The Real Housewives of [ ]

So much for blogging more now that I'm staying at home. It's probably a combination of things; partly that my dogs both like to sit on my laptop while I type; partly that Arkansas has barricaded us in our homes this winter. Between the hallucinations and the large amounts of macaroni and cheese consumed, I was afraid of what might translate onto the written page.

I've always been a proponent of hibernation, but even this is a little much for me. I made an outing to Kroger the other night and the cereal aisle was like sensory overload. So.many.colorful.boxes. I hate grocery shopping with a fiery passion, but even I found enjoyment in comparing the prices of different types of almond milk. (Justin is a hippie. Hand me the 2%).

I was also preparing my mind for the women's conference that we had at our church last weekend. I can blog all day; I can rattle off Facebook statuses all day; I can talk all day (no comments from the peanut gallery). But something about being asked to speak to a room full of women is stinkin' scary. It's so easy to hide behind a Facebook profile or a blog site, but to own your words--to stand up on a stage and share your heart-- that's a whole different ballgame. 

I love it when God gets a jackhammer and tears away at my pessimistic exterior. I'm the girl who always thinks something is going to go wrong, that no one is going to show up, that my words will fall flat. 

But I was proven so, so wrong. And I love that.

The whole weekend got me thinking about those "Real Housewives of [insert city here]" shows. (It's not what you think-- the orange tans and Gucci dresses were kept to a minimum during the conference).

You know the shows. Women airing their dirty laundry for the world to see, other women using that knowledge to embarrass and back stab; women who seem to have it all, fading into a pit of despair that money can't pull you out of.  

What if I told you I thought those women had it partially right? (Don't assume I'm on a juice fast and shut your laptop just yet). 

What if I told you that I witnessed lines of women declaring before a crowd that they were once abused, they were once addicts, they had once run from God because of an incredible tragedy in their lives? 

Would you believe me if I said that a room full of women-- with their eyelids brimming with tears-- stood up and clapped in support of what these ladies had overcome? 

I was flooded with encouraging letters from other women, and I know the other speakers were as well. I was overwhelmed with the feedback I received. 

And it hit me: This is what being a real housewife is supposed to feel like. This is what being a woman is supposed to be.

I should be able to hang my laundry on the line (the underwear of jealousy, the t-shirt of greed, the socks of anger-- not as catchy as the fruits of the spirit) and have people use that information-- not to hurt me-- but to help me. To lift me up. To relate to me.

I promise you that it takes less energy to write someone a card than it does to Facebook message your friend fishing for the scoop. I promise you that asking how someone is doing and waiting around for the answer can change someone's world. I promise you that being a loyal friend will turn up a support system you can't even fathom.

I know it's easy to get caught up in the moment during an event, but I encourage us all to continue this pattern of openness and sincerity; not to stop sharing our story just because we don't carry a piece of cardboard around with us every day. 

Whether you're in New Jersey, New York, Beverly Hills (jealous) or the thriving metropolis that is Jonesboro, Arkansas, show your church--show your community what a real housewife is all about.