Amy's Humble Musings

Life in rough draft — by Amy Scott.

Confessions from a recovering pride addict

with 83 comments

I’ve been reading a lot about failure lately. Some guy I like on the internet made a million dollars in a tech start up and then lost ten million. He’s depressed. Another person I know lost his dream job and now he has to do grunt work to make ends meet instead of chasing his dreams. He has a family to feed, and it’s a struggle.

Then there are the stories in the Bible I read at night to my children. God could have given us a list a rules, but instead, he gave us stories. Stories about people without sugar coating or airs. Stories about us.

Failure is a lot more interesting than success. People who are great at what they do — athletes, chess players, entrepreneurs — study their losses because you can learn a lot from a failure. Tell me your story of woe! Nobody wants to hear how great you are. We want to see a train wreck. It’s why reality TV is so popular. Maybe it makes us feel better about ourselves.

Or maybe we know deep down inside that life can cut you and somehow there is solace in knowing that you’re not the only one who bleeds. Or maybe sharing failure gives us hope– that something wonderful can be made out of a mess, that failure isn’t the end of the story. There’s more. The gospel is that kind of story, too. It’s beauty for ashes, a paradox of something from nothing.

But today I want to tell you about something I did right. I’m going to break my rule about not bragging. I want to tell you about a success I had instead of a failure.  I know, who cares if I’m wonderful? But I will somehow manage to turn it into a train wreck, I promise.

I’m going to get serious before this is over, so here’s a fun picture to lighten the mood.

Last week someone hurt my kid, and I got my feelings all bunched up in a wad. It’s embarrassing. I was, you know, that person who had “hurt feelings”, that person for whom you needed to walk around on eggshells. My feelings! But here’s what happened: I made the decision to shut up about it. Nobody knew anything about nothing. (Except the internet now.)

I had the opportunity to say something cruel, something sideways and sarcastic. Instead, I asked this question: How will you wished you behaved in the morning? And then I did that. I chose not to be my authentic self, because at the moment, my authentic self sucked.

This idea, the one of separating negative emotions from a situation, has worked well for me when I’ve used it. The problem, of course, is that I don’t use this idea nearly enough.

Why is it that some people give great advice but lead miserable lives themselves? Because when you’re giving advice, you are able to be objective and there is no baggage, no undercurrent, no “hurt feelings”. It’s easy. It’s objective. It’s simple. It’s plain. I have conversations with myself in the third person: Now, if someone came to you and said such-and-such and …..

When I saw my sister for the last time, I did not do this. I did not think, “Never mind your feelings. Never mind what anyone thinks. What will you wish you would’ve done when it is over?” At a time when it mattered, at a time when you can’t go back and apologize and fix things and have a do-over, that’s when I blew it.

And this is the train wreck. My sister was dying. I knew it. She knew it. We all knew it but we didn’t say it out loud. Those were the rules. She wanted to be hopeful and talking about her death took away that hope. Sometimes you let other people make the rules when it is their party, you know?

And so when I walked into her hospice room after the flight to Brussels, I saw her. The sight of her took my breath away, and I don’t mean that because I’m too lazy to come up with a better cliche’. I mean that it really caught me in my throat.

I was expecting to see my sister: hair gone from chemotherapy, battle worn and a little weary. Someone recognizable. When I think of my sister, I think of her straight teeth and her lizard tattoo and her blond hair. She is tall and thin.

But the truth is this: I wouldn’t have been able to recognize her if I did not have her room number and if I did not notice the familiar family picture on the bedside stand. Cancer chewed her up and spit her out right there on the hospital bed. It was not her, and I didn’t know what to do. It would be the last time that she was coherent.

I stood there. I waved my hand, and said, “Hey.” We’re supposed to act all hopeful and stuff (right?), so yeah, hey. Then, in between gasps of breath, she told me that hospitals are boring.

Not a day has gone by that I don’t hate myself for that.

I knew acting normal, like this was routine surgery for her gall bladder, was the wrong thing to do. The right thing is compassion and tears and hugging and I’m sorry if we all look so ridiculous. You let it go. She was dying — really dying — and I’m worried about looking stupid and thinking of ways to not cry. I blew the moment.

This is what I know: Compassion is always the right thing to do, even if you fumble when you do it. I don’t mean fake compassion, an “it was for the best” and a pat on the hand kind of compassion. I mean, the kind that twists your stomach. It is the thing that I want so badly from other people but I am so friggin stingy with it myself.

And I hate that. Sometimes what’s inside our hearts is an awful thing, like the feelings I had last week about someone who messed with my kid, and generally, I have no trouble letting that out. Some people call it sarcasm, but it’s anger that I choose not to control. I like to lash out when I’m angry, and I hurt other people because of it. I chose the right thing recently by closing my mouth, but that is not my usual choice. In fact, it’s so unusual that I wrote about it here and congratulated myself.

And then other times, there is something very beautiful inside our hearts – love and compassion and empathy and tears and friendship and adoration – but that’s the thing we keep bottled inside. We talk about stupid stuff instead.


At the end of my life, I want to have lived a vulnerable life. Vulnerability requires courage. It means seeing vanity as a sin worthy of hell fire, and not as an annoying little trait that I happen to have. It means a deep understanding of who you are before the heavens. It is understanding that the story of Job was about God and not about Job. It means an intentional death blow to the spidery, ugly roots of pride that extend into the deep corners of our hearts.

I know this. The kingdom of heaven is a paradox: Blessed are the poor in spirit– those who understand their true, poor state before a holy God– for theirs is the kingdom. It’s no use being strong and putting on airs. Nobody thinks you’re strong anyway; they just think you’re a jerk. And I’m so tired of being a jerk.

Written by Amy Scott

March 14th, 2012 at 8:55 am

Posted in Fear,Personal

83 Responses to 'Confessions from a recovering pride addict'

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  1. Sweetheart. You’re not a jerk. There is forgiveness, you know, even though you may kick yourself for awhile.

    These terribly hard things we go through in life? They change us. They really, really do….and in that, there is redemption. My hard times have changed me, and the further I get from them, the more grateful I am that God did not let me stay the hard and bitter and discompassionate person that I was. (Of course, I wish that He would be content with that and stop with the hard lessons already….but unfortunately, that does not seem to be the case. We were not meant to glide through life on our own wonderfulness alone. Life is humbling for the proud – and we need Him.)

    I am so very sorry about your sister and other difficulties you have endured, they seem so unfair. But honestly? I love the changes in you.


    14 Mar 12 at

  2. You know Amy, I liked you already… I think I love you now. (and that sounds weird, and I don’t know how to fix it, to say what it means in my heart and head, so I’m leaving it) Thank you – - – it’s a journey I’m on too…


    14 Mar 12 at

  3. Thank you for sharing. So helpful to examine my natural inclinations before faced with a situation. I need to show more compassion and not keep it stuffed down inside.


    14 Mar 12 at

  4. Amy,
    My sister was dying of the same disease and at the same time as your sister. There is so much I could say about this post. But all I need to say is that yours is not a story of failure. I can understand your perception of failure but those of us outside the situation do NOT see failure.

    hope t.

    14 Mar 12 at

  5. Your post is right on Amy, and oh so hard to accept about ourselves. We all are jerks, because we all are prideful. That’s not to discount our sin, but to illumnate it, and show how desperately we all need a Saviour! Thank you for your insight, and candor.


    14 Mar 12 at

  6. Had to come back and say one more thing: It is thru the trials that we BECOME people of hope, or rather, Easter (Resurrection) people. It’s how our faith become faith – we have to test it and try it out. Faith isn’t a set of answers – it’s the ability to still believe even when you don’t have answers. Some of us have to stand at the edge of the dark and ask – “Do I still believe? Do I still hope? Who IS this God I think I know?” This life, which can be so hard sometimes, SHOULD utterly consume us. If it does not – if we emerge with hope, if we believe He can redeem and work through even our mistakes and our lowest times and our sinfulness, we become Resurrection people and God truly becomes our King and nothing life can throw at us can take us back to being without hope.


    14 Mar 12 at

  7. [...] What is this “poor in spirit” thing. [...]

  8. Amy, your words are remarkable. Beautiful and absolutely true – of me too. Pride? Oh yes. And in the hard times (I agree with Holly – I have learned lesson after lesson but enough now please) I am learning how damaging pride can be. And anger. How hurt can lead to anger and how anger causes so much damage. How the words count. Vulnerability too. You said that the story of Job was not about Job but about God, and I have been sitting here thinking about that too. Of course you are right. I have read and re-read what you have written and no doubt I will read it again.

    Thank you.


    14 Mar 12 at

  9. Vulnerability requires courage.

    You, my dear Amy, are as courageous as they come.

    And good for you for biting your tongue instead of letting it all hang out when someone hurt your precious daughter!

    I didn’t say near enough when my mom was dying of cancer. She was not in any way a Christian, never professed salvation, just lived by the “golden rule”. She did not want to hear my testimony. She looked the other way when I read my Bible and studied the book of Job in front of her as she lay in palliative care, in that huge hospital bed that dwarfed her. I was hoping that she’d ask, as I was “always ready to give an answer for the hope that” lay within. She didn’t ask. I didn’t say much.

    One day, I sang, “Give them all, give them all, give them all to Jesus – shattered dreams, wounded hearts, broken toys”… she responded by telling me she was scared. That’s as vulnerable as she ever became, and I left. I didn’t know what else to say. She was in a room with three other dying people (before she actually moved to palliative care, and was alone) and I chickened out. You bet your socks I regretted that.

    I console myself by telling myself that I prayed. Oh, how I prayed! I shed buckets of tears for my mother, driving the 6 hours back and forth from my home to her hospital room. Yet, I was polite, and didn’t say much when it really counted.

    I want to be real, and vulnerable. I hope that I am, with you…with my family… with my friends.

    I am so tired, too, of being a jerk.



    14 Mar 12 at

  10. good stuff. Amy. like Holly said, I like to see the change in you. it’s good.

  11. thank you.


    14 Mar 12 at

  12. I have been needing to address a situation at work where I perceived that I had offended someone. I’ve been rationalizing for several days – why does it always have to be me?, she is the one who is ultra sensitive, why doesn’t she ever confront but instead resorts to the silent treatment, etc. etc., etc.
    Then I read your post.

    Thank you. I now have no excuse for not being humble and vulnerable enough to do whatever it takes to make peace.


    14 Mar 12 at

  13. I just have to say, dying is a different ting, to different people.
    My Uncle just died from cancer. He was walking and talking at Thanksgiving,diagnosed shortly after. Was very sick by Christmas, in the hospital early January, and incoherent after that. He came home to hospice mid January and needed round the clock care, so I drove the 45 miles every Sunday for a shift. Push the button every 10 minutes on the pump, give him his other meds and such. Keep him from pulling out the tubes, keep the oxygen on.

    I got a rare gift where he was lucid (mostly) for a period of about 3 hours. When we had tired him out, I went to leave and told him ‘I’m glad you got to see me” which was his line.

    He was always the light, funny one. Sometimes , at the worst possible times! But, when I said that to him, I was really wanting to say I love you, and was too scared to. That would make it like goodbye.
    He started to cry, and held out his hand to me. We said a lot to each other, and I am SO thankful for that. I saw him every Sunday for 4 weeks after that, but he had NO idea who I was, or where he was, or what was going on. He died in February. And I still haven’t called my Aunt since the funeral…feel guilty about that, but…I’m going to call her this morning. Thanks, Amy.

    A friend in SC

    15 Mar 12 at

  14. Amy, you must know there are a lot of us who identify with you.

    Btw, I was wondering if that hen lays. When I was a kid, my grandmother claimed that I ruined her hens by making pets out of them to the point they would not give eggs.

    david t. in fayetteville, ga

    15 Mar 12 at

  15. Me too, Amy, me too.


    15 Mar 12 at

  16. I just have to say that it is because of your honesty and transparency like this that I love you so much yet do not know you! I can very much relate to a lot of what you say and the Lord always seems to use you as His voice in my ear saying, “See! THIS is what I have been trying to teach you.” I am a little (okay, a lot) hard headed, so I have to hear His truth often and through all sorts of means before I “get” it, and you have been and continue to be one of His chosen means of those eternal lessons. Thank you!


    15 Mar 12 at

  17. Love this.


    15 Mar 12 at

  18. Amy… I am so thankful you are back writing. You always give me excellent food for thought.

    Robin in New Jersey

    15 Mar 12 at

  19. Thank you, all, for reading, for pushing through the mess with me. Thank you for letting me write less-than-great posts and waiting for me to figure it out. Thank you for letting me grow and change and learn. We are just walking toward heaven together.

    I was wondering if that hen lays.

    David, that there is a meat bird, and we ate she/he/it a long time ago. She was not really petting it. She just caught it so we could chop its head off. But the back story kinda ruins the sweet picture, doesn’t it?

    Amy Scott

    15 Mar 12 at

  20. Thank you for writing, this was great. I can definitely identify. I get so worried about saying the wrong thing or doing the wrong thing or looking awkward that I don’t do anything.


    15 Mar 12 at

  21. I am not sure in the coat tails of heavens gates opening and the angel of death sitting in the chair close by, looking at his pocket watch, there are words or emotions that can be “said”, I honestly believe she HEARD them with her heart. You have an eternity to worship our Lord together. And, just by writing these paragraphs you have shown everyone reading just how vulnerable you are, and you ARE blessed because of it and you are surely of the most courageous women I know!

    char sullivan

    15 Mar 12 at

  22. The bird…yes, on second look, that appears to be what we used to call a pullet. They are at the point of being tender for Sunday dinner, right? When I visited my grandparents, they would fry one for the two of them and one for pre-teen me. I often regret that my son and daughter never got to experience farm life — eggs and butter that you could TASTE.

    david t. in fayetteville, ga

    16 Mar 12 at

  23. Best thing you have ever written. My absolute favorite.

    Ouida Gabriel

    Ouida Gabriel

    16 Mar 12 at

  24. Amy- I have been reading your blog since before Charles was born. I missed your posts when you stopped writing. You have changed. Your writing has changed. That is a testimony to God’s grace and mercy.

    Laura R.

    17 Mar 12 at

  25. Thank you for bleeding all over this. I lost both of my parents within 9 months of each other. They were old. They were ready to go long before they went. But I am STILL not ready for them to go and I cannot seem to get over having done everything wrong. I needed this.


    17 Mar 12 at

  26. This could be my line: “It (compassion) is the thing that I want so badly from other people but I am so friggin stingy with it myself.”

    “Vulnerability requires courage.” — I was raised to never allow yourself to be vulnerable. I have learned how weak, not strong/courageous it makes me.

    “And I’m so tired of being a jerk.” — Amen

    Amy, You have no idea how spot-on this post was for me today. Thank you for being vulnerable in writing this. Thank you for still writing.

    From a long-time lurker/reader (also from before Charles, boy time flies)


    17 Mar 12 at

  27. Great post. I shared it on my FB page. You have a gift of putting your experiences into words of wisdom. Thank you.


    18 Mar 12 at

  28. My sister died in November, after a very prolonged and wearisome, painful illness. I saw her a lot, but I too always tried to remain upbeat. That last visit, I just couldn’t take it anymore and I cried and told her how absolutely brokenhearted I was for every surgery and every hurt. I never saw her alive again.
    Grace for me in that instance that day, but you didn’t have time. When the sight of someone shocks you so, you try to protect yourself. You came, from far away, leaving a big responsibility and by then she knew you. She knew the love that brought you there. I am sure the brokeness you felt was written all over your face. Perhaps your actions were just what she needed them to be in that moment.
    I am so very sorry that it feels differently to you. Ahhh, grief.


    18 Mar 12 at

  29. The saddest thing to me are those who don’t know they are jerks but rather, think they are good, loving, righteous. Because those tend to make much of themselves.

    In contrast, those of us with the Holy Spirit, as we grow in grace, see ourselves more and more for who we really are….jerks. And we learn to make much of Him.

    I’m so thankful that He knows my very nature and loves me anyway, but won’t leave me unchanged.

    Thank you sweet sister for a beautiful authentic post!


    18 Mar 12 at

  30. I think you just have to do the best you can and trust God who knows every word we will speak before it is out of our mouths and weaves everything we do together into a beautiful tapestry that will one day perfectly display His glory.

    We try our hardest and we fail miserably and somehow, in the grace of God, all things work together for good for those of us who love Him and are called according to His purpose. I sometimes think He loves our shortcomings because they give Him a chance to shine His grace on the situation and bring a completely unexpected beauty out of it from another direction. I’m not talking about rebellion here, just when we try and fall short and He carries us because He is God, and we are not, and sometimes that’s all we need to know.


    19 Mar 12 at

  31. Amy,

    I am so sorry for the loss of your sister. It has been awhile since I visited here and I am just so sorry to hear of it. I lost my sister 5 years ago. Thank you again for your transparency.

    Also, I am rejoicing with you that God has given you the power to overcome your recent temptation. Praise God!

    I am so sorry for your hurts and regrets. One day God will take that away too. I can relate all to well to those and all glory to God for His compassion to forgive those mistakes..

    From one great sinner to another,


    23 Mar 12 at

  32. I am so grateful for you.
    That is all.

    Ann Voskamp

    26 Mar 12 at

  33. Opening ourselves up to vulnerable. It takes a lot of work! But recently I’ve come to learn that when we do that God will meet us there. He will truly be there in our pain and discomfort and He can be the one that’s glorified not us. If we are able to wrap up our pain or grief and handle it ourselves it is so very prideful. We become full of ourselves. But not with Christ who can heal all that. Bearing it all so he can be a true comforter reveals him. Not us.

    I’m writing this super early in the a.m. (for me) because I have a six yr. old daughter who woke up early with stomach pains from the flu? Food poisoning? I don’t know, she’s has barfed for some reason. And I haven’t had caffeine yet. So this is risky. But I choose to be vulnerable.

    Kristi Gregg

    29 Mar 12 at

  34. Amy, I too was told to be upbeat and positive around my sister. Those were the house rules. I would lay with Sue on her bed and stare at her face, only praying silently. I regret not talking more.

    I too am learning to keep my mouth shut. It sincerely is an act of God and of His work in my life. I am thankful He is shutting me up.

    I am so thankful for you and so glad you choose to share it here with us. God is doing a good work in your life.

    Love you!

    Janet Walworth

    30 Mar 12 at

  35. Hey Amy,
    Your words are resonating with so many people. And I must wave my hand in the air and say “me too”
    John’s father died of cancer, 3 weeks ago today. We were with him, caring for him in his home for 5 days and I did what needed to be done, accepted food, flowers, visitors, and hospice nurses. I kept my 8 children busy in the other room. I did laundry and wiped his brow, offered water…..and prayed. I wanted to do more to comfort him, to love on him. He always loved to hear me sing….so why couldn’t I sit down and sing to him? Fear of losing control of my emotions? Fear of ???

    Finally, on Friday, I took the hymnal and opened it and sang. And sang. And sang.

    He was unresponsive, and may not have heard me….but maybe he did hear me and it wasn’t too late. He died that afternoon as John sang a song called “It Is Not Death To Die” by Bob Kauflin

    you are loved, my friend.


    30 Mar 12 at

  36. Stacey, I’m so glad you sang. I am just sure he could hear you!

    Janet Walworth

    2 Apr 12 at

  37. Wow. That was a great eye-opener for me. So often I don’t choose the right thing to do because for some crazy reason I think that I need to tell them how I feel right this very moment or somehow maybe life won’t go on. Thank you for that encouragement!!


    10 Apr 12 at

  38. This is beautiful. “how will I wish I acted” What great perspective.

    Lasso the Moon

    25 Apr 12 at

  39. I just jumped over from Rural Revolution and I’m so glad I did. Your post was beautiful. It brought the sting of tears to my eyes. I also seem to say things I regret later. I will try to remember your post next time my mouth starts to get me in trouble.



    17 May 12 at

  40. dear amy,

    not that you owe us masses of anonymous readers anything, but you’re missed around these parts. i miss your wisdom and your humor and your honesty. just saying. :)

    - anonymous reader # 10593


    23 May 12 at

  41. I agree with Jeanette, Amy.

    Robin in New Jersey

    23 May 12 at

  42. Thanks, Robin and Jeanette (and all). I’m just a little unsure of what to write about that I haven’t already said and that is also interesting. I still think about it, though.

    Amy Scott

    23 May 12 at

  43. Wow…last two paragraphs pierced deep…thank you.

    Jenifer Marie Spencer

    23 May 12 at

  44. I don’t think you need to worry about not writing about something you’ve already said. If it’s worth reading, it’s worth reading more than once. If it’s truth, it’s worth stating it in multiple ways. We all learn by repetition. Maybe you just don’t feel like being funny anymore. That’s OK, but I hope you do someday. Laughter does a body good like medicine (Proverbs 17:22, loosely paraphrased). Still, you can be repetitive and not funny, and we will still all love you.


    26 May 12 at

  45. agreed with ruth — no novelty needed. but no pressure to post, either. i’ll just keep checking back every once in a while. :)


    28 May 12 at

  46. Amy, I just re-read this post and cried again. Regret is so hard to live with. I know, because I have lived with it. My brother died in 2010. We all knew he was dying, even though the doctors hadn’t formally declared it. He was in so much pain. We had grown apart as adults because our lives took such different directions. I saw him for the last time 3 weeks before he died. I cried when I left knowing in my heart it would be the last time I ever saw him, but hoping beyond hope that I was wrong. I was on my way back to see him when he passed. I missed him by just a few hours. It stinks. I regret all the time I wasted thinking lifestyle was more important than relationship. I regret not reaching out to my family more and being annoyed with them less. I regret all the lost memories and that my children never really got to know their funny, quirky uncle. Unfortunately, I cannot change what already is. But I can change what is to come. I can make an effort to reach out to his children and form relationships with them and their children. I can be sure to take time to spend with my sisters and parents and not become wrapped up in my own life so much that I forget that I LOVE these people outside my daily sphere. I can live my life to the fullest trying my best to leave behind petty disagreements, annoyances, and self-righteous notions and be more loving and accepting. I now know that time is fleeting and every moment is precious. I am changed, and that is the good that can be found in the pain.


    30 May 12 at

  47. I heart you Amy.


    19 Jun 12 at

  48. I found you tonight, by accident. A happy accident. Serendipity. Thank you for speaking from your heart. You spoke TO my heart. I hope that I get the chance to know you. You’re genuine. I admire that. It’s something that I aspire to most days and succeed at sometimes. Your sister watches over you, smiles on you. You’re not a jerk. We all say and do things that we regret in our lives. The main thing is that we learn from that and use the “bad” for “good” to help others…which is what you have done. My hope for you, my new “friend” is that you take forward the good that you did ,and let go of the sad part. I’m betting that your sister would have wanted it that way. I’m glad that you’re proud of what you did last week. All bets are off when it comes to my kids so I respect you immensely for holding your tongue. I’m not certain that I would have been so strong. One step at a time. Forward. Hugs to you.


    2 Jul 12 at

  49. Thank you, Amy – thank you. Vulnerability …Transparency…I so desire to live this way before God and man! It is a process. Your honesty about your last visit with your sister is inspiring and real. I had that “same/different” moment with my mom – such regret! The thing is, though, that regret can be a seed sown for change. Last year, I had a chance to do it better with another elderly relative whose path to heaven was being laid rapidly before him. I sat through the unconscious days, reading Scripture, singing hymns, watching his favorite baseball team play…holding his hand…talking with him. I poured the fervor of my regret into making his a good passage, no regrets there.
    Thank you!


    11 Jul 12 at

  50. This one hit home. And in my doing so, I missed the opportunity to share salvation. I’ve been trying to work on letting the tears flow instead of refusing to accept the certainty of the situation.


    16 Jul 12 at

  51. Just wanted to let you know this post was quite moving. I came across your blog as you and your husband sound very similar to my wife and I. We have future dreams of owning land and a small farm some point after I finish grad school and over the past 18 months or so, I’ve read everything I can get my hands on on the topic. I’ve basically read through your entire blog from 2009 until now and then read this post last, and it really convicted me. You see, I covet. I covet your homesteading lifestyle and the homestead of the other bloggers out there and the homesteads of all those book-writers and the simplified lives of the foxfire anecdotes. I see the stresses and difficulties I have here now and, if I were honest with myself, think they would go away and be replaced by nothing… if only I could get to the point that I could move my family to a homestead. Your blog in general, and this post specifically, have been particularly poignant in reminding me that what I truly desire is not a homestead (and I say this in all seriousness), but a removal of all the results of sin in this world–no more tears, no more suffering, no more pain, no more death–the true desire of any man or woman, truly unobtainable by my own efforts, yet truly forthcoming at the return of our Saviour.

    Merciful Father, how gracious you are in your steadfast love, forgiving my greatest iniquities. Forgive me for trying to find hope in the creation instead of the creator. Forgive me for coveting the imaginary lifestyle of others. Thank you for your great patience and the undeserved sacrifice you gave on my behalf. What love is this! Even as I am still a sinner, Christ Jesus died for me. Humble me, dear Lord. Oh, Holy Spirit, guide me in your ways, and draw my eyes constantly to the Son for my hope and salvation. I pray this in the name of Lord Jesus, conqueror of sin and death.

    Whether you ever decide to return to the blog or not, I thought I should let you know the great value your writing has. Please keep it around so others can benefit from it as well.


    3 Aug 12 at

  52. Wesley, I am reading a book called “Empty Promises” by Pete Wilson. He talks about the very thing you are saying here. If only I could (do or have) I would be so much happier. I just want one more thing(fill in your thing) and then I will be satisfied. Our self-worth has to come from Christ. We all (me included) are always being tempted to seek something that we think will make us happy when all we really need is Jesus.

    Blessing to you!

    Robin in New Jersey

    3 Aug 12 at

  53. When is Amy going to muse humbly again?


    26 Oct 12 at

  54. I don’t know, Joanna, but I miss Amy’s musings, too.


    26 Oct 12 at

  55. Hope you and yours are all happy and busy, Amy! God bless!

    Lisa Beth W.

    28 Oct 12 at

  56. Aw, we are doing fantastic. (We’re doing so good that I am kinda cringing: waiting for the shoe to drop, the basement to flood, the bad phone call to come.) You are kind to ask. I miss writing, too.

    Now that my kids are getting older, I am driving, driving, driving. In my head, I thought having teenagers would be something else, but basically, it just means driving a lot. Which is okay. I do prefer it to getting up in several times a night to tend to babies. It suits me. This is code, I think, that my kids aren’t getting weird body parts pierced yet.

    Amy Scott

    29 Oct 12 at

  57. So good to hear that you are doing fantastic! Very soon your kids will be driving themselves around – then watch out for the weird body piercings!

    If you ever find the time to write again, I’ll be glad. Until then, it’s just nice to know you’re doing well.


    29 Oct 12 at

  58. Wait… this means no more musings? Or just fewer?


    1 Nov 12 at

  59. Glad to read about you again and find out you’re doing well. I can’t say I won’t miss your entries, but it’s for the best. Good luck and have a happy life!


    2 Nov 12 at

  60. Hi Amy,

    I wanted to stop in and say thank you so much for all you have done for your readers. With Mrs. Curtis passing on, I feel like I didn’t get around to telling her thank you for all she did for her readers. I feel like I knew her and it made me think about how much I learned from others including yourself. So thank you for everything. Your words always made me think and really, that is what great writers would hope, I would think.

    I pray you are blessed.

    Ouida Gabriel

    Ouida Gabriel

    2 Nov 12 at

  61. Echoing Ouida Gabriel’s thanks, and I am especially glad to hear that you are doing fantastic! I hear you on the driving thing, although I do have one that is driving. It is the next one with whom I am doing driving practice that takes the time. Driving with your teens is a great time for talking, if you can talk and drive at the same time! (I tend to take wrong turns when I do that. :) )

    Lisa Beth W.

    8 Nov 12 at

  62. Amy,
    Glad you are doing well. Had to laugh at your comment about driving, driving, driving. Seriously! I have two, almost three, teenagers and I live in the car. The teen years are fun. Different, but fun.


    11 Nov 12 at

  63. A belated Merry Christmas and an early Happy New Year to you and yours, Amy!

    Lisa Beth W.

    27 Dec 12 at

  64. This is so beautiful and powerful. I was just online looking around for cool homeschooling blogs (guilty pleasures, you know) and somehow I stumbled upon this, and… I wasn’t expecting to read something like this today, but I’m glad I did. This vulnerability-and-doing-what-you-know-deep-down-is-right thing has been on my mind a lot lately, and your stories brought home those ideas in new ways. You’ve given me something to think about… so thank you. (And I’m going to hop on the “no pressure but write more please” bandwagon… I’m loving your blog.)

  65. It’s been a year and I still miss your writing. Come back if you ever have time!

    Mary from Florida

    15 Mar 13 at

  66. Huh, I was just checking in and thinking the exact same thing as Mary when I decided to comment. Miss you, Amy! I hope and pray that your and yours are doing very well! God bless you.

    Lisa Beth W.

    24 Mar 13 at

  67. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here. I just typed “hum” in my browser, and this page didn’t pop up. It was “Humana Dental”, an insurance plan I don’t even have. So it’s been a long time!

    We are doing great– and not internet great, but really, really great. I just tweeted, “Teens! I was excited to dispense pithy, sage, mildly awesome advice during this new stage. It didn’t occur to me that they’d ignore it.” So there’s that. But you know how it goes….

    I keep toying with the idea of writing again. But I haven’t gotten any better, so it has occurred to me to shut up.

    Amy Scott

    27 Mar 13 at

  68. You haven’t gotten any better?

    You mean, you’re just like the rest of us?

    I think you should write again, because you have something to say, and because you say it so well. Plus, I miss you. I miss your humour and your insights.

    I still get any comments from Amy’s Humble Musings in my inbox. I have no idea what I did to do that, and no idea how to change it… not that I’d want to. But I live in hope that you’ll pick up a pen or a keyboard and start all over again,



    27 Mar 13 at

  69. reading this was clearer than looking in the mirror


    28 Mar 13 at

  70. Hi Amy,
    I just had lasik surgery and was googling “I see yellow lines in my eyes after Laski” and your lasik horror story popped up. I can honestly say I laughed out loud when I read it (not laughing at your pain, but you have an amazing way of putting a humorous spin on a tragic situation). Anyway, that made me read a couple other posts until I finally came to this one where you mention not writing much any more. Now that’s tragic. You have a gift, Amy; one I wish I had. I am a freelance writer for a magazine publisher in Houston. I write several stories each week, but what I have trouble with is writing my own “stuff.” I keep saying I need to write this down for my kids, but I just don’t ever take the time to do it. After reading your blog, I think I will start today. Just wanted to say thanks for the inspiration and also to encourage…find the time. My oldest will be a senior in high school next year and I missed out on telling her so much about her childhood and giving her a tool to help her recall all the wonderful memories of it. You’ve given your children a precious gift…albeit one they probably won’t appreciate till they are older, but a gift just the same. Take care ~ Sue-Ella

    Sue-Ella Mueller

    5 Apr 13 at

  71. …dear amy…write again…love God


    7 May 13 at

  72. I miss you!!!!!


    10 May 13 at

  73. “I keep toying with the idea of writing again…”

    Phew! I was worried you’d given it up for good. Good to know the door has been left open a crack.

    I guess I’ll keep checking, hoping….


    5 Jun 13 at

  74. This is what I know: Compassion is always the right thing to do, even if you fumble when you do it. I don’t mean fake compassion, an “it was for the best” and a pat on the hand kind of compassion. I mean, the kind that twists your stomach. It is the thing that I want so badly from other people but I am so friggin stingy with it myself. :)

    There is a pool of compassion and grace for all of us :). It is an incredible thing to ask God to make us aware of our poor state before Him every single day; it makes it easier to touch the leper…for we are the leper. It makes it easier to entertain and love the multitude; for we are the multitude. We are all in the same boat…and if we have a paddle to push the boat along the current…it’s because the Captain, the anchor of our souls, gave us one. Nothing to brag about, boast about, or even be proud about…It should move us further into compassion; and use our gifts to help others in the boat and rescue others in the ocean. Blessings to you. Love your blog! :)



    25 Jul 13 at

  75. Merry Christmas to you and yours, Amy!! God bless you in the new year!

    Lisa Beth W.

    23 Dec 13 at

  76. this is the 1st post I’ve read at this site & it blew me away! vulnerability requires courage – you ain’t kidding. I needed that message more than any other as I’ve been really struggling with the walls I’ve built (years of being a military spouse in 1 location no longer than 2 years) It just became less painful NOT to make friends so I stopped. Thanks for the lesson


    18 Jan 14 at

  77. Sigh….just hoping you’ll keep writing….

    I’ll keep checking…


    30 Jan 14 at

  78. Yes, me too. How are you, Amy? How is your family? What are you doing these days?

    Robin in New Jersey

    30 Jan 14 at

  79. See how much we miss you? :)

    Lisa Beth W.

    11 Feb 14 at

  80. Hi guys! Thanks for asking, writing, caring.

    We’re still doing great. My oldest son has a girlfriend, and my youngest kids can wipe their own noses. I thought I’d always be the young mom who is trying to make it to the end of the day without killing anyone or giving them a memory to wrestle down in therapy later on.

    But here we are.

    It gets better. So much better. Except for the driving and the crying and the teenage angst and the fact that we are counting down the months we have left before our first one is unleashed into impolite society and saying, “Oh crap, we didn’t teach him all we wanted to,” it’s good. I have to color my hair every eight weeks, not so I can be stylish, but because there is a lot of gray. I’ve calmed down a lot, at least on the outside if you’re not judgmental and if you don’t play Texas Hold ‘Em with me. Charles is still alive– he doesn’t wear shoes or a jacket in zero degree weather, but he looks normal on the outside. He’ll be eight in two weeks, and that might be my biggest accomplishment so far. Hopefully someone will mention this in my obituary and congratulate me for my watchful care.

    I still hate this cold weather, but what can you do? Complain about it on Facebook? If that is the worst thing in your life, then you are very blessed or lying. Right now, it’s the worst thing, and so I’m calling it all good (at least on the internet). Life can be brutal, mean, and unfair, so I’m thankful for these few moments on cruise control.

    Amy Scott

    14 Feb 14 at

  81. See? There you go being all brilliant and witty and interesting. If you were the least bit boring, none of us would care, but there are hundreds of us just waiting for you to put fingers to keyboard again.

    No pressure, though.



    14 Feb 14 at

  82. Janet,

    I think there is a part of me that stepped away from writing to see if anyone in real life found me brilliant, witty, not boring.

    It didn’t happen.

    I wrestle with questions of authenticity. Am I who I am when I write? Or am I Amy Scott when I talk to you at church without a backspace button and you find my directness offensive? Please Jesus, don’t say I am my authentic self at the Walmart checkout on Christmas Eve.

    So I’m thinking about these things. And I’m thinking about how blogging has changed. And I’m thinking about if I have a contribution in a flood of contributions. (I’m not asking for validation; I’m just saying that I recognize there is a sea of people doing a great job already.) Greg Gutfeld is on TV every day giving you the best free entertainment on the planet at 5 o’clock, and so I think people are streamlining their web consumption now.

    Amy Scott

    14 Feb 14 at

  83. Hi, Amy!

    Glad to hear some of your thoughts. I would still come here and read if you came back, that’s for sure. Authenticity–I believe that as long as you are not making up a life that you do not have–you aren’t really married, didn’t have your cornea fall out of your eye, etc.– then of course you are authentic. You really have the thoughts that you express here, and so on. Maybe some of the things you say are idealistic and not fully expressed in your life, maybe your perspective on an event in your life might not be what someone else saw, maybe you don’t let it all hang out on here, but I wouldn’t agree that that’s not authentic. You are truly you when you express what you think about God, your life, the world, etc. And we like what you have to say!

    Anyway, so glad to hear that things are going well!

    God bless,

    Lisa Beth W.

    9 Jun 14 at

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