By Kristen Mudrack

At the start of the pandemic, I had to make the decision, for my own health, to avoid people entirely or mask when I had to be around people. We can debate the science around COVID all day long, but that’s not the point of this post. Just hang with me.

The pandemic taught me that I had to do things on my own – I couldn’t rely on other people to help, even if I wanted them to. People could drop groceries at my door or send a text to check up, but that was really it. My social interactions were limited to Zoom and texting, and made me feel rather isolated while I knew others were hanging out having dinner or sitting in the pews at church (albeit six feet apart). For nearly two years, I was an isolated, masked person – avoided in the name of my protection.

I would go back and make the same choice again. Isolation was necessary for people like me who were at risk of severe consequences and even death from COVID. But what I’m starting to realize now is that the two years of isolation has made it such that I still try to do things on my own.

I got so used to having to do things on my own that I now have a hard time asking for help (even if I need it). I lost friends through the pandemic because I wasn’t able to see them in person. On the flip side, I became closer with some people because we were able to connect virtually – and they cared deeply that I and others like me be protected as much as possible.

I got so used to staying in my own bubble that I tend to not venture out now, even though I can. I have a playground in my backyard for my kids and a stocked kitchen full of good food – why would I need to go to the park or to a restaurant? Why sit down in a restaurant when you could put your kids securely in their seats and eat in the comfort of your own home?

I got so used to masking that now it’s strange to walk into a medical facility without one. I still wear one sometimes.

I got so used to being isolated that now being around people for extended periods of time is draining. Okay, it was draining before, but now it’s worse.

Before the pandemic it was just me and Cody. Now it’s me, Cody, and two energetic toddlers. So, even when things could go back to “normal”, my life had changed. The people who wanted to hang around me were different now, and having two toddlers and a full time job meant that I couldn’t do things at the drop of a hat like I used to. I had spent two years on the outside, so now it felt like I had to fight my way back into the inner circle – or just step back and continue the way we had been for the last two years. The latter was the easier option. I’d missed so much in other’s lives that it was hard to catch up on everything, just like it was for other people with me.

So now what? Now that I know why friendships have been so hard for the last three years, what am I going to do about it?

Well, for starters, I have to actively choose to be around people. I don’t want it to sound like I’m a hermit – I’m not. But going for a walk with my kids in the stroller by myself is different than asking a friend to come along. Going to church and sitting alone is different than sitting with friends. Going to work and doing your job but not talking to anyone outside of the necessary things is different than eating lunch with a co-worker and talking about your day.

I also have to learn again to ask for help when I need it and not feel like I am imposing on someone who has offered to help. As an independent working mom of littles, that one’s really hard for me. It’s a work in progress. I think I do a good job of being there for others when they need help, but I’m reticent to receive help from others.

As I told a friend today, friends are friends for different reasons. Some friends may be the ones you can call in a crisis, while others are the ones you have a standing weekly dinner with. Some friends are best for going outdoors and exploring, while others are great for rainy day playdates. Some friends you bare your soul to, while others you ask for a fun day out together.

Whatever the nature of your friendship, don’t neglect them. Meet them where they are, when you are able. Give of yourself and accept help too. Check up on them, show up at their door, drop off groceries or make a zoom call. It’s time to start living in community again – even when it’s hard and messy and difficult.

By Kristen Mudrack

I don’t typically like pictures of myself. I’m the kind of person who would rather be behind the camera than in front of it. I have lots of pictures of my kids and my husband on my phone, but not so many of me.

But I’ve been trying to get in front of the camera more so that my kids can have those pictures someday. Because even if I look like garbage, there’s a memory attached to that photo that they will recall and reminisce about someday.

We have a friend who has done some pictures for our family in the past, and a few weeks ago, she did a “Mom and Me” session for Mother’s Day. And despite my son refusing to stand where he was supposed to and my daughter refusing to smile, she got some great pictures – of the kids. I’m in them, too, of course. But the cuteness is in the two nearly two-year-olds, not their tired mama.

My husband (as all good husbands should) tells me that I am pretty and that he likes the way I look, but I’ve never been able to see that. I tend to focus on the negatives – my hair looks terrible, my dress is wrinkled, and that scar on my arm looks hideous.

My eyes are drawn to that scar, a mark of trauma surgery from a break and dislocation that we still don’t quite know how it happened. After surgery, one of my physical therapists (and others) have lamented that “You’re too young for a scar like that” or that “You were so pretty before.” So perhaps it’s because of the way I think other people see me that I’m drawn to that part of the picture.

My eyes are drawn to the scar, not to the smiling daughter in my arms or the laughter on my son’s face. But the more I think about it, the more I start to realize that this scar is a reminder of the village that surrounds me when things don’t go quite according to plan. Without that village, that scar would be a much more painful reminder of times when I tried to do it all myself and failed.

That village has helped me (and will continue to help me) raise two children and care for others who come through our home. That village has brought meals and gifts and a listening ear when I needed it. That village has helped to bridge the gap of childcare when all else fails. That village shows up all the time – when I call, and when I don’t.

I’m reminded of that village when I see that scar – a physical reminder that I can’t do this all alone. That I shouldn’t do it all alone. My kids need to see that I am willing to ask for help, accept help, and give help to others. My kids need to know that they have so many other adults in their life cheering them on. Because that village continues to show up for them, and for us. And I’ll be reminded of that in every picture from here on out.

I still don’t like pictures of myself. But I’m learning to see the beauty and the reminders in the person in them.

By Kristen Mudrack

It’s been a long time since I’ve picked up my pen. The world stood still for a while and circumstances in my life made it such that I didn’t want to write. I couldn’t find a way to say what I was thinking or feeling without sounding bitter and lonely. I couldn’t find a way to write something uplifting or encouraging. So I didn’t write.

In the past three years, our world has turned upside down, with everyone choosing sides and coming to blows over politics, vaccines, science, and more. Families were divided and churches were too. People felt marginalized because of the choices they made to keep their loved ones safe. People mourned the death of loved ones too soon. Students were sent home and online learning became the new norm. Zoom stocks soared. Churches figured out how to livestream their services and parents figured out how to juggle working from home or out of the home and having little to no childcare.

Now things are going back to normal-ish – and I don’t think it will ever be normal again. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing. But as things return to normal-ish, I’m reminded that the last three years have brought much trauma for all of us.

The world started living like my community lives – six feet apart, no touching, and masked up. The CF community has done this forever. We can’t be in the same room as each other, so we already use things like zoom and social media to keep ourselves grounded. And when the rest of the world went back to work and back to school, we wondered where we were going to be left behind. How long it would take for the world to remember that there are still people who are vulnerable among us.

Then in the midst of the pandemic, my family grew by two little people, and I began to ask all over again – when will the world remember these who are vulnerable? When I became a mom, my worldview shifted. No longer was I most concerned about my own health – I was most concerned for my children. No longer was I wondering if we should go back to church in person for myself – I was wondering for my kids.

Even without the pandemic, my perspective would have shifted because of my two littles. Having kids changes the way you spend your time, your money, your life. But they also teach you patience, joy, love, peace, kindness, goodness, self-control, and faithfulness. They have taught me how to love more deeply and pray more specifically. They have taught me to put aside my own agenda and play with blocks instead, to be okay with being late and less organized than I normally am. They have brought me closer to God.

As the world returns to “normal”, I hope that I do not. I don’t want to resort back to a time when I didn’t have my kids or the lessons they have taught me. I don’t want to go back to the excessive busyness and chaos. I don’t want to go back to not seeing the marginalized and the unseen. I’d rather move forward.

I want to return to some things, like writing. But I don’t want to go back completely. I hope you’ll move forward with me – in hope, in faith, in love, and in His Light.

I write this mostly for myself, but share it in the hopes that someone will be blessed by these words. -Kristen

When I was a child, I loved Mother’s Day and Father’s Day.  I got to make cards and macaroni necklaces and all sorts of other odd things that my parents would love (or claim to love) and shower them with love and attention and gifts.  How could someone not love this day?

Then I grew up, and started to realize that Mother’s Day wasn’t like that for everyone.  Some people had lost mothers, others had strained relationships with them.  Some people lived far away from their mothers and this day wasn’t the same. 

Then all of my friends started getting married and having kids.  And I started to wonder: why did they get to be mothers but not me?  What did I have to do differently to get to be a mother?  Was it really just those who had children of their own that got to be celebrated on Mother’s Day?  Or was there more to it than that?  There are some people who choose not to have kids.  Does that make them any less than those who do?  There are others who have difficulty conceiving, those who adopt, and those who have children of their own. 

But what does it really mean to be a mother?

Being a mother means doing what is best for someone else over yourself.  Being a mother means opening your arms and your heart to a hurting, rejoicing, grieving, or elated child – no matter their age.  Being a mother means giving of yourself to someone else when it’s hard to keep going yourself.  Being a mother means taking care of someone when they are sick, lonely, or afraid.  Being a mother means consistently putting someone else before yourself. 

I can name several kids over the years to whom I am an “adopted aunt”.  I have several students who call me their “school mom”.  Even though I don’t have kids of my own, does this make me any less of a woman, any less of a mother than you who are blessed with one, two, or more children of your own? 

Perhaps it does.  Perhaps I am not a mother in the truest sense of the word, but that does not mean that I do not get to be a mother to some of those who cross my path, whether they are four years old or in my care for four years as a college student.  I love those kids as if they were my own. 

So if you are struggling with all of the happy posts about Mother’s Day and grieving over your loss, be it a miscarriage or the death of your mom, if you are tired of explaining to those who ask why you don’t want to have kids, or if you are yearning to be a mom yourself, or if you chose to give your child up for adoption after birth, please know that you are enough.  You are enough as you are, and you have the opportunity to be a mother to so many who come across your path.  Don’t let that opportunity slide by just because those kids don’t share your DNA. 

By Kristen Mudrack

Advent is a season of waiting.  A season of expectant waiting.  Though many church traditions have different meanings of the candles surrounding the advent wreath, the one I’ve chosen to focus on this year is hope, joy, love, and peace. 

Love

I’ve heard people say that the first time you hold your newborn child in your hands, your heart overflows with love that you didn’t even know was possible.  While I’m sure that many people feel that way, I’ve never experienced that, and so I don’t really know. 

What I do know, though, is that love is complicated.  Love is hard.  Love is flawed. 

The love that we experience on this earth is human love.  It’s not perfect.  It can be conditional.  Conditional love isn’t really the love we were meant to experience.  If someone loves you because you’ve done something for them, that love can be lost.  If someone loves you because you didn’t tattle on them or get them in trouble, it’s probably not going to end well.  Conditional love comes with a price. 

But human love can also be beautiful.  It doesn’t have to be based on performance or works.  Sometimes you’re simply loved because you’re you.  It’s not always perfect, but human love can be a glimpse into what God intended for us: unconditional love. 

If we look at God’s love the same way we see human love, we’re selling it short.  God’s love is so much more than that.  No matter how many times we fail, no matter how many times we screw it up, no matter how difficult we’re being or how emotional we are – God still loves us.  He loved us enough to send His one and only Son as a baby.  Born to die. 

This advent season, may you experience the love that Christ has for you.  A love that drove Him to do for you what you could not do for yourself – a love that reconciled you to the Father and gave you life abundant and everlasting.  May you strive to show that same love to those around you, to love unconditionally. 

By Kristen Mudrack

Advent is a season of waiting.  A season of expectant waiting.  Though many church traditions have different meanings of the candles surrounding the advent wreath, the one I’ve chosen to focus on this year is hope, joy, love, and peace. 

Joy

I’ve been writing a lot about joy in the last year for the devotional I’ve been working on.  While that certainly doesn’t mean that I’ve got joy all figured out, it does mean that I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it this year. 

Joy doesn’t exactly come naturally to us.  It’s much  more in our nature to complain, grumble and argue when things get hard.  It’s less common for us to really be joyful. 

Because joy isn’t dependent on the things happening around us or to us.  It’s about something so much bigger, and so much better. 

Our joy as Christians comes directly from the source: Jesus Christ.  Our joy is complete in Him. 

Complete joy in Christ means that we can stand up in the hard times and still say that God is good.  It means that we don’t place our worth and our happiness in our circumstances.  It means that even through the tears, we praise the One who made us, loved us and gave Himself up for us. 

Even when we’re asking why God allowed something to happen, when we’re wondering what the purpose of it all really is, joy means that we open our eyes and look up to someone greater than ourselves. 

Even when the world seems to be crumbling around us and nothing is the way it should be, even at funerals and in hospital rooms, joy is still there. 

When we find our joy in the baby born in a manger, when we find it in the Savior of the world, everything else falls away.  Everything else seems a little bit less when Jesus takes center stage.  When our lives are focused towards the One who gave up His life for us, the One who was born to die, it shifts our perspective.  It leaves room for joy. 

May you experience the joy of the Savior’s birth this advent season, no matter what your circumstances are right now. 

By Kristen Mudrack

Advent is a season of waiting.  A season of expectant waiting.  Though many church traditions have different meanings of the candles surrounding the advent wreath, the one I’ve chosen to focus on this year is hope, joy, love, and peace. 

Hope is hard. 

Hope can take you to the highest mountain, and when it is dashed, can bring you down to the lowest valley.  Climbing back up the mountain with hope again can be even harder.  Along the way, you find people who have been blessed with the very thing you’ve been hoping for.  And sometimes, that makes it even harder to keep climbing.  To keep hoping. 

Maybe you’re doing everything right.  Maybe you’re doing everything you can to make this hope come true.  You’re trusting God to bring about His will.  You’ve got faith.  But it’s not enough. 

You can do everything right.  You can try your hardest.  You can have faith that can move mountains.  But sometimes, the thing you hope for is still unrealized.  Still not the way you expected it to be. 

Sometimes God answers our prayers and hopes and expectations with the word no.  Not everything we hope for will come true, even if it’s something good.  And that’s when hope is really, really hard. 

So what do you do when the thing you’ve been hoping for is elusive?  What do you do when you can’t seem to climb back up the mountain again to hope? 

Let someone else carry you.  Let them hope with you and for you. 

Pour out your heart to your heavenly father, and ask Him to change your hope.  To align your hope with His will.  His good, pleasing, and perfect will. 

Your hope may not turn out the way you expected.  It may not be what you wanted.  But if you are willing to let God use you, let Him change you, mold you, and shape you, He will place in your heart a hope for His will.  He will show you that the things He has in store for you are better than you ever could have imagined.  That hoping in Him is really the only way to live abundantly and live life to the fullest. 

In this advent season, may you hope expectantly, with joy, and with thanksgiving.

Child of God. Wife. Professor. Sister. Daughter. Friend. Follower of Christ. Singer. Writer. Sinner saved by grace.

All of these are things about me. Things that I love about the life I have been given. Things that describe me and what I do.

But there’s one more that never makes my top ten list:

CFer.

Cystic fibrosis patient (or CFer, as some call us). I’ve never wanted it to define me. I’ve never wanted it to be why I was given, or denied, a job. I’ve never wanted it to be a part of my resume, the thing people remember me by.

And yet, it is a huge part of who I am. A big part of my story, my scars. Something that God is using even if I don’t always put a name to it. It is a part of my story.

But it’s not all of my story.

I don’t run away from it, I don’t hide it. But it is not all of my story.

My story, like yours, is complex. It involves challenges, heartaches, tears, pain, difficulty and loss. It involves lots of grace, forgiveness, love, and joy. It involves grief and praise, love and loss, old and new all covered under the grace of our Lord Jesus. It involves people and places and things I can’t explain, it involves sin – and a whole lot of Jesus.

My story centers around the cross. The resurrection. The Holy Spirit. My story is still being written.

The words that define me, that I use to tell people about who I am – they reflect that story. They tell of a God who rescues, redeems, and restores. They tell of a God who uses even the most broken for His glory.

And yes, CFer is part of those words. It’s a part of my story.

What’s your story? What words define who you are? What story do they tell?