, in the midst of utter despair, youd see

a mountain.A mountain would appear on the horizon like a sick

joke. Over and over. Mountain after mountain. Just when youd

think, we have to be done.Terecantbe another one. Tered be

another one. And Id get so angry. SO ANGRY. WF God???

Really, another freaking mountain now? Now when things are

already SO DAMN BAD? Now, WHEN WERE RYING O

DO SOMEHING NICE AND GOOD?

Te problem was that there was no quitting. Even quitters

like me couldnt quit. Nobody said it; we all just knew. Even so,

Id also know that Ijust couldnttake this next mountain. I just

couldnt.My soul was willing, but my body was close to dead.

So I approached one of the mountains, already defeated. And a

thin, gray-skinned, baldish man on his own bike rode up beside

me. Te man had hollow cheeks and eyes that were set too farback, like caves. His leg muscles looked painted on. Just muscle

and bone. So skinny and small, like a jockey with a vicious flu. I

made confused eye contact with the grayish man and he put his

hand on my back. He read my pain and said, Just rest, Ill push

you. And I cried and rested my legs and let myself be carried. I

didnt understand how he was doing it, how he was pushing me

up that hill, riding his bike and my bike, one hand on his handle-


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bars and one hand on my back. But slowly, together, we made it

to the top. And I squeaked out a thank-you, and he looked rightat me with his cavey eyes and said: thank YOU. Ten he turned

away from me and rode back down the hill to carry another rider

who couldnt carry himself. And I turned back to watch him go

and saw that there were at least twenty of these angelstwenty

men with hands on the backs of other women, other men twice

their size, pushing them forward and upward. Tey stayed at the

bottoms of the biggest mountains along the route, the moun-

tains they knew wed never climb on our own, and they carried

us. One at a time. Ten back down for another, and another,

and another. il we were all on the other side of the mountain,

together.

I later learned that they were called the AIDS angels. Tey

were so sick. Many were dying of AIDS. But they were at every

AIDS ride nationwide. Waiting to help the healthy riders over

mountains.

Do you see? Tey were dying. But they were the strongest

ones. Te weak will be the strong. I still dont understand it. But

when those men carried me to the tops of those mountains, I felt

heaven.

When we arrived in D.C., to our finish line, I felt heaven

again. Tere were thousands of us and thousands of them. Te

streets of D.C. were linedten, twelve, twenty people deep,cheering and screaming and crying, and the sound of the joy

was deafening. It all became white noise, so through my tears I

just watched them, because I couldnt hear them anymore. Tey

showed up for us because wed shown up for love. Because wed

done something really, really hard, and they wanted to say thank-

you, and be a part of it all. I saw my friends there, in the crowd,

with signs that said, WERE SO PROUD OF YOU, G! And I


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saw Sister and Bubba and isha and they were holding signs too,

but I dont remember what they said because I can only remem-ber their facesoverwhelmed with the goodness and the power

of the moment. Te crowds whistled and rang bells and yelled

WE LOVE YOU! through megaphones. Cheerleading squads

leaped and fire trucks blared their sirens and kids held signs that

said:GOD BLESS YOU, HEROESGOD BLESS US ALL,

and there was no rider, not to the left or the right or behind or

in front of me, who was not weeping. When we could steady

ourselves long enough, wed grab the hand of the rider beside

us because it was too much to take in alone. And our tears and

sweat would get all mixed up with the tears and the sweat of the

others. And wed grab the hands of the children who wanted to

touch us and pass on the tears and the sweat. And it didnt matter

anymore if we were gay or straight or young or old or healthy or

dying. Wed been through something real. It had hurt like hell,

but we wed finished. ogether.

Documents

Carry on Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life by Glennon Doyle Melton