I spoke on the phone with my Grandpa yesterday. He had just returned from his old neighborhood after delivering a birthday card to a former neighbor who was turning 80. He also stopped in to say hello to Mrs Marita Greever; the lady catty-corner from their old house. They've known each other since the early 1990's, and with Marita being an elderly widow, Grandpa started taking her trash out to the curb and back every week. From the time I was 8 or 9 years old, every visit to Grandma and Grandpa's would inevitably include a Mrs. Greever update. My favorite story is from the time she went to her Dr. complaining of back trouble, and got a stern reprimand when the Dr. found out she'd been flipping her king sized mattress solo. This is when she was a spry thing in her 80's. Mrs. Greever is a bit of an anomaly to me, because for as much as I know about her after decades of stories, I've never once met her. She's been like Norm's wife on Cheers who is always discussed but never shown. Mrs. Greever is now 102 and will likely outlive us all.
Grandpa told me that after his visit with her, he looked across the street to their old house. It had recently been placed on the market; the current owners having only lived there for two years since my grandparent's moved into a retirement community. He said there was a sign in the yard that said "Open House", and while he was tempted, he just couldn't bring himself to go in. Too many memories. After our phone call, I was curious to see what could have changed in two years, so looked the house up online.
Sometimes for kicks, I like to peruse realty websites to look at houses to see whats available in different areas. (Side note: When your parents enjoyed flipping houses, and your childhood included moving over 10 times, you'll understand the deep-seated appreciation for real estate.) What began as a fun curiosity took a sharp turn into a flood of memories with the initial click on the very first photo. This wasn't just another 3/2 with so much square footage. The images that came up gave me pause and squeezed my heart. Tears began to well up as I noticed the concrete statue of a little girl holding a bird's nest near the entrance of the house. Grandma saw the statue at some fair or gardening show and had to have "Cecelia"; which was the name etched into the back of the statue. Cecelia is an old friend who's been greeting guests for well over 15 years, and I hadn't expected to see her sweet face, welcoming me once more.
The next picture of the entryway would seem simple enough to anyone perusing the photos. But to me, my mind flashed back to when Grandpa installed the wood entry floor, and remembering the front door stopper that had to keep being put back in place. The light fixture in the dining room sent me back to countless delicious meals, family dinners, and holiday feasts consumed under it's glow. In the pictures that followed, I could still envision all of the furniture just as it was such a short time ago. It made me realize that for all the moving I had done as a child, Grandma and Grandpa's home was a fixture for my growing up years. It was one place I could always go back to; the one place that didn't change.
My girls soon asked about my sniffling over the laptop, so I took on the role of tour guide as I regaled them with stories of the stuffed Santa with the creepy face that Grandma would put in the front window at Christmas time. I pointed out how the new owners had kept the painting on the wall of the vegetables Grandma had painted above the breakfast nook. I praised the massive Oklahoma-stone wall of a hearth that Grandma had white-washed to brighten the room. A cast iron dog used to guard the seat on the fireplace, and there had been a Bose cd player where Grandma would listen to classical music; which is likely the seed that grew my love for Stravinsky, Rachmaninoff, and Vince Guaraldi.
I told the girls that when Olivia was 1 month old, Andrew took me on a surprise trip up to see my Grandparents. Grandma insisted that we have their bedroom; so I wouldn't have to go up and down the stairs with the baby. We made a soft palate of quilts (hand stitched by her ancestors, of course) on the floor for Olivia near a dresser with tall, elegant legs. On our first full day there, I laid Olivia down for her nap, then not long after, heard crying and went to comfort her. I entered the room to find the palate of blankets entirely empty, but still heard loud crying coming from somewhere. For a moment I panicked as to where my girl could have gone, until I realized she had rolled underneath the dresser! Olivia and Emma giggled as I told them that when baby Olivia finally calmed down, she relaxed her hands to reveal she'd been clutching dust bunnies she'd grabbed under the dresser.
Every picture of every room brought back memory upon memory. The sewing room reminded me of various sewing and yarn projects, the kitchen of innumerable meals that'd been made; such beautiful recollections. I was reminded of some hard times, too. It was in that house I shed a few angsty preteen tears over a boy who didn't like me back. It was also there that I wept as an 18 year old girl, fresh from working at a camp in Colorado, learning that a beloved camp friend had suddenly gone to be with Jesus. That house was a home for so many of my memories. Maybe it holds more nostalgia that my Grandma is now with the Lord, but I treasure it all up.
After looking at that dear home on Martin Circle, I feel a sense of loss. The memories are bittersweet because I miss my Grandma, and because the new people living there will never know all the good and beautiful times shared between those walls. It's almost like magic for a moment to be held in a place, and then to be remembered so many years later. I'm understanding why telling stories from the past becomes so vastly important to people as they get older. They remember and share because it keeps the memories of the places and people they've loved alive; even beyond the grave.
Shutting the laptop, I began to see our own home with fresh eyes and wonder. Many families have lived here before us. There was the elderly couple who moved the original part of the house onto the property in the 60's, then one of their relatives who later put in a pool to make his city wife happy. She divorced him anyway. I'm grateful to the family who put on the addition of the bigger kitchen and living room in the 70's. This turned the old kitchen into a laundry room, where the sink and cabinets and vintage hardware still reside. I sometimes wonder about the lady who washed all of her dishes in that big porcelain sink. If these walls could talk...
We've lived in this house for over 6 years now. It's the longest Andrew and I have ever lived anywhere. We've often noted how our high tally of individual moves before marriage grew in us a united desire to put down roots. We're grateful that as least two of our girls have only ever known this house as home. It makes me think, too, of the good times we've had here. There was the 4th of July we climbed up on the roof to watch the fireworks, the incalculable mornings and evenings spent at the pool with family and friends, and the many gardens that have been poured into and given back bounteously. I can still envision the placement of the fencing now removed that once accommodated a pig named Pig. There is still a slight wallow he left in the ground if you know where to look. I recall one bitterly cold day with Andrew holding tightly to my hand as we walk-slid across a thick sheet of ice, formerly recognized as our driveway, on our way to the hospital to have Emma. As well as the warm fire that welcomed us home the next day.
In all of these and many other recollections, both bitter and sweet, I find in myself the deep and beautiful ache of knowing a place. In many ways it feels like it knows me back. It's a kind of symbiotic relationship. It holds our stories, and we in turn care for it, and have made it the place we call home. I can't fathom how beautiful Home will be on the other side of this earth. And I can't help but wonder what stories will be told, what memories will be shared, and if there might be a little girl named Cecelia waiting there to greet me.
November 20, 2019
March 26, 2019
Musings on Flowers and the Flu
March has been a doozy of a month for me and my crew. The beginning of the end appropriately seemed to start with Lent on March 6th. For some reason, I held a somewhat romantic view about starting a period of piety. Ironically (or, I prefer divinely), the time set for self examination and to remember our human frailty would flesh itself out more deeply that I could have known in the days that would follow.
The 7th was the 1st anniversary of my lovely grandmother's graduation to heaven. As I've worked in my garden, I can't help but think about all the plants she grew, what she'd say about certain flowers or shrubs, and how she'd snicker when she offered the uncharacteristically unrefined advice that "You can cut the crap out of crepe myrtles and they'll still be fine". Lately, I've been having fairly frequent dreams about her garden. I walk up the stone steps to the upper part of the lawn to find bright gladiolus in full bloom. There are roses smothering the trellis, the wild purple of echinaceas near the fence, moss creeping between the cracks in the rock wall, and the cat warming itself atop a concrete statue of a pig. It was reality, but is now left to memory and vivid dreams; the kind that make me want to fall asleep again fast to try and pick up where I left off.
The next anniversary was the 16th, which for the past 3 years has left an ache in my heart, as it's when our twins were due. Of all the babies we've been parted with, I carried them the longest, which I think is why they have such a special place in my heart. I guess March will always stir up feelings in some way or another. I miss them all; the treasured memories with my Grandma who was, as well missing our babies and all the what-could-have-beens.
If these remembrances hadn't been weighty enough to bring my heart low, we have been allowed a 3 week portion of time that included ear infections, an intimate dance with the flu, followed by coughs, and now colds. It wasn't until Andrew started throwing up a week after the girls and I had it, that I felt like the joke had finally worn itself out. Similar to a storm, and not knowing exactly how bad it is until it's passed, now that the clouds are parting, I feel like I'm gaining some insight on what we've weathered. Moreover, insight on what the Lord may want me to learn from this marathon of morbidity.
I entered the Lenten season with the desire to remember my frailty, to be positioned low; to appreciate Christ and the joy of His resurrection all the more as Easter approaches. Yet, when the barf hit the bucket, and only a week in I was ready to order balloons for my pity party, I see that perhaps my heart was in need of some repositioning. It turns out that prolonged union with the toilet can have a powerful effect on bending knees and opening dimmed eyes. The loads of laundry and clothing covered in sick, the ache of my arms barely able to lift the baby, the search for medicine in the middle of the night, and sheer Groundhog's day feeling of it all really drove in that Lenten essence of self examination and lowliness.
Last night as I lay in bed thinking over the last 3 weeks of sickness, the word "Resurrection" came to mind. It shocked me for that word to jump out, but after what has felt like various deaths we've been dying, I am in a fresh and desperate position to crave new life. It hit me today as I surveyed my garden plot that the seeds I put into the earth must die for the plants to grow. They give up their lives as seeds forever for something greater to emerge and take root. Their death leads to life. This is a paradox of scripture that I'm certain I will never get over.
As I sit here amongst the piles of tissues and medicine bottles that appear to have claimed permeant residence on our kitchen countertops, I am hoping beyond hope that these colds will be the last of our ailments. But, if they're not, I'll see it as further providential proof of my being sown deeper into the soil, reminded of the life I must lay down, in need of resurrection. And perhaps as in my dreams, at the appropriate time, maybe I'll emerge and grow into something brilliant like the roses or gladiolus in my Grandmother's garden.
The 7th was the 1st anniversary of my lovely grandmother's graduation to heaven. As I've worked in my garden, I can't help but think about all the plants she grew, what she'd say about certain flowers or shrubs, and how she'd snicker when she offered the uncharacteristically unrefined advice that "You can cut the crap out of crepe myrtles and they'll still be fine". Lately, I've been having fairly frequent dreams about her garden. I walk up the stone steps to the upper part of the lawn to find bright gladiolus in full bloom. There are roses smothering the trellis, the wild purple of echinaceas near the fence, moss creeping between the cracks in the rock wall, and the cat warming itself atop a concrete statue of a pig. It was reality, but is now left to memory and vivid dreams; the kind that make me want to fall asleep again fast to try and pick up where I left off.
The next anniversary was the 16th, which for the past 3 years has left an ache in my heart, as it's when our twins were due. Of all the babies we've been parted with, I carried them the longest, which I think is why they have such a special place in my heart. I guess March will always stir up feelings in some way or another. I miss them all; the treasured memories with my Grandma who was, as well missing our babies and all the what-could-have-beens.
If these remembrances hadn't been weighty enough to bring my heart low, we have been allowed a 3 week portion of time that included ear infections, an intimate dance with the flu, followed by coughs, and now colds. It wasn't until Andrew started throwing up a week after the girls and I had it, that I felt like the joke had finally worn itself out. Similar to a storm, and not knowing exactly how bad it is until it's passed, now that the clouds are parting, I feel like I'm gaining some insight on what we've weathered. Moreover, insight on what the Lord may want me to learn from this marathon of morbidity.
I entered the Lenten season with the desire to remember my frailty, to be positioned low; to appreciate Christ and the joy of His resurrection all the more as Easter approaches. Yet, when the barf hit the bucket, and only a week in I was ready to order balloons for my pity party, I see that perhaps my heart was in need of some repositioning. It turns out that prolonged union with the toilet can have a powerful effect on bending knees and opening dimmed eyes. The loads of laundry and clothing covered in sick, the ache of my arms barely able to lift the baby, the search for medicine in the middle of the night, and sheer Groundhog's day feeling of it all really drove in that Lenten essence of self examination and lowliness.
Last night as I lay in bed thinking over the last 3 weeks of sickness, the word "Resurrection" came to mind. It shocked me for that word to jump out, but after what has felt like various deaths we've been dying, I am in a fresh and desperate position to crave new life. It hit me today as I surveyed my garden plot that the seeds I put into the earth must die for the plants to grow. They give up their lives as seeds forever for something greater to emerge and take root. Their death leads to life. This is a paradox of scripture that I'm certain I will never get over.
As I sit here amongst the piles of tissues and medicine bottles that appear to have claimed permeant residence on our kitchen countertops, I am hoping beyond hope that these colds will be the last of our ailments. But, if they're not, I'll see it as further providential proof of my being sown deeper into the soil, reminded of the life I must lay down, in need of resurrection. And perhaps as in my dreams, at the appropriate time, maybe I'll emerge and grow into something brilliant like the roses or gladiolus in my Grandmother's garden.
November 21, 2017
Taking a Cue from the Trees
I can't tell you how many times I've sat down to write. Blogging has been a part of my story ever since Andrew and I got married. It's been subject to the ebb and flow of moving, babies, loss, and mostly reliant upon when I've felt inspired. If I were to look at the number of posts I've published this year (and in the past couple of years), it would be fair to say my blog could be deemed, as Miracle Max declared; "Mostly dead".
Don't get me wrong, I've wanted to write! I have countless thoughts and beginnings in draft, but none that felt qualified for the publish button. Some things I've needed to write for myself, just for the sake of processing. Other things were an attempt to force creativity and fell horribly flat. I've questioned if I've taken it all too seriously, or as in the case with my painting, that I've just lost my mojo. I've seen with other disciplines that certain things just require practice. However, my underlying premise for these creative outlets has been to write or paint "For the joy of it."
I haven't looked up the last time I posted, but can tell you it's been a long time. The painting area I set up has also been long neglected, with brushes going untouched for well over a month or two. This bothered me for a while, but I've come to peace with it. I've know that I can't measure my worth by anything other than what God says about me, so when some things slip through the cracks, it's okay. If or when those things resurface, it will be for the joy of it. It will be genuine, and meaningful for me, and hopefully for you, too.
The other day as we were driving home from church, Olivia noted how the trees were looking ugly without any leaves. I told her while that may be true, the trees needed a rest from a full year of growth and producing. In accordance with the rules of being a 6 year old, she asked: "Why?". I returned a simple answer: "Well, it's their time to sleep." To think about this further, we see that with anything in nature, if something is forced to produce, it will eventually run out of energy. After a time, hens run out of eggs, grass grows and dies, fruit bearing bushes will reach their peak and need to be plowed under, and as Olivia saw, even the trees need to sleep.
Seeing God's order in creation has reminded me that rest is natural and good. If the trees need to take a powder, then it stands to reason that you and I do, too. Waiting for my mojo to return has been a form of forced rest. It's found me savoring a slower life. It's enabled me to do more prioritizing, and allowed for greater depth in my ministry to my family. This has looked like more reading aloud and audio books with the girls, feeding my brain with different podcasts I wouldn't have made time for, pouring more thought and time into what food I put on our table, decluttering our home, and made more breathing space in general. It's brought peace.
At 6 months pregnant, I find myself tiring out and overwhelmed far more easily than I was even few weeks ago. I couldn't have anticipated when this slowing down would happen, and see it as the Lord's great kindness to have limited or even restricted what, who, or to where I might've committed my time and energy. My nature is to do all the things, see all the people, and produce-Produce-PRODUCE!!! For most of my life, my DOING has been a great part of my identity and self worth, so when my blog, painting, and ability to do a lot of things has hit the skids, it's required some heart reassessment. Ultimately, He has guided me to peace in this resting time. I'm not saying I haven't fought it, because I certainly have tried (and worn myself out). Rather, I'm seeing the benefit and absolute rightness of this mandated stillness.
For right now, I'm taking a cue from the trees, and letting the hard grown leaves fall from these branches. It's time to rest. It's time to put away any guilt for not going hard and producing. I'm feeling the call to be more of a Mary than a Martha, and remember Who calls me to the better things.
I know I can't be the only one, so I'll ask. Is the Lord calling you into a season of rest? Is your value wrapped up too much in what you're doing? Are your yeses (to even good things!) limiting the depth of your current ministry? Will you remember the trees and unburden your branches? If this this you, I'd love to hear your feedback in the comments, or a pm! For those of us doers, resting can be a struggle, but it's one worth fighting for.
Don't get me wrong, I've wanted to write! I have countless thoughts and beginnings in draft, but none that felt qualified for the publish button. Some things I've needed to write for myself, just for the sake of processing. Other things were an attempt to force creativity and fell horribly flat. I've questioned if I've taken it all too seriously, or as in the case with my painting, that I've just lost my mojo. I've seen with other disciplines that certain things just require practice. However, my underlying premise for these creative outlets has been to write or paint "For the joy of it."
I haven't looked up the last time I posted, but can tell you it's been a long time. The painting area I set up has also been long neglected, with brushes going untouched for well over a month or two. This bothered me for a while, but I've come to peace with it. I've know that I can't measure my worth by anything other than what God says about me, so when some things slip through the cracks, it's okay. If or when those things resurface, it will be for the joy of it. It will be genuine, and meaningful for me, and hopefully for you, too.
The other day as we were driving home from church, Olivia noted how the trees were looking ugly without any leaves. I told her while that may be true, the trees needed a rest from a full year of growth and producing. In accordance with the rules of being a 6 year old, she asked: "Why?". I returned a simple answer: "Well, it's their time to sleep." To think about this further, we see that with anything in nature, if something is forced to produce, it will eventually run out of energy. After a time, hens run out of eggs, grass grows and dies, fruit bearing bushes will reach their peak and need to be plowed under, and as Olivia saw, even the trees need to sleep.
Seeing God's order in creation has reminded me that rest is natural and good. If the trees need to take a powder, then it stands to reason that you and I do, too. Waiting for my mojo to return has been a form of forced rest. It's found me savoring a slower life. It's enabled me to do more prioritizing, and allowed for greater depth in my ministry to my family. This has looked like more reading aloud and audio books with the girls, feeding my brain with different podcasts I wouldn't have made time for, pouring more thought and time into what food I put on our table, decluttering our home, and made more breathing space in general. It's brought peace.
At 6 months pregnant, I find myself tiring out and overwhelmed far more easily than I was even few weeks ago. I couldn't have anticipated when this slowing down would happen, and see it as the Lord's great kindness to have limited or even restricted what, who, or to where I might've committed my time and energy. My nature is to do all the things, see all the people, and produce-Produce-PRODUCE!!! For most of my life, my DOING has been a great part of my identity and self worth, so when my blog, painting, and ability to do a lot of things has hit the skids, it's required some heart reassessment. Ultimately, He has guided me to peace in this resting time. I'm not saying I haven't fought it, because I certainly have tried (and worn myself out). Rather, I'm seeing the benefit and absolute rightness of this mandated stillness.
For right now, I'm taking a cue from the trees, and letting the hard grown leaves fall from these branches. It's time to rest. It's time to put away any guilt for not going hard and producing. I'm feeling the call to be more of a Mary than a Martha, and remember Who calls me to the better things.
I know I can't be the only one, so I'll ask. Is the Lord calling you into a season of rest? Is your value wrapped up too much in what you're doing? Are your yeses (to even good things!) limiting the depth of your current ministry? Will you remember the trees and unburden your branches? If this this you, I'd love to hear your feedback in the comments, or a pm! For those of us doers, resting can be a struggle, but it's one worth fighting for.
May 29, 2017
Get your Own Cheetos, Devil!
I've caught myself believing a lie. As it goes with most lies, it's incredibly subtle. You don't really notice it until it's kicked off it's shoes, pulled up a chair, and starts demanding that you share your Cheetos. This is disturbing on a couple of counts. The first is that I like to consider myself as having a keen awareness of anything that tries to sneak into the door of my heart or mind. But I failed. Secondly, I'm a firm believer that unless we're the best of friends, you can't have any of my Cheetos. Seriously, get your own bag.
The lie that I'm talking about is this:
That there is a scarcity of God's goodness.
When I read these words, I shudder a bit. Seeing it so plainly in black 12 font seems too obvious for it to have taken any bit of space in my heart. It's a classic, textbook move, but I fell for it: to see what God is giving others that I deeply desire, but may not have again: more children.
The Tease
Darling pregnancy announcements, cute new maternity clothes with jeans finally designed to look good and stay put, beautiful blossoming bellies, due dates, showers and the expectation of a precious bundles...all right in front of me, but not for me. It may look differently for you. Other people's homes, spouse, marriage, or job may be what's deliciously dangling just out of your reach. When I'm steeped in self pity, its easy for beautiful things (that I normally LOVE to rejoice in with others) to become little knives that cut and drain the life out of me. The lie deepens when you feel that thing has been given to someone else for the sole purpose of spiting you.
The Timing
Timing is everything when it comes to fooling a person. Making us feel less-than, unimportant or forgotten should happen when we're completely exhausted, busy, or distracted. It should happen late at night, ideally just before going to sleep. Laying in bed awake, thinking about something is a great way for a wound to fester.
The Truth
The enemy is so skillful in leading us down the path to self pity. By the time we get there, wallowing around feels like the truest thing we could ever do. Though it may feel totally justifiable to start hanging up streamers, balloons and order a cake for your pity party, the truth is that self pity is rooted in selfishness. For me, the cycle looks like this: Being glad for what the Lord has given me, longing for increased blessing but knowing it's not guarenteed, beginning to forget or doubt God's goodness, seeing/hearing about others receiving that I long for, comparing what they have, feeling sorry for what I don't have, then diving headlong into full blown self pity, doubt, and all manner of ugliness. Thankfully, God is long-suffering and faithful. He pulls me up off the floor, dries my tears, helps me clean up the mess of soggy kleenex and droopy streamers, and points me back to the cross.
Sadly, the cycle I mentioned can only happen when I forget the cross and what Jesus has accomplished. It shames me that I can so easily forget Him and the best gift. I'm reminded of the necessity to follow Paul's words about dying daily. DAILY!!! Life in this broken world, with it's shadows and struggles and the indwelling sin nature is the reason we must do battle every. single. day. To leave our swords on the table is the same as flinging open our front doors, and inviting the enemy in to sit on the couch and snuggle up. We have to continually preach the gospel to ourselves, because we are so prone to forget it. We have a choice between walking in death, or in life and it's fullness of joy. It's worth the fight!
Today, I see the lie for what it is. DEATH.
I choose to believe the truth that God is infinitely good to me. To remember that He withholds no good thing to those who walk uprightly. His picture of fullness for me will likely look different than it will for you. So it's unfair to compare gifts or even burdens, because they are uniquely given with intention, to refine and grow us. More for someone else doesn't mean less for me. As I've popped the last of this round's pity party balloons, I'm determined now more than ever to keep my eyes on the cross, and remember that there is NO scarcity of His goodness.
Have you found yourself believing a lie? This lie, or another one? I encourage you to join me in picking up your sword. Let's do battle for our soul's sake, and to reclaim the joy that is ours when we are walking in the truth. Afterwards, I'll invite you over to share my Cheetos.
The lie that I'm talking about is this:
That there is a scarcity of God's goodness.
When I read these words, I shudder a bit. Seeing it so plainly in black 12 font seems too obvious for it to have taken any bit of space in my heart. It's a classic, textbook move, but I fell for it: to see what God is giving others that I deeply desire, but may not have again: more children.
The Tease
Darling pregnancy announcements, cute new maternity clothes with jeans finally designed to look good and stay put, beautiful blossoming bellies, due dates, showers and the expectation of a precious bundles...all right in front of me, but not for me. It may look differently for you. Other people's homes, spouse, marriage, or job may be what's deliciously dangling just out of your reach. When I'm steeped in self pity, its easy for beautiful things (that I normally LOVE to rejoice in with others) to become little knives that cut and drain the life out of me. The lie deepens when you feel that thing has been given to someone else for the sole purpose of spiting you.
The Timing
Timing is everything when it comes to fooling a person. Making us feel less-than, unimportant or forgotten should happen when we're completely exhausted, busy, or distracted. It should happen late at night, ideally just before going to sleep. Laying in bed awake, thinking about something is a great way for a wound to fester.
The Truth
The enemy is so skillful in leading us down the path to self pity. By the time we get there, wallowing around feels like the truest thing we could ever do. Though it may feel totally justifiable to start hanging up streamers, balloons and order a cake for your pity party, the truth is that self pity is rooted in selfishness. For me, the cycle looks like this: Being glad for what the Lord has given me, longing for increased blessing but knowing it's not guarenteed, beginning to forget or doubt God's goodness, seeing/hearing about others receiving that I long for, comparing what they have, feeling sorry for what I don't have, then diving headlong into full blown self pity, doubt, and all manner of ugliness. Thankfully, God is long-suffering and faithful. He pulls me up off the floor, dries my tears, helps me clean up the mess of soggy kleenex and droopy streamers, and points me back to the cross.
Sadly, the cycle I mentioned can only happen when I forget the cross and what Jesus has accomplished. It shames me that I can so easily forget Him and the best gift. I'm reminded of the necessity to follow Paul's words about dying daily. DAILY!!! Life in this broken world, with it's shadows and struggles and the indwelling sin nature is the reason we must do battle every. single. day. To leave our swords on the table is the same as flinging open our front doors, and inviting the enemy in to sit on the couch and snuggle up. We have to continually preach the gospel to ourselves, because we are so prone to forget it. We have a choice between walking in death, or in life and it's fullness of joy. It's worth the fight!
Today, I see the lie for what it is. DEATH.
I choose to believe the truth that God is infinitely good to me. To remember that He withholds no good thing to those who walk uprightly. His picture of fullness for me will likely look different than it will for you. So it's unfair to compare gifts or even burdens, because they are uniquely given with intention, to refine and grow us. More for someone else doesn't mean less for me. As I've popped the last of this round's pity party balloons, I'm determined now more than ever to keep my eyes on the cross, and remember that there is NO scarcity of His goodness.
Have you found yourself believing a lie? This lie, or another one? I encourage you to join me in picking up your sword. Let's do battle for our soul's sake, and to reclaim the joy that is ours when we are walking in the truth. Afterwards, I'll invite you over to share my Cheetos.
February 15, 2017
The Silver Shoes
The past few weeks have been rough on my little family. It started with Andrew getting a cold/cough three weeks ago, followed by my getting the flu, then the girls coming down with colds and a fever after that. I guess you could say we know how to party.
Being mostly house-bound, and in attempt to avoid cabin fever, I've been extremely grateful for the magical wonder know as audio books. When I was growing up, my siblings and I listened to "Your Story Hour", and Odyssey tapes with a great ferocity. We couldn't get enough of them. In our house, if your birthday was coming up, you were closest in line to getting the newest released set of tapes (and later CDs), which meant that you ruled sibling-dom. Odyssey tapes were like currency to us pre-internet adolecents.
You needed chores done? Wanted your back tickled? Desired your bed made in such a way? DONESKI. We became quite skilled in bargaining. It would go something like this: "I'll let you listen to JUST SIDE A if you do _______ for me." "Oh, but side A is only X minutes long, and X chore would take me X amount of time, so really I should get to listen to THE WHOLE TAPE." Throw in exaggerating the length of a tape, or strenuosity of a chore, add pain and suffering clauses, written contracts in kid scratch, and you get the idea of how dearly we valued our audio stories.
Remembering how much I enjoyed listening as a kid, combined with post flu recovery and NOT wanting to read for hours on end, I was happy to fork over a few bucks on some newly discovered audio deals. As I'd recently screened The Wizard of Oz with Olivia, I figured she would enjoy the book even more than the movie. This particular unabridged version was narrated by Anne Hathaway. If I ever loved her as an actress, her voice acting only endeared her to me further. She made the book come alive with unique voices and such drama that had Olivia riveted. Within three days, Olivia had listened to the 3.5 hour long book narration TWICE! My child, who MUST meet her daily word quota, was rendered nearly mute, hands occupied with playdoh for hours on end, as her mind came alive with a new story.
As I listened to Anne unfold the tale, what struck me was how vastly different the book was from the movie. Yes, okay, so you've got me. I loved to read as a kid, but sadly, never read The Wizard of Oz. I guess I figured they were closely similar, but I couldn't have been more wrong. I was mesmerized as I listened along, to hear a few familiar parts, with the rest seeming entirely new.
Toward the end of the story, there was a part that made me catch my breath. It was after the Lion had received his courage, the Scarecrow his brain, and the Tin-man his heart. All of her friend's desires had come true, while the Wizard's promise to return Dorothy home had been thwarted. At her wit's end, she found herself before Glinda, desperate to know how she could get home. Glinda told her that she had ALWAYS possessed the power to return, if she had just clicked her silver (yes, silver) heels together three times. Pondering this thought, Dorothy's comrades shared that if she had clicked her heels much earlier in the narrative, that each of their journeys would have turned out vastly different. Dorothy's displacement from her home, from her comforts and everything she knew, in short, her suffering, had ended up fulfilling their quests for wholeness. It had made them better characters by the end of the book.
This thought has stuck with me, which is likely why I'm not letting this post go unwritten. It's a truth I've been learning in a new way since we began saying goodbye to our babies. The truth is that we are not an island. That what might feel like being ripped apart may work as the perfectly timed catalyst for other people's growth and wholeness. This makes me see suffering in a different way. It rightly tugs my thoughts away from how my trials are effecting JUST ME, to how those struggles (as well as my response to them!) may change the lives of those around me.
As much as I may have wanted to click my heels to change our story, to be loving an almost one year old son (his sister, and siblings after) that's not how it was supposed to go. There is a purpose, or perhaps many purposes for how things have happened. I may not ever know why, but I do realize that just maybe, we have walked this road not only for our own growth, but for yours as well. At least that's been my prayer.
I don't know where you are on your journey, or what hurts you're enduring, but I hope you'll be encouraged that this (whatever THIS is) isn't just for you. What you're going through has the power to bring greater holiness to us, too. Some of us need to walk down the road a while, carrying a deep yearning for something, before we can think new thoughts, have our hearts moved, or be given greater courage. Your story may be just the thing to grow it in us. Without you, we might not be the people God wants us to become. This community thing is life changing. I believe your day of healing and being made right is coming. But for now, hold tight inside of your shoes, and don't let anything stop you from continuing on your journey, and from taking us alongside you.
"Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." Galatians 6:9
Being mostly house-bound, and in attempt to avoid cabin fever, I've been extremely grateful for the magical wonder know as audio books. When I was growing up, my siblings and I listened to "Your Story Hour", and Odyssey tapes with a great ferocity. We couldn't get enough of them. In our house, if your birthday was coming up, you were closest in line to getting the newest released set of tapes (and later CDs), which meant that you ruled sibling-dom. Odyssey tapes were like currency to us pre-internet adolecents.
You needed chores done? Wanted your back tickled? Desired your bed made in such a way? DONESKI. We became quite skilled in bargaining. It would go something like this: "I'll let you listen to JUST SIDE A if you do _______ for me." "Oh, but side A is only X minutes long, and X chore would take me X amount of time, so really I should get to listen to THE WHOLE TAPE." Throw in exaggerating the length of a tape, or strenuosity of a chore, add pain and suffering clauses, written contracts in kid scratch, and you get the idea of how dearly we valued our audio stories.
Remembering how much I enjoyed listening as a kid, combined with post flu recovery and NOT wanting to read for hours on end, I was happy to fork over a few bucks on some newly discovered audio deals. As I'd recently screened The Wizard of Oz with Olivia, I figured she would enjoy the book even more than the movie. This particular unabridged version was narrated by Anne Hathaway. If I ever loved her as an actress, her voice acting only endeared her to me further. She made the book come alive with unique voices and such drama that had Olivia riveted. Within three days, Olivia had listened to the 3.5 hour long book narration TWICE! My child, who MUST meet her daily word quota, was rendered nearly mute, hands occupied with playdoh for hours on end, as her mind came alive with a new story.
As I listened to Anne unfold the tale, what struck me was how vastly different the book was from the movie. Yes, okay, so you've got me. I loved to read as a kid, but sadly, never read The Wizard of Oz. I guess I figured they were closely similar, but I couldn't have been more wrong. I was mesmerized as I listened along, to hear a few familiar parts, with the rest seeming entirely new.
Toward the end of the story, there was a part that made me catch my breath. It was after the Lion had received his courage, the Scarecrow his brain, and the Tin-man his heart. All of her friend's desires had come true, while the Wizard's promise to return Dorothy home had been thwarted. At her wit's end, she found herself before Glinda, desperate to know how she could get home. Glinda told her that she had ALWAYS possessed the power to return, if she had just clicked her silver (yes, silver) heels together three times. Pondering this thought, Dorothy's comrades shared that if she had clicked her heels much earlier in the narrative, that each of their journeys would have turned out vastly different. Dorothy's displacement from her home, from her comforts and everything she knew, in short, her suffering, had ended up fulfilling their quests for wholeness. It had made them better characters by the end of the book.
This thought has stuck with me, which is likely why I'm not letting this post go unwritten. It's a truth I've been learning in a new way since we began saying goodbye to our babies. The truth is that we are not an island. That what might feel like being ripped apart may work as the perfectly timed catalyst for other people's growth and wholeness. This makes me see suffering in a different way. It rightly tugs my thoughts away from how my trials are effecting JUST ME, to how those struggles (as well as my response to them!) may change the lives of those around me.
As much as I may have wanted to click my heels to change our story, to be loving an almost one year old son (his sister, and siblings after) that's not how it was supposed to go. There is a purpose, or perhaps many purposes for how things have happened. I may not ever know why, but I do realize that just maybe, we have walked this road not only for our own growth, but for yours as well. At least that's been my prayer.
I don't know where you are on your journey, or what hurts you're enduring, but I hope you'll be encouraged that this (whatever THIS is) isn't just for you. What you're going through has the power to bring greater holiness to us, too. Some of us need to walk down the road a while, carrying a deep yearning for something, before we can think new thoughts, have our hearts moved, or be given greater courage. Your story may be just the thing to grow it in us. Without you, we might not be the people God wants us to become. This community thing is life changing. I believe your day of healing and being made right is coming. But for now, hold tight inside of your shoes, and don't let anything stop you from continuing on your journey, and from taking us alongside you.
"Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." Galatians 6:9
October 12, 2016
The Day the Cat got a Hair Cut
There are some moments in motherhood that stand out to me more than others. For all the sweet, and heartwarming moments, there have been a small, but strong, share of times when I was embarrassed out of my mind. Or left feeling like an epic failure.
One such memory was this past spring. Emma was reaching the end of her ability to enjoy an afternoon nap, but I was desperate to keep her rest time going, so I could get stuff done. I had laid her down, put books in her bed in case she just wanted to read, and left a sippy cup of water with her if she became thirsty. All conditions were favorable, and she had her head on her pillow when I quietly left her room. Olivia was occupied with a reading show, so I told her I'd be doing some quick gardening. I wasn't back there for more than 15 minutes when I heard the voices of strangers coming from under my porch.
I dashed up front to find a middle aged woman, and a grandfatherly looking man escorting my shirtless Emma up to our backdoor. I must've been in shock, because I didn't know what to say. I snatched Emma up, and stood there as they told me she must've climbed our closed and locked gate, because they were driving by and found her standing by our busy road. THE HORROR!!! They were very sympathetic, and tried to explain their respective kids had done crazy things, too. Their attempt to make me feel better was like putting a thin Hello Kitty bandaid on a gushing artery. When they left, I sat with Emma, clutched in my arms and bawled. Every possible bad thing that could have happened went through my mind. I felt like the worst Mom in the world. It all happened in a flash, and I was shaken to my core, reminded that I can do my very best for my kids, and it may still not be enough. God is entirely in control, and my illusion of having everything in hand is simply that...an illusion.
Last week, a sweet friend of mine with a new camera and lens, asked if she could get some more practice and take pictures of our girls. We arranged a time, I found some props and got the girls dressed up in match-matchy outfits. I even did Olivia's hair, which is kind of a big deal, because she HATES having her hair brushed. The pictures were taken, and my Mom-heart swelled with pride upon seeing how my friend captured our kiddos. See for yourself....they're adorable!!!
I love this one, too. Especially since you can see Olivia's pretty hair, which is daily battle as it nightly attempts to become a dread in the back.
Ahh, our pride and joy! What a gift to have some great photo of the girls! We shared some of these online, and many of you exploded our feed with kind comments about our offspring. We felt proud. Whether it's right or not, parents always get a great feeling when their kids make them look good.
But that was last week. The end.
While we were still riding on the high of "We love these pictures! We have the most precious girls! Look how adorable they are!", yesterday came. We had finished school, and I'd sent the girls to go play in the sunroom while I cleaned and prepared lunch. I had just finished the dishes when I realized how quiet it was. Too quiet.
I took steps in their direction when I heard the cat protest from the sunroom. With my eyes toward the cat, with alarm, I noticed great chunks of black fur surrounding poor kitty on the indoor-outdoor carpet.
I raised my voice to ask "What is going on?!", but my voice fell as my eyes lifted. Before me were two ragged looking children, one holding scissors in her hand. I quickly saw that the cat had been the lucky one. In disbelief, I surveyed the damage.
My poor, fair-haired Emma, who formerly had a cute shoulder length cut, was now sporting a blunted-choppy pixie.
Olivia, the culprit with the scissors, tried to explain "We were playing pretend beauty shop....(with REAL scissors)". She saw me start to cry, and all of a sudden, beauty shop had lost it's fun. The work on her own hair revealed that she had gone to serious lengths to shape her once beautiful tresses into a dramatic mullet. She was clueless as to how she looked, or the consequences she had just poured on her head. Seeing that she was unaware of the gravity of her actions, and to lighten the moment for myself, I lined her up and took a few mugshots for the family photo book.
I made a call to Andrew. I never call him at work unless something is urgent, so he picked up, knowing something was wrong. Through tears I told him how Olivia had gone all Edward Scissor-hands, with scissors (that had escaped my lock and key), and I had no clue what to do, or how to begin to salvage what was left of their hair. I sent him pictures while we were on the phone, and he laughed so hard that I started laughing, too. It was a futile situation, so there was little to do but laugh. Side note: Andrew is my favorite and has such a way of bringing the right perspective and humor to a situation.
We mulled for half a second about a consequence, but soon saw that leading Olivia to a mirror was devastating enough. Her eyes welled with tears when she cried "I look like a BOY!!!". She agonized further when I told her, "No sweetie, we can't tape it back on". She began making loud declarations of NEVER-EVER leaving the house, or EVER seeing her friends EVER again, since she looked like a BOY! While she was moving out of denial and into anger, I made a desperate call to my friend Brooke. Brooke cuts hair and providentially was off at the time. She must've heard the panic in my voice, because she reassured me that she'd come right away.
All I can say is that good and skilled friends are INVALUABLE in this kind of situation!
Brooke did her best not to be horrified at what she saw, and made an excellent recovery of Olivia's handiwork. As for me, I was reminded that I can do my best as a Mom, teach them well, put good food in their bellies, and "stuff" is still going to happen. I talked to my Dad later in the day (who also got side splitting chuckles out of the pictures) and he brought it all home for me. He said to tell the girls that no matter what their hair looks like, that he thinks they are still beautiful. He also encouraged me: "Jenna, you are a great Mom! Please remember that this is not a reflection on your parenting." Those words were gold.
I can do my very best for the girls, but they are still children, and life happens. Mistakes happen. Sometimes they embarrass me. Poop happens. They will try to escape. And from what I hear from other girl moms, playing "beauty shop" is inevitable. What I can do is try not to take it personally. I love my kids no matter what they do or look like. Some of their actions work toward my sanctification more than others, but I'm learning that sometimes, the best response is just to laugh.
The AFTER photos:
Emma is obviously devastated.
Olivia's first words upon seeing her recovered hair: "MOMMY! How did Brooke make me look like a girl again?! She must have magic!"
P.S. Thanks to Lori for capturing some beautiful photos BEFORE the hair drama. To Brooke, for rescuing me in my hour of need! And to Andrew and the rest of my family, for helping me laugh. Y'all are the best!
One such memory was this past spring. Emma was reaching the end of her ability to enjoy an afternoon nap, but I was desperate to keep her rest time going, so I could get stuff done. I had laid her down, put books in her bed in case she just wanted to read, and left a sippy cup of water with her if she became thirsty. All conditions were favorable, and she had her head on her pillow when I quietly left her room. Olivia was occupied with a reading show, so I told her I'd be doing some quick gardening. I wasn't back there for more than 15 minutes when I heard the voices of strangers coming from under my porch.
I dashed up front to find a middle aged woman, and a grandfatherly looking man escorting my shirtless Emma up to our backdoor. I must've been in shock, because I didn't know what to say. I snatched Emma up, and stood there as they told me she must've climbed our closed and locked gate, because they were driving by and found her standing by our busy road. THE HORROR!!! They were very sympathetic, and tried to explain their respective kids had done crazy things, too. Their attempt to make me feel better was like putting a thin Hello Kitty bandaid on a gushing artery. When they left, I sat with Emma, clutched in my arms and bawled. Every possible bad thing that could have happened went through my mind. I felt like the worst Mom in the world. It all happened in a flash, and I was shaken to my core, reminded that I can do my very best for my kids, and it may still not be enough. God is entirely in control, and my illusion of having everything in hand is simply that...an illusion.
Last week, a sweet friend of mine with a new camera and lens, asked if she could get some more practice and take pictures of our girls. We arranged a time, I found some props and got the girls dressed up in match-matchy outfits. I even did Olivia's hair, which is kind of a big deal, because she HATES having her hair brushed. The pictures were taken, and my Mom-heart swelled with pride upon seeing how my friend captured our kiddos. See for yourself....they're adorable!!!
I love this one, too. Especially since you can see Olivia's pretty hair, which is daily battle as it nightly attempts to become a dread in the back.
Ahh, our pride and joy! What a gift to have some great photo of the girls! We shared some of these online, and many of you exploded our feed with kind comments about our offspring. We felt proud. Whether it's right or not, parents always get a great feeling when their kids make them look good.
But that was last week. The end.
While we were still riding on the high of "We love these pictures! We have the most precious girls! Look how adorable they are!", yesterday came. We had finished school, and I'd sent the girls to go play in the sunroom while I cleaned and prepared lunch. I had just finished the dishes when I realized how quiet it was. Too quiet.
I took steps in their direction when I heard the cat protest from the sunroom. With my eyes toward the cat, with alarm, I noticed great chunks of black fur surrounding poor kitty on the indoor-outdoor carpet.
I raised my voice to ask "What is going on?!", but my voice fell as my eyes lifted. Before me were two ragged looking children, one holding scissors in her hand. I quickly saw that the cat had been the lucky one. In disbelief, I surveyed the damage.
My poor, fair-haired Emma, who formerly had a cute shoulder length cut, was now sporting a blunted-choppy pixie.
Olivia, the culprit with the scissors, tried to explain "We were playing pretend beauty shop....(with REAL scissors)". She saw me start to cry, and all of a sudden, beauty shop had lost it's fun. The work on her own hair revealed that she had gone to serious lengths to shape her once beautiful tresses into a dramatic mullet. She was clueless as to how she looked, or the consequences she had just poured on her head. Seeing that she was unaware of the gravity of her actions, and to lighten the moment for myself, I lined her up and took a few mugshots for the family photo book.
I made a call to Andrew. I never call him at work unless something is urgent, so he picked up, knowing something was wrong. Through tears I told him how Olivia had gone all Edward Scissor-hands, with scissors (that had escaped my lock and key), and I had no clue what to do, or how to begin to salvage what was left of their hair. I sent him pictures while we were on the phone, and he laughed so hard that I started laughing, too. It was a futile situation, so there was little to do but laugh. Side note: Andrew is my favorite and has such a way of bringing the right perspective and humor to a situation.
We mulled for half a second about a consequence, but soon saw that leading Olivia to a mirror was devastating enough. Her eyes welled with tears when she cried "I look like a BOY!!!". She agonized further when I told her, "No sweetie, we can't tape it back on". She began making loud declarations of NEVER-EVER leaving the house, or EVER seeing her friends EVER again, since she looked like a BOY! While she was moving out of denial and into anger, I made a desperate call to my friend Brooke. Brooke cuts hair and providentially was off at the time. She must've heard the panic in my voice, because she reassured me that she'd come right away.
All I can say is that good and skilled friends are INVALUABLE in this kind of situation!
Brooke did her best not to be horrified at what she saw, and made an excellent recovery of Olivia's handiwork. As for me, I was reminded that I can do my best as a Mom, teach them well, put good food in their bellies, and "stuff" is still going to happen. I talked to my Dad later in the day (who also got side splitting chuckles out of the pictures) and he brought it all home for me. He said to tell the girls that no matter what their hair looks like, that he thinks they are still beautiful. He also encouraged me: "Jenna, you are a great Mom! Please remember that this is not a reflection on your parenting." Those words were gold.
I can do my very best for the girls, but they are still children, and life happens. Mistakes happen. Sometimes they embarrass me. Poop happens. They will try to escape. And from what I hear from other girl moms, playing "beauty shop" is inevitable. What I can do is try not to take it personally. I love my kids no matter what they do or look like. Some of their actions work toward my sanctification more than others, but I'm learning that sometimes, the best response is just to laugh.
The AFTER photos:
Emma is obviously devastated.
Olivia's first words upon seeing her recovered hair: "MOMMY! How did Brooke make me look like a girl again?! She must have magic!"
P.S. Thanks to Lori for capturing some beautiful photos BEFORE the hair drama. To Brooke, for rescuing me in my hour of need! And to Andrew and the rest of my family, for helping me laugh. Y'all are the best!
October 5, 2016
The Kitchen Window
Our kitchen window is one of the few east-facing windows in our home. It's a comforting sight when the first glimmers of daylight brighten the the room while I'm making our morning coffee. This window has been a favorite spot of my succulent plants, as well as a lesser favorite of mine...house flies. With little people always coming and going, we had our share of flies sneak in. Once they enter, they seem to head straight for that window. It's brilliantly lit, and appears to lead to freedom, but is really where they meet their end. I keep a fly swatter just below the sink, and when flies are in abundance, I go to work. Andrew upped my game with one of those electric tennis racket fly swatters. The zap is so satisfying, but I seem to best reduce the headcount when they were cornered in the window.
I don't really need to tell you where this is going, but I'll draw it out for the sake of analogy. A week or so into fly swatting, I noticed the window getting a little grimy. My zeal for killing flies left me approximately ZERO grace in my touch, and made for some messy spots on the window. The warm weather has kept the flies healthy and steadily streaming in every time the girls go out to play. I have kept the swatter handy, and refuse to clean the window because I'll just be back cleaning it again tomorrow.
I'm embarrassed to say that this pattern of swatting-not-scrubbing went on for several weeks. If any of you are familiar with the term "house blind", then you'll understand that I had a bad case of it. Sometimes there are just too many day-to-day things that need your attention over noticing other projects, so some things often are left unpainted, unfixed, or generally uncleaned. That was guilty-guilty me to-a-T, where that window was concerned.
That is until yesterday. Company was coming and I gave a good hard look at that window. I was horrified. Those seemingly small, clear fly guts added up over time, and what I beheld was a massacre. I was so disgusted that I even checked my calendar to guesstimate how long it'd been since the window had fallen into such filth. How many dear friends had come and gone and seen that disgusting sight?! I was sickened.
I immediately whipped out the cleaner and did what I should have done ages ago. A few minutes of scrubbing later (because you know, eww, hard-dried fly guts), and suddenly, my view of the backyard became brighter! The sun shone in with greater resiliency, the grass in the backyard even appeared greener, and to top it off, the kitchen seemed cleaner! It was amazing! Such a small change made a drastic difference.
A peek through the window the following day felt shocking as I realized the contrast from what I'd grown accustom to seeing. Why had I lived with it like that for so long?! There were beautiful things to behold outside, but I had gotten so used to seeing them through a film of fly guts. That lens became the norm, and I didn't realize how bad it was, or what I was missing.
As I pondered this, I began to imagine how this is like our spiritual lives. How long do we let one little sin mar our vision? We use an "acceptable" variation of taking the Lord's name in vain, aren't faithful to correct the kids when they are doing something they shouldn't, or any number of seemingly harmless things. We buy into the lie that 1 + 1 doesn't = 2. But it always does, no matter how you figure it. We say: "It's no big deal", or "I can deal with that later", but we don't. As I've found with math and fly guts...they always add up.
Before we know it, we've let loads of little pests in, and we get used to how things appear. In our messy attempt to deal with the situation, we have created a disaster. We've forgotten how things should look, and swapped reality with a view through a grimy film. For believers, I pray that if we aren't faithful to deal with killing little sins when they're small, that we would be awakened to the dirt on our glasses, and get to work through repentance, and turning away from whatever may be hindering our vision.
Let's be thankful for the Lord's prompting our hearts when it's time to move on, change, or just clean up. And also be grateful for the ones who are faithful to lovingly point out any habits of sin in our lives. "Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but many are the kisses of an enemy." - Proverbs 27:6 Just like windex does wonders for a dirty window, confessing and turning from unkindness, laziness, or _________ (fill-in-the-blank), does wonders to clear our vision for how the Lord wants us to live.
Are you looking through a dirty window? Has a little time with a certain sin created a sub-par film that's hindering your vision of the Son? If so, I pray He moves you to get to work and do some scrubbing. Sometimes it takes no time at all, compared to the beauty and clarity that await you.
P.S. To the flies that are persistently invading my kitchen window...I've had enough. I'm waiting, fly swatter in hand. Followed immediately by windex.
I don't really need to tell you where this is going, but I'll draw it out for the sake of analogy. A week or so into fly swatting, I noticed the window getting a little grimy. My zeal for killing flies left me approximately ZERO grace in my touch, and made for some messy spots on the window. The warm weather has kept the flies healthy and steadily streaming in every time the girls go out to play. I have kept the swatter handy, and refuse to clean the window because I'll just be back cleaning it again tomorrow.
I'm embarrassed to say that this pattern of swatting-not-scrubbing went on for several weeks. If any of you are familiar with the term "house blind", then you'll understand that I had a bad case of it. Sometimes there are just too many day-to-day things that need your attention over noticing other projects, so some things often are left unpainted, unfixed, or generally uncleaned. That was guilty-guilty me to-a-T, where that window was concerned.
That is until yesterday. Company was coming and I gave a good hard look at that window. I was horrified. Those seemingly small, clear fly guts added up over time, and what I beheld was a massacre. I was so disgusted that I even checked my calendar to guesstimate how long it'd been since the window had fallen into such filth. How many dear friends had come and gone and seen that disgusting sight?! I was sickened.
I immediately whipped out the cleaner and did what I should have done ages ago. A few minutes of scrubbing later (because you know, eww, hard-dried fly guts), and suddenly, my view of the backyard became brighter! The sun shone in with greater resiliency, the grass in the backyard even appeared greener, and to top it off, the kitchen seemed cleaner! It was amazing! Such a small change made a drastic difference.
A peek through the window the following day felt shocking as I realized the contrast from what I'd grown accustom to seeing. Why had I lived with it like that for so long?! There were beautiful things to behold outside, but I had gotten so used to seeing them through a film of fly guts. That lens became the norm, and I didn't realize how bad it was, or what I was missing.
As I pondered this, I began to imagine how this is like our spiritual lives. How long do we let one little sin mar our vision? We use an "acceptable" variation of taking the Lord's name in vain, aren't faithful to correct the kids when they are doing something they shouldn't, or any number of seemingly harmless things. We buy into the lie that 1 + 1 doesn't = 2. But it always does, no matter how you figure it. We say: "It's no big deal", or "I can deal with that later", but we don't. As I've found with math and fly guts...they always add up.
Before we know it, we've let loads of little pests in, and we get used to how things appear. In our messy attempt to deal with the situation, we have created a disaster. We've forgotten how things should look, and swapped reality with a view through a grimy film. For believers, I pray that if we aren't faithful to deal with killing little sins when they're small, that we would be awakened to the dirt on our glasses, and get to work through repentance, and turning away from whatever may be hindering our vision.
Let's be thankful for the Lord's prompting our hearts when it's time to move on, change, or just clean up. And also be grateful for the ones who are faithful to lovingly point out any habits of sin in our lives. "Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but many are the kisses of an enemy." - Proverbs 27:6 Just like windex does wonders for a dirty window, confessing and turning from unkindness, laziness, or _________ (fill-in-the-blank), does wonders to clear our vision for how the Lord wants us to live.
Are you looking through a dirty window? Has a little time with a certain sin created a sub-par film that's hindering your vision of the Son? If so, I pray He moves you to get to work and do some scrubbing. Sometimes it takes no time at all, compared to the beauty and clarity that await you.
P.S. To the flies that are persistently invading my kitchen window...I've had enough. I'm waiting, fly swatter in hand. Followed immediately by windex.
August 2, 2016
The Most Eventful Week
The later half of July will go down as some of the most memorable days of my year. Because I have what's known as "Mommy Brains", I am going to jot down the highlights here so I don't forget. For my memory, and of course, for your sheer amusement.
A dear, longtime friend announced her pregnancy to me last fall, and graciously accepted my offer to be her doula. This would be my first birth to attend (other than my own babies!), so I was a little gittery as her due date approached. I read a couple books to refresh, got excellent advice from doula friends, packed my bag, and had the kid's and my suitcases ready for a good week before baby was due. Two days before baby was expected, I got the feeling that I needed to head down south to be closer to my friend. I'm giving credit to the Lord for urging me to make the trip, because I hadn't been in town even 24 hours when my friend sent the text saying her water had broken!
What a privilege it was to help my friend labor through the night, then have the reward of meeting her baby the next afternoon! That rush of joy and elation when a baby is born hit everyone in the room, and was an excellent high to drive home on after being awake for 32 hours straight. *Note: there is such a thing as a doula hangover after a long birth!
Once mission **Bring on Baby** was complete, the girls and I spent another couple days seeing family. Before I could leave, my Mom finally (FINALLY) decided it was time to part with her old, unproductive hens. They had lived like queens of poultry in their fancy coop, given their best eggs, and it was time to hit the freezer. The only catch was that Mom couldn't bear to watch her girls depart, so arranged a sweet crew to assist me in the butchering. These fine city folks put on their best farm faces, and helped me get the job done! They exemplified great bravery, and were eager to learn about everything, from catching it to place in the cone, to seeing everything inside of a hen that you don't see when you buy it from the grocery store. Six hens was pretty quick work with 5 helpers, and now Mom's freezer is stocked with stew hens. May they rest in peace.
Once back at home, I set about returning to normal. This included washing clothes, and watering growing things outside that were starting to look a little crispy. Andrew had mowed the grass just before we'd returned, so as per our mowing routine, anything that shouldn't be mowed, gets put up on a bench or landscaping timbers. I noticed the kid's t-ball stand near a flower bed, so grabbed the stand part and swung it away. What was below made me gasp and jump back.
A copperhead snake was perfectly coiled up underneath. It didn't move, so I quickly ran and grabbed a pellet gun. Olivia watched from a safe distance as I aimed...and only nicked it enough to make it angry. Fail. I had also grabbed a long handled garden tool, so slammed it down to hold the snake in place while I took aim again.
Y'all, if you're ever unfortunate enough to come across one of these snakes, let me tell you, they are aggressive! Get thine self away!!! Or drop an enormous boulder on it's head so it doesn't chase you down. In fact, I suggest keeping a boulder with you at all times just to be on the safe side. The snake, unhappy at my efforts to kill it, began recoiling and lashing out towards me (but couldn't move...thank you garden tool), and then the next pellet made contact with it's evil little pea-brain. Buh-bye, horrible destroyer of safety in one's own backyard! For kicks, we offered it to the cat. She messed with it until we put it in a bucket to later show to Andrew.
As if we hadn't enjoyed enough excitement after the snake, the following day I received a text from Andrew saying he was heading home with a raccoon kit. Yes. Evidently he and his coworkers had been hearing something like birds chirping in a wall for about a week. After that, they heard small footsteps on their ceiling. They ruled out birds, and called a pest control guy who pulled a mad mama raccoon and three babies out of the wall! The next morning, Andrew went into the office to hear more chatter and realized a baby had been left! He pulled it out of the wall and brought it home for us to nurture. Oh joyous rapture.NOT.
With Andrew's lunch break too quickly over, I found myself the new surrogate mother of a week old raccoon. It's eyes weren't even open, it made horrible chattering sounds, would. not. stop. crawling. and, (thank you internet) I learned that baby raccoons require stimulation in their, urr...nether regions, in order to properly urinate. Or their bladders will explode. Or something like that.
When the kids went down to rest in the afternoon, I found myself sweating in the garage, wrestling a crawling baby raccoon, forcing it to take a bottle it didn't want, to drink milk it certainly didn't like, and getting raccoon pee on my shorts when it let loose of it's bladder to the rub of a towel between it's legs. Yes. That happened. I couldn't make this kind of thing up. Raccoon = 1, Trophy Wife = 0
The internet also informed me that baby raccoons need to eat every two hours, so if you will, please repeat the above scene a few more times, with vigorous scrubbing my hands raw in-between each feeding. This went on for only a few more times before Andrew returned home and I waved the white flag. The helpless masked baby he lovingly named "Bandit" (because we have to name every thing that comes past our gate), HAD. TO. GO. Andrew was very understanding that a raccoon that young was extremely high maintenance, and that if I had to keep caring for it, he might never have clean socks or underwear ever again.
Kind friends of ours whisked it away the next morning, and I breathed a sigh of relief. That is until we walked into the backyard and noticed a chicken gimping around. Her wings were droopy, and began to twitch. Andrew guessed that she might have mites. He caught her, I lifted up her feathers, and to my absolute HORROR, she was crawling with them. As is common for poultry keepers, I immediately went into horrible chicken-Mom guilt. It looks something like; assuming the coop hadn't been cleaned frequently enough in my absence, being too busy to notice and could have caught it earlier, neglecting to do more preventative because I should have seen this coming...you know, the usual.
The truth is that when you have free ranging birds, other wild birds have access to their grazing area, and can infultrate with their wild creepy crawlies. Its disgusting, and I'm considering a sound machine with "No Trespassing" bird calls for all the native winged-animals. Okay, so maybe humor is another stage of disguising the Mom guilt, but whatever man. I'm in recovery.
I dove into what I immediately knew to do. That evening found me bathing the affected chicken in warm, soapy Dawn detergent water. It might even sound relaxing if you ignore the fact that there were mites and a chicken involved. This poor bird sank into the warmth, enjoying a little relief from all the itching. Afterward, she pretended to be dead when I dried her off and dusted her with DE power. For those out of the know, DE powder is diatomaceous earth, aka pulverized sea shells. The power looks like powdered sugar, but is really minuscule razor sharp sea shell bits that will cut the exoskeleton of a tiny critter. **Insert evil laughter**
For those in the know, you are likely smart enough to wear protective eyewear when using DE powder! Alas, I was not. The bird decided to become un-dead, jumped up, fluttered her wings, and poofed a fine dust of DE powder into my eyes. I awoke the next morning with the feeling that my eyes were peeling away. A look in the mirror revealed about as much, and may have falsely indicated to others who saw me that day, that I was a druggie or heavy drinker. I would've loved to have defended myself, but didn't think anyone would believe that I had simply, stupidly failed to wear protective eyewear when dusting a mite-ridden chicken with sea shell powder after a bath in my vintage enamel-wear bucket. I mean, who wouldn't believe that?! Seems a simple enough explanation to me.
With the hen in quarantine, I knew I had to take drastic action with the rest of the flock. What's that saying about an ounce of prevention? Yes, well after a few pleas for advice on some chicken forums (yes, those exist), my fellow fowl friends informed me on the best course of action. A insecticide used on cattle in minuscule doses would be non-harmful to my birds or eggs, yet efficient enough to deter any more pesky pests. Instead of chasing down 30+ chickens with a syringe during the day, I waited until dark, when everyone had gone in to roost. Because I like to keep Saturday nights alive and wear pajamas with fabulous camo crocs out to the coop.
They were all perfectly lined up, ready for me to dribble a little magic syrup on their backs. Everyone remained calm, except for the banty hens who screamed at me, like I'd come outside, entirely for the purpose of harassing them. The ungrateful wretches didn't understand I was simply there to save their lives. Over 30 chickens treated, and I could finally sneak back to the house and sleep. Ahh, sleep!
When Sunday afternoon rolled around, we ended our exciting week with one final adventure. The one thing out of the whole eventful week that had been planned: getting a kitten. But true to form, and how our week went, nothing went as planned...and we left with two kittens. But that's another story for another time.
A dear, longtime friend announced her pregnancy to me last fall, and graciously accepted my offer to be her doula. This would be my first birth to attend (other than my own babies!), so I was a little gittery as her due date approached. I read a couple books to refresh, got excellent advice from doula friends, packed my bag, and had the kid's and my suitcases ready for a good week before baby was due. Two days before baby was expected, I got the feeling that I needed to head down south to be closer to my friend. I'm giving credit to the Lord for urging me to make the trip, because I hadn't been in town even 24 hours when my friend sent the text saying her water had broken!
What a privilege it was to help my friend labor through the night, then have the reward of meeting her baby the next afternoon! That rush of joy and elation when a baby is born hit everyone in the room, and was an excellent high to drive home on after being awake for 32 hours straight. *Note: there is such a thing as a doula hangover after a long birth!
Once mission **Bring on Baby** was complete, the girls and I spent another couple days seeing family. Before I could leave, my Mom finally (FINALLY) decided it was time to part with her old, unproductive hens. They had lived like queens of poultry in their fancy coop, given their best eggs, and it was time to hit the freezer. The only catch was that Mom couldn't bear to watch her girls depart, so arranged a sweet crew to assist me in the butchering. These fine city folks put on their best farm faces, and helped me get the job done! They exemplified great bravery, and were eager to learn about everything, from catching it to place in the cone, to seeing everything inside of a hen that you don't see when you buy it from the grocery store. Six hens was pretty quick work with 5 helpers, and now Mom's freezer is stocked with stew hens. May they rest in peace.
Once back at home, I set about returning to normal. This included washing clothes, and watering growing things outside that were starting to look a little crispy. Andrew had mowed the grass just before we'd returned, so as per our mowing routine, anything that shouldn't be mowed, gets put up on a bench or landscaping timbers. I noticed the kid's t-ball stand near a flower bed, so grabbed the stand part and swung it away. What was below made me gasp and jump back.
A copperhead snake was perfectly coiled up underneath. It didn't move, so I quickly ran and grabbed a pellet gun. Olivia watched from a safe distance as I aimed...and only nicked it enough to make it angry. Fail. I had also grabbed a long handled garden tool, so slammed it down to hold the snake in place while I took aim again.
Y'all, if you're ever unfortunate enough to come across one of these snakes, let me tell you, they are aggressive! Get thine self away!!! Or drop an enormous boulder on it's head so it doesn't chase you down. In fact, I suggest keeping a boulder with you at all times just to be on the safe side. The snake, unhappy at my efforts to kill it, began recoiling and lashing out towards me (but couldn't move...thank you garden tool), and then the next pellet made contact with it's evil little pea-brain. Buh-bye, horrible destroyer of safety in one's own backyard! For kicks, we offered it to the cat. She messed with it until we put it in a bucket to later show to Andrew.
As if we hadn't enjoyed enough excitement after the snake, the following day I received a text from Andrew saying he was heading home with a raccoon kit. Yes. Evidently he and his coworkers had been hearing something like birds chirping in a wall for about a week. After that, they heard small footsteps on their ceiling. They ruled out birds, and called a pest control guy who pulled a mad mama raccoon and three babies out of the wall! The next morning, Andrew went into the office to hear more chatter and realized a baby had been left! He pulled it out of the wall and brought it home for us to nurture. Oh joyous rapture.
With Andrew's lunch break too quickly over, I found myself the new surrogate mother of a week old raccoon. It's eyes weren't even open, it made horrible chattering sounds, would. not. stop. crawling. and, (thank you internet) I learned that baby raccoons require stimulation in their, urr...nether regions, in order to properly urinate. Or their bladders will explode. Or something like that.
When the kids went down to rest in the afternoon, I found myself sweating in the garage, wrestling a crawling baby raccoon, forcing it to take a bottle it didn't want, to drink milk it certainly didn't like, and getting raccoon pee on my shorts when it let loose of it's bladder to the rub of a towel between it's legs. Yes. That happened. I couldn't make this kind of thing up. Raccoon = 1, Trophy Wife = 0
The internet also informed me that baby raccoons need to eat every two hours, so if you will, please repeat the above scene a few more times, with vigorous scrubbing my hands raw in-between each feeding. This went on for only a few more times before Andrew returned home and I waved the white flag. The helpless masked baby he lovingly named "Bandit" (because we have to name every thing that comes past our gate), HAD. TO. GO. Andrew was very understanding that a raccoon that young was extremely high maintenance, and that if I had to keep caring for it, he might never have clean socks or underwear ever again.
Kind friends of ours whisked it away the next morning, and I breathed a sigh of relief. That is until we walked into the backyard and noticed a chicken gimping around. Her wings were droopy, and began to twitch. Andrew guessed that she might have mites. He caught her, I lifted up her feathers, and to my absolute HORROR, she was crawling with them. As is common for poultry keepers, I immediately went into horrible chicken-Mom guilt. It looks something like; assuming the coop hadn't been cleaned frequently enough in my absence, being too busy to notice and could have caught it earlier, neglecting to do more preventative because I should have seen this coming...you know, the usual.
The truth is that when you have free ranging birds, other wild birds have access to their grazing area, and can infultrate with their wild creepy crawlies. Its disgusting, and I'm considering a sound machine with "No Trespassing" bird calls for all the native winged-animals. Okay, so maybe humor is another stage of disguising the Mom guilt, but whatever man. I'm in recovery.
I dove into what I immediately knew to do. That evening found me bathing the affected chicken in warm, soapy Dawn detergent water. It might even sound relaxing if you ignore the fact that there were mites and a chicken involved. This poor bird sank into the warmth, enjoying a little relief from all the itching. Afterward, she pretended to be dead when I dried her off and dusted her with DE power. For those out of the know, DE powder is diatomaceous earth, aka pulverized sea shells. The power looks like powdered sugar, but is really minuscule razor sharp sea shell bits that will cut the exoskeleton of a tiny critter. **Insert evil laughter**
For those in the know, you are likely smart enough to wear protective eyewear when using DE powder! Alas, I was not. The bird decided to become un-dead, jumped up, fluttered her wings, and poofed a fine dust of DE powder into my eyes. I awoke the next morning with the feeling that my eyes were peeling away. A look in the mirror revealed about as much, and may have falsely indicated to others who saw me that day, that I was a druggie or heavy drinker. I would've loved to have defended myself, but didn't think anyone would believe that I had simply, stupidly failed to wear protective eyewear when dusting a mite-ridden chicken with sea shell powder after a bath in my vintage enamel-wear bucket. I mean, who wouldn't believe that?! Seems a simple enough explanation to me.
With the hen in quarantine, I knew I had to take drastic action with the rest of the flock. What's that saying about an ounce of prevention? Yes, well after a few pleas for advice on some chicken forums (yes, those exist), my fellow fowl friends informed me on the best course of action. A insecticide used on cattle in minuscule doses would be non-harmful to my birds or eggs, yet efficient enough to deter any more pesky pests. Instead of chasing down 30+ chickens with a syringe during the day, I waited until dark, when everyone had gone in to roost. Because I like to keep Saturday nights alive and wear pajamas with fabulous camo crocs out to the coop.
They were all perfectly lined up, ready for me to dribble a little magic syrup on their backs. Everyone remained calm, except for the banty hens who screamed at me, like I'd come outside, entirely for the purpose of harassing them. The ungrateful wretches didn't understand I was simply there to save their lives. Over 30 chickens treated, and I could finally sneak back to the house and sleep. Ahh, sleep!
When Sunday afternoon rolled around, we ended our exciting week with one final adventure. The one thing out of the whole eventful week that had been planned: getting a kitten. But true to form, and how our week went, nothing went as planned...and we left with two kittens. But that's another story for another time.
June 17, 2016
The Killjoy
Today I was "That Mom". You know the kind. The one who shows up when everyone is having a really fun time, and ruins it. The one who sees slightly potential danger and freaks out, stopping everything enjoyable and looks like a major killjoy. Yeah, that was me today.
My father in law is here, and this afternoon, he and Andrew took the girls swimming. I assumed this to mean "with a flotation device" for the two year old (FOR THE TWO YEAR OLD!!!), but I was wrong. I arrived on the scene with sandwiches and quickly came close to a nervous breakdown. My adrenals are shot, so it doesn't take much to push me over the edge, but to my Mom-eyes, I was witnessing my child drown.
I saw little Emma, hurling herself from the step towards my FIL and Andrew, and staying under far too long for my comfort. Without waiting, I began yelling "Grab her! Pull her up!!!", as if they hadn't been doing this for at least a good 10 minutes before I arrived. But seriously y'all, if ever there were a pearl clutching moment, this was it. I contemplated diving in to get her, but the menfolk were RIGHT THERE. Why weren't they moving?! GET MY CHILD UP INTO THE FRESH AIR!!! NOW!!!
But they waited. I could feel my adrenaline shooting through the roof, even though I could see her kicking her legs and quickly rising to the surface. They could have pulled her up because she was right in front of them, but they didn't. They waited much longer that I would have, and let her work it out before helping her.
Even after she burst to the top with her pursed lips becoming an enormous smile (she had obviously mastered holding her breath under water), I was still in a panic. How could they not be holding onto her at ALL TIMES?! How could they let her get in without her puddle jumpers?! This was madness!!! But then Andrew asked me to watch again.
I was fairly certain a second time would do me in, but I watched once more as my FIL put her legs behind her and pushed her towards Andrew. What I saw this time was that she held her breath, was propelling herself with her feet, and was actually learning how to swim. Her face got towards the surface, and when she hovered for just a bit, Andrew reached and pulled her up. She took a big gasp of air, and she was beaming. She was doing it. Go figure.
Since my pool-panic, this scene has been haunting me all day long. My little girl in the water, seeming to be struggling, with her Papa right there. He could pull her up at a moment's notice, but he waits. His goal isn't to keep her head above water the whole time, but to teach her how to swim. He's right there after all, so she isn't going to drown, but he is patient to rescue her, so she can get in those crucial seconds that will teach her a lifesaving skill. What an irony that she has to be under the water for a bit before she can learn how not to drown.
This resonates with me so deeply at this point in my journey. I feel so much like a little girl out in the middle of a big, deep pool, learning to swim. If only I could be done with this lesson and just swim already! None of this flailing my legs, kicking for the surface that seems so far away. No more burning of my eyes and lungs while I wait to break the surface. I'm exhausted. But I know my Father is right here with me. He knows precisely how long I can hold my breath, and is more than capable of pulling me up at the right time. Why would I ever doubt Him? He's teaching me something greater than just treading water, or holding my breath. There is a greater end to this season of life, more than what my little mind can comprehend right now. It's for a beautifully bigger purpose. If I'll just keep at it. And I will, because I know He is with me.
My father in law is here, and this afternoon, he and Andrew took the girls swimming. I assumed this to mean "with a flotation device" for the two year old (FOR THE TWO YEAR OLD!!!), but I was wrong. I arrived on the scene with sandwiches and quickly came close to a nervous breakdown. My adrenals are shot, so it doesn't take much to push me over the edge, but to my Mom-eyes, I was witnessing my child drown.
I saw little Emma, hurling herself from the step towards my FIL and Andrew, and staying under far too long for my comfort. Without waiting, I began yelling "Grab her! Pull her up!!!", as if they hadn't been doing this for at least a good 10 minutes before I arrived. But seriously y'all, if ever there were a pearl clutching moment, this was it. I contemplated diving in to get her, but the menfolk were RIGHT THERE. Why weren't they moving?! GET MY CHILD UP INTO THE FRESH AIR!!! NOW!!!
But they waited. I could feel my adrenaline shooting through the roof, even though I could see her kicking her legs and quickly rising to the surface. They could have pulled her up because she was right in front of them, but they didn't. They waited much longer that I would have, and let her work it out before helping her.
Even after she burst to the top with her pursed lips becoming an enormous smile (she had obviously mastered holding her breath under water), I was still in a panic. How could they not be holding onto her at ALL TIMES?! How could they let her get in without her puddle jumpers?! This was madness!!! But then Andrew asked me to watch again.
I was fairly certain a second time would do me in, but I watched once more as my FIL put her legs behind her and pushed her towards Andrew. What I saw this time was that she held her breath, was propelling herself with her feet, and was actually learning how to swim. Her face got towards the surface, and when she hovered for just a bit, Andrew reached and pulled her up. She took a big gasp of air, and she was beaming. She was doing it. Go figure.
Since my pool-panic, this scene has been haunting me all day long. My little girl in the water, seeming to be struggling, with her Papa right there. He could pull her up at a moment's notice, but he waits. His goal isn't to keep her head above water the whole time, but to teach her how to swim. He's right there after all, so she isn't going to drown, but he is patient to rescue her, so she can get in those crucial seconds that will teach her a lifesaving skill. What an irony that she has to be under the water for a bit before she can learn how not to drown.
This resonates with me so deeply at this point in my journey. I feel so much like a little girl out in the middle of a big, deep pool, learning to swim. If only I could be done with this lesson and just swim already! None of this flailing my legs, kicking for the surface that seems so far away. No more burning of my eyes and lungs while I wait to break the surface. I'm exhausted. But I know my Father is right here with me. He knows precisely how long I can hold my breath, and is more than capable of pulling me up at the right time. Why would I ever doubt Him? He's teaching me something greater than just treading water, or holding my breath. There is a greater end to this season of life, more than what my little mind can comprehend right now. It's for a beautifully bigger purpose. If I'll just keep at it. And I will, because I know He is with me.
March 16, 2016
Lent Doesn't Last
For months I've had the desire to write. I feel like I've been wrestling with myself as I type and end up throwing everything into a draft folder. Why? Because what's on my heart has just felt too heavy to share. I realize that some of my writing has been for my own processing, but the feeling has been inescapable that God wants me to share about my brokenness. So I press on, because there is healing in the truth.
At thirty years old, it'd be fair to say I've experienced the gamut of human emotion. However, losing my babies in September caught me completely off guard with a never before known depth of grief, mourning and even depression. On the morning of September 18th, I awoke to the sweet kicks of our 14 week old surviving twin. Hours later as my body began laboring, I begged God to spare our baby. I was in agony as I realized I'd have to deliver our little one long before he was ready. I wasn't ready, but God gave me such comfort. Flesh of my flesh went into the ground that day, and it has changed me. How could it not?
Initially it felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I vividly remember this happening as a child on the school playground. You miss a monkey bar rail, or trip, and suddenly you're desperately gasping for air. Grief felt like a sucker punch to my lungs, and for the first few days I literally struggled to breathe. Healing increased as the days turned into weeks, and things didn't feel so terribly raw. Eventually, there were more good days than bad ones. More days doing the normal things we did before, and less days trying to muffle my sobs into a pillow, trying to keep the girls from hearing Mommy cry.
In November we became pregnant again, and I felt hope once more. A baby certainly wouldn't replace the children we'd lost, but it could bring joy and healing to our hearts. My parents had come to visit us for Thanksgiving, so when we were around the table, sharing what we were thankful for, I announced our baby due in July. Everyone was elated, then the next day, broken again as I had an early miscarriage.
A search for answers in the following month led to a diagnosis of my having a MTHFR gene mutation. This means my body can't optimally process B group vitamins on it's own. It may seem minor, but an impaired absorption of B's or folate can contribute to all kinds of health problems...including miscarriage. This discovery made it feel like my body had been betraying me, but I was still grateful for an answer. My new supplements quickly made me feel like a brand new person. I was alarmed at how good I felt in comparison to how tired and depressed I had been in the months before. What a delight to have renewed energy, feel the warmth of the sun on my face, and laugh again. It finally felt like things were going to be okay.
A couple months of supplements made me feel like we'd found the missing piece, and that it was safe to try again. I bought something to give to Andrew to help me announce that we were pregnant once more, but I hesitated. It felt too confident a thing to give when I had so little confidence to claim. I told him one evening after dinner, and as with the 5 pregnancies before, his eyes lit up with joy. He makes my heart swell. Maybe things would be different this time? We didn't know. It felt like we were holding our breath. Just a few days later, we had to part with that baby, too.
That this little one flew to Jesus during the season of Lent is significant to me. Lent is a time of reflection, of mourning, and of numbering our short days on this earth. Our lives are a vapor. The past 6 months of loss have felt like an extended season of Lent to my broken heart. What I've had to give up has felt too precious to lay down. I don't know why we've lost these little ones. And right now I have far more questions than answers.
The verses from 2nd Corinthians 1:3-5 are why I feel compelled to share this part of my story.
"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of all compassion and the God of all comfort, Who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows."
As much as I would love to wrap this story up with a Hallmark ending, I can't. It's not time. Maybe like me, you're somewhere in the middle, still waiting or searching for answers, still catching your breath. Though I have been burdened by this suffering, the Lord has met me in the hardest places, and has comforted me to overflowing. He is growing me, my marriage, and our family. The old, useless bits are breaking away, and He is creating something more beautiful out of this dust. I don't know how much longer I'll be here, but it's going to be okay. He has reminded me that Lent doesn't last. Easter is coming. His resurrection abolishes death, and removes it's sting. Because of this, I have such great hope, and so can you.
At thirty years old, it'd be fair to say I've experienced the gamut of human emotion. However, losing my babies in September caught me completely off guard with a never before known depth of grief, mourning and even depression. On the morning of September 18th, I awoke to the sweet kicks of our 14 week old surviving twin. Hours later as my body began laboring, I begged God to spare our baby. I was in agony as I realized I'd have to deliver our little one long before he was ready. I wasn't ready, but God gave me such comfort. Flesh of my flesh went into the ground that day, and it has changed me. How could it not?
Initially it felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I vividly remember this happening as a child on the school playground. You miss a monkey bar rail, or trip, and suddenly you're desperately gasping for air. Grief felt like a sucker punch to my lungs, and for the first few days I literally struggled to breathe. Healing increased as the days turned into weeks, and things didn't feel so terribly raw. Eventually, there were more good days than bad ones. More days doing the normal things we did before, and less days trying to muffle my sobs into a pillow, trying to keep the girls from hearing Mommy cry.
In November we became pregnant again, and I felt hope once more. A baby certainly wouldn't replace the children we'd lost, but it could bring joy and healing to our hearts. My parents had come to visit us for Thanksgiving, so when we were around the table, sharing what we were thankful for, I announced our baby due in July. Everyone was elated, then the next day, broken again as I had an early miscarriage.
A search for answers in the following month led to a diagnosis of my having a MTHFR gene mutation. This means my body can't optimally process B group vitamins on it's own. It may seem minor, but an impaired absorption of B's or folate can contribute to all kinds of health problems...including miscarriage. This discovery made it feel like my body had been betraying me, but I was still grateful for an answer. My new supplements quickly made me feel like a brand new person. I was alarmed at how good I felt in comparison to how tired and depressed I had been in the months before. What a delight to have renewed energy, feel the warmth of the sun on my face, and laugh again. It finally felt like things were going to be okay.
A couple months of supplements made me feel like we'd found the missing piece, and that it was safe to try again. I bought something to give to Andrew to help me announce that we were pregnant once more, but I hesitated. It felt too confident a thing to give when I had so little confidence to claim. I told him one evening after dinner, and as with the 5 pregnancies before, his eyes lit up with joy. He makes my heart swell. Maybe things would be different this time? We didn't know. It felt like we were holding our breath. Just a few days later, we had to part with that baby, too.
That this little one flew to Jesus during the season of Lent is significant to me. Lent is a time of reflection, of mourning, and of numbering our short days on this earth. Our lives are a vapor. The past 6 months of loss have felt like an extended season of Lent to my broken heart. What I've had to give up has felt too precious to lay down. I don't know why we've lost these little ones. And right now I have far more questions than answers.
The verses from 2nd Corinthians 1:3-5 are why I feel compelled to share this part of my story.
"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of all compassion and the God of all comfort, Who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows."
As much as I would love to wrap this story up with a Hallmark ending, I can't. It's not time. Maybe like me, you're somewhere in the middle, still waiting or searching for answers, still catching your breath. Though I have been burdened by this suffering, the Lord has met me in the hardest places, and has comforted me to overflowing. He is growing me, my marriage, and our family. The old, useless bits are breaking away, and He is creating something more beautiful out of this dust. I don't know how much longer I'll be here, but it's going to be okay. He has reminded me that Lent doesn't last. Easter is coming. His resurrection abolishes death, and removes it's sting. Because of this, I have such great hope, and so can you.
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