Because my grandfather was a magician (yes, you read that correctly), my sister and I used to be major fans of David Copperfield when we were growing up. We still have a number of VHS tapes (remember those?!) with recorded specials on them, and to identify which is which, each has a strip of tape with a written description of each special's most memorable trick. Among some of my favorites...
1. "Niagra Falls." David is strapped inside a buoyant container that is sent adrift toward (what else?) Niagra Falls. Mysteriously, he emerges from a flying helicopter soaking wet seconds after the container--which we all believed still had him in it--has tumbled mercilessly over the edge.
2. "The Dozen-Piece Trick." David cuts one of his dancers into a dozen pieces and puts her back together, all while rocking out to some awesome 80s tunes in his tapered, acid-washed jeans.
3. "Fires of Passion." David hangs upside down in a straightjacket in an amphitheatre in Caesar's Palace, dangling over flaming twelve-inch spikes. Magically, you watch as he unbinds himself and swings to safety minutes before the rope he's attached to falls into the flames.
For some reason, as a kid, my favorite trick and oft requested special to watch was what I had dubbed "The Exploding 'X.'" In this trick, David is trapped in a safe inside an abadoned building; he must escape and reemerge under a tarp marked with an "X" just yards away, all while the building explodes.
I think what was most fascinating to me was the way the building went down. No wrecking ball. No flames. All they used was one button--one measley little button--and with the touch of it, the building--solid and massive as it was--literally crumbled into dust.
I think of how much effort must have gone into the construction of the building that was frivolously brought to its knees. I can remember last year, as we watched the builders fashion together our tiny home, how intricate the work could be--packing the foundation into a solid sheet of rock; steadying the wood to create the frame; carefully laying brick after brick to help the structure stand, to keep it strong, to make it work.
It took effort. It took time. It took some mighty dedicated builders.
It's the same with the Christian walk, isn't it? Before a sound and useful structure (i.e. Christian) can exist, it must start with a solid Rock-like foundation (the Lord) and a supporting framework (a basic knowledge and understanding of the Word, what God has done for us, and the concept of salvation). Bells and whistles like paint color, furniture, and fancy fixtures (fruit of the Spirit, characteristics reflective of Christ) follow as the spiritual walk matures and gains depth.
But the bricks. The first line of defense. A support and protection of the inner workings of the structure.
Where do they come from?
I like to think of the bricks as encouragement and support from other believers. There's nothing quite like community and solid fellowship. They can help build one another up, and they can help provide strength against stromy attacks of the Enemy.
The more we encourage each other, the more bricks we have laid. The more bricks we have laid, the stronger we get.
But what happens when our motives, our words, and our choices far from build others up?
Years ago, when I was merely a teenager, I developed an enormous cyst on my right cheek (I have the scar to prove it). What started as a fairly small bump grew and grew until it took over half my cheek. It was purple. Ugly. And very hard to cover up.
My dermatologist told me it was the biggest one she had ever seen at the time. Score.
It made me insanely insecure. We tried treatment after treatment, ointment after ointment, shot after shot, and there it continued to sit, plaguing my face. One boy even asked if "that mark on my face" was because somebody was beating me up at home (no, but thanks for asking). Really, I did my absolute best to put it out of my head and not let it get to me.
My sweet friends at the time assured me often that "it wasn't a big deal," "it wasn't as noticeable as you think," and "it doesn't really matter." I believed them and drew a sense of strength and confidence from their steadfast encouragement.
But I'll never forget the day someone decided to hurl a wrecking ball.
A boy who had shown interest in me at the time was talking to me before Sunday School one morning, and in the midst of our conversation, he looked intensely at my right cheek. I had completely forgotten about it until I felt his disgusted stare burning a hole through my face.
Snidely, he remarked, "You know, you don't have enough makeup on your face to cover that thing up."
Growing hot with humiliation, I turned my flushed countenance from his view and attempted to blink away the tears that now clouded my vision. I walked away immediately, feeling ugly and horrible to look at, and I vowed from that moment on to make sure I always had enough makeup on to cover my flaws.
I can't recall a specific person or a specific bit of encouragement during that time; but I can recall the time, place, person, and words that involved an acute crumbling of my self-esteem.
No matter the multitude of positive things people may say, the few negative things tend to leech onto the soul.
You see, it takes a great deal of effort, time, and builders to make a structure strong; but all it takes is one button to detonate it--and all the bricks, the encouragement, and the strength can come crumbling to their knees.
So, ask yourself: what kind of person are you?
Do you seek to bring encouragement to others, to build them up? Are you a bricklayer?
Or are you a detonator?
Putting all of my feelings out there in the open for a number of people to see (and I'm perfectly aware that I am doing this) has certainly left me vulnerable to some detonation; some comments have really gotten me down.
But thankfully, the Lord has blessed me with a number of bricklayers. Just when I so very needed it, a sweet co-worker of mine approached me the other day and, completely unsolicited, told me, "I just wanted to let you know that I can tell you're getting better. I can really tell. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem...lighter. Anyway, I just thought you should know."
She couldn't possibly have known how much my soul needed to hear those words. I lavished her with a million thanks and told her how much it meant to me to have that encouragement.
Though some of my structure had crumbled, she chose to start laying new bricks. And for that, sweet lady, I offer you my sincere, heartfelt gratitude. Bless you.
I'm not asking for you to be my bricklayers by any means; and I'm just as guilty of being a detonator as the next person. But please, friends, be mindful that even the smallest, most seemingly insignificant words can bring a person to her knees. The things you say have power.
It's up to you how you will use them.
I know, it takes time and effort and a great deal of dedication, but help the Architect complete His designs. You don't have to do it all yourself, but do one. Just one.
Lay a brick.
"Therefore encourage one another and build one another up, just as you are doing." ~ 1 Thessalonians 5:11
Learning to Soar for Jesus
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
The Suspense Is Killing Me....
I used to love the show Full House. I've for certain seen every episode at least three times. Every afternoon at 3:00 pm, my rear end was parked on a sofa cushion and ready to listen to the theme song...
"Whatever happened to predictability
The milk man, the paper boy, the evening TV,
You miss your old familiar friends, but
Waiting just around the bend...
Everywhere you look,
Everywhere there's a heart (there's a heart)
A hand to hold onto
Everywhere you look
Everywhere there's a face
Of somebody who needs you
When you're lost out there and you're all alone
A light is waiting to carry you home
Everywhere you look."
Ahhh. The good ol' days.
I remember there was an episode where Uncle Jesse was preparing to go to a cocktail party with his fiance Becky, and he was intimidated by all of the "smart people" who were sure to be attending. To give his intelligence (and ego) a boost, he gathers a multitude of literature and begins to "read."
In order to get through all of them in the short amount of time he has, he vows to read the first and last sentence of each book.
Picking up A Tale of Two Cities, he reads aloud, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." Flipping to the last page, he recites, "It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done."
He chuckles and remarks flatly, "Wow. Surprise ending." The laughtrack is cued and they go about solving their problems in the half hour allotted.
It wasn't until I got to my senior English class and actually read the book that I realized how ironic this part of the show was because it is, in fact, a surprise ending (and a tearjerker, I might add).
But of course he didn't get that from reading two sentences in the book. How could he understand? He had completely bypassed the story.
My family is awful about trying to guess endings to movies and television shows. As soon as we hear that there's a "surprise" or a "twist," my mom especially picks through her brain and announces her guesses to the rest of the viewing party before the opening credits have begun to roll...
"She's gonna get together with him."
"He's gonna die."
"He's already dead."
My dad will groan and moan and tell her to quit guessing because it ruins the suspense. When, inevitably, one of her theories proves true, she sits back in her chair with a satisfied grin and says, "I knew it."
Isn't it that way when we try to guess what the future will hold?
People visit fortune-tellers, read tarot cards, shake a magic 8-ball because the suspense is killing them. They want to be prepared for what's coming. They want to know what's coming.
But...what if you could know the future? What if you could read the last sentence of the book that is your life? Would you be content? Would it ruin the surprise?
Or, like Uncle Jesse, would you even understand it?
For almost a year now, I've been stuck in a chapter of my life that I've been praying will end. Now. Now. Now. Page turn after page turn, and the main character continues to be deeply flawed and stuck at a fork in the road between bitterness and acceptance.
Frankly, I would love nothing more than to flip to the end of the chapter to see what happens. Where will I go? What will I do? Who will I become?
How will all of this resolve?
And wouldn't you know it? After patiently waiting to find some redeeming quality to the story, well, by golly, here comes a twist...
I've written at length about how difficult it has been to watch the pregnant women in my life as they grow and plan for their upcoming ventures as new moms. One in particular was extremely hard for me to accept. It was horrible, awful, could-not-have-been-worse timing, and it left me with an unfortunate bitterness that persisted for most of her pregnancy. I'm not proud of it. But there was so much anger, so much resentment, so much yuck that went into it that my heart could barely handle the sting.
Only my mother and my husband truly know the depth of pain that I felt throughout her pregnancy.
It wasn't until a week or two before her due date that we actually opened up to this couple, aired our dirty laundry, and came together with empathy, understanding, and true fellowship. The meeting that we shared was divine in nature and just what I needed.
And wouldn't you know it...
As the Lord would have it, I got to be there with them the day their baby was born. I got to watch them become parents, the excitement and anticipation scribbled all across their faces, their inexplicable joy when they finally saw the lovely face they had waited months for.
And I was the first to hold.
There's so much I wish I could share but won't for certain reasons, but I just kept thinking, Wow. I could never have dreamt up this part of the story. I could never have imagined it.
You know why?
Because He's such a good storyteller. And if we will be patient enough to sit and listen, instead of interrupting him constantly to try and figure out the ending, we can revel in, marvel at, and truly appreciate the incredible stories He weaves.
I wouldn't have understood if I had looked ahead for a peek at what was to come. But because I haven't bypassed the story, I do. I get it. I get it. What seemed like horrible, awful, could-not-have-been-worse timing turned out, remarkably, to be perfect timing.
So gather in a circle, sit cross-legged, and listen closely. I can tell, this story's going to be a good one.
And remember, no peeking...
"Many are the plans in a man's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails." ~Proverbs 19:21
"Whatever happened to predictability
The milk man, the paper boy, the evening TV,
You miss your old familiar friends, but
Waiting just around the bend...
Everywhere you look,
Everywhere there's a heart (there's a heart)
A hand to hold onto
Everywhere you look
Everywhere there's a face
Of somebody who needs you
When you're lost out there and you're all alone
A light is waiting to carry you home
Everywhere you look."
Ahhh. The good ol' days.
I remember there was an episode where Uncle Jesse was preparing to go to a cocktail party with his fiance Becky, and he was intimidated by all of the "smart people" who were sure to be attending. To give his intelligence (and ego) a boost, he gathers a multitude of literature and begins to "read."
In order to get through all of them in the short amount of time he has, he vows to read the first and last sentence of each book.
Picking up A Tale of Two Cities, he reads aloud, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." Flipping to the last page, he recites, "It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done."
He chuckles and remarks flatly, "Wow. Surprise ending." The laughtrack is cued and they go about solving their problems in the half hour allotted.
It wasn't until I got to my senior English class and actually read the book that I realized how ironic this part of the show was because it is, in fact, a surprise ending (and a tearjerker, I might add).
But of course he didn't get that from reading two sentences in the book. How could he understand? He had completely bypassed the story.
My family is awful about trying to guess endings to movies and television shows. As soon as we hear that there's a "surprise" or a "twist," my mom especially picks through her brain and announces her guesses to the rest of the viewing party before the opening credits have begun to roll...
"She's gonna get together with him."
"He's gonna die."
"He's already dead."
My dad will groan and moan and tell her to quit guessing because it ruins the suspense. When, inevitably, one of her theories proves true, she sits back in her chair with a satisfied grin and says, "I knew it."
Isn't it that way when we try to guess what the future will hold?
People visit fortune-tellers, read tarot cards, shake a magic 8-ball because the suspense is killing them. They want to be prepared for what's coming. They want to know what's coming.
But...what if you could know the future? What if you could read the last sentence of the book that is your life? Would you be content? Would it ruin the surprise?
Or, like Uncle Jesse, would you even understand it?
For almost a year now, I've been stuck in a chapter of my life that I've been praying will end. Now. Now. Now. Page turn after page turn, and the main character continues to be deeply flawed and stuck at a fork in the road between bitterness and acceptance.
Frankly, I would love nothing more than to flip to the end of the chapter to see what happens. Where will I go? What will I do? Who will I become?
How will all of this resolve?
And wouldn't you know it? After patiently waiting to find some redeeming quality to the story, well, by golly, here comes a twist...
I've written at length about how difficult it has been to watch the pregnant women in my life as they grow and plan for their upcoming ventures as new moms. One in particular was extremely hard for me to accept. It was horrible, awful, could-not-have-been-worse timing, and it left me with an unfortunate bitterness that persisted for most of her pregnancy. I'm not proud of it. But there was so much anger, so much resentment, so much yuck that went into it that my heart could barely handle the sting.
Only my mother and my husband truly know the depth of pain that I felt throughout her pregnancy.
It wasn't until a week or two before her due date that we actually opened up to this couple, aired our dirty laundry, and came together with empathy, understanding, and true fellowship. The meeting that we shared was divine in nature and just what I needed.
And wouldn't you know it...
As the Lord would have it, I got to be there with them the day their baby was born. I got to watch them become parents, the excitement and anticipation scribbled all across their faces, their inexplicable joy when they finally saw the lovely face they had waited months for.
And I was the first to hold.
There's so much I wish I could share but won't for certain reasons, but I just kept thinking, Wow. I could never have dreamt up this part of the story. I could never have imagined it.
You know why?
Because He's such a good storyteller. And if we will be patient enough to sit and listen, instead of interrupting him constantly to try and figure out the ending, we can revel in, marvel at, and truly appreciate the incredible stories He weaves.
I wouldn't have understood if I had looked ahead for a peek at what was to come. But because I haven't bypassed the story, I do. I get it. I get it. What seemed like horrible, awful, could-not-have-been-worse timing turned out, remarkably, to be perfect timing.
So gather in a circle, sit cross-legged, and listen closely. I can tell, this story's going to be a good one.
And remember, no peeking...
"Many are the plans in a man's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails." ~Proverbs 19:21
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Roots
I definitely don't have a green thumb. In fact, I think my thumb shoots out poison that kills any plants within a ten-mile radius.
It's sad, really.
When we moved into our house in November, the developer was kind enough to start us out with some landscaping. Nothing fancy, just a few shrubs, bushes, and one tree. And they covered it in that awful Georgia pine. If you've ever tried to plant or pull weeds in Georgia pine, you know that it's like sticking your palms in a knife drawer. Because I'm so smart (read: ditzy), it took me a couple of times to figure out that you need to wear strong gloves when you're messing with it.
Once the weather got warmer, we decided to improve our curb appeal. We ditched the Georgia pine for some luscious midnight black mulch, and I picked out a couple of Gerber daisies to plant along the front of the house.
A few days later, one of the Gerber daisies was missing. Dru told me he thinks a deer ate it. (P.S., I haven't seen one deer since we moved out here. I think he just didn't want to tell me that my poisonous non-green thumb killed it.)
Because pulling weeds became too tedious, he bought weed-killer spray, and unfortunately, he missed and sprayed all of our ground cover. They shriveled and turned brown. Desperate to keep something alive, I sat there on a humid Saturday afternoon and pruned every last one of those plants down to the nub, which was the only green part of them left. The plants didn't just subsequently die, I'm pretty sure the earth opened up and swallowed them, because there were no traces of them to be found.
We really stink at gardening.
As the brutal summer heat wore on, we vowed to somewhat give up on our gardening until the fall, when things were more likely to survive. But poor Dru couldn't stand the sight of our naked, shriveled lawn any longer, spending an afternoon at Home Depot shopping for new ground cover.
But a curious thing happened as he started planting that afternoon...
One of our little plants had decided it wasn't over yet. Not yet.
After realizing it wasn't a weed, Dru let me know that one of our little plants had come back. I asked him if any of the others had shown signs of returning, and he told me no. That was the only one.
Wow. That little plant must have some strong roots.
He thought about digging it up and planting a brand new one, but we decided that no. It's come this far; why don't we see what it can do?
Maybe you feel like one of our plants today. Maybe you feel like you've been sprayed to death; the heat's too much; there's no way, no reason you should keep growing.
You see others around you, just like you, and they've quit. They gave up.
But no. Not you. You've got some roots. Strong roots. No matter how much the world tries to make sure you're stunted, well I'll be if you don't continue to stick around.
Not even just stick around. My goodness, look how you've grown.
You may not feel it. Maybe you aren't as grown and pretty as everyone else, but you certainly stand out. Come on. Keep going. Don't give up.
Let's see what you can do. Let's see what He can do.
"The righteous shall flourish like a palm tree, He shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon. Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God. They shall still bear fruit in old age; they shall be fresh and flourishing." ~Psalm 92:12-14
It's sad, really.
When we moved into our house in November, the developer was kind enough to start us out with some landscaping. Nothing fancy, just a few shrubs, bushes, and one tree. And they covered it in that awful Georgia pine. If you've ever tried to plant or pull weeds in Georgia pine, you know that it's like sticking your palms in a knife drawer. Because I'm so smart (read: ditzy), it took me a couple of times to figure out that you need to wear strong gloves when you're messing with it.
Once the weather got warmer, we decided to improve our curb appeal. We ditched the Georgia pine for some luscious midnight black mulch, and I picked out a couple of Gerber daisies to plant along the front of the house.
A few days later, one of the Gerber daisies was missing. Dru told me he thinks a deer ate it. (P.S., I haven't seen one deer since we moved out here. I think he just didn't want to tell me that my poisonous non-green thumb killed it.)
Because pulling weeds became too tedious, he bought weed-killer spray, and unfortunately, he missed and sprayed all of our ground cover. They shriveled and turned brown. Desperate to keep something alive, I sat there on a humid Saturday afternoon and pruned every last one of those plants down to the nub, which was the only green part of them left. The plants didn't just subsequently die, I'm pretty sure the earth opened up and swallowed them, because there were no traces of them to be found.
We really stink at gardening.
As the brutal summer heat wore on, we vowed to somewhat give up on our gardening until the fall, when things were more likely to survive. But poor Dru couldn't stand the sight of our naked, shriveled lawn any longer, spending an afternoon at Home Depot shopping for new ground cover.
But a curious thing happened as he started planting that afternoon...
One of our little plants had decided it wasn't over yet. Not yet.
After realizing it wasn't a weed, Dru let me know that one of our little plants had come back. I asked him if any of the others had shown signs of returning, and he told me no. That was the only one.
Wow. That little plant must have some strong roots.
He thought about digging it up and planting a brand new one, but we decided that no. It's come this far; why don't we see what it can do?
Maybe you feel like one of our plants today. Maybe you feel like you've been sprayed to death; the heat's too much; there's no way, no reason you should keep growing.
You see others around you, just like you, and they've quit. They gave up.
But no. Not you. You've got some roots. Strong roots. No matter how much the world tries to make sure you're stunted, well I'll be if you don't continue to stick around.
Not even just stick around. My goodness, look how you've grown.
You may not feel it. Maybe you aren't as grown and pretty as everyone else, but you certainly stand out. Come on. Keep going. Don't give up.
Let's see what you can do. Let's see what He can do.
"The righteous shall flourish like a palm tree, He shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon. Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God. They shall still bear fruit in old age; they shall be fresh and flourishing." ~Psalm 92:12-14
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Hear Me Out...
Okay. Deep breath.
Let's get back to basics.
This past week, it was made known to me that people have been..."talking about my blog." Okay. Great, I think.
No. Not great.
Despite the excitement I had developed over the birth of this blog and how it has helped me to cope, I was told that several posts had people...concerned.
I want all of you out there who have expressed this sentiment to know this:
I. Am. Okay.
Really. Really.
But I guess that some things need to be clarified before anymore posts get written. I want those of you who read and care to hear me out and hear my heart.
Okay, here goes...
1. Contrary to popular belief, I do not--I repeat, DO NOT--hate pregnant women. Have you picked your jaw up off the floor yet? I know that it seems hard to believe, but I really don't. I love pregnancy; I think it's a beautiful God-given experience, and it's a big reason why I chose to enter the field of nursing that I did. Because of the sheer volume of pregnant women in my life at the moment (and given my circumstances), it's tough because I so envy this beautiful God-given experience. Gosh, it's wonderful, and I'd love to be able to join in. But just because I write tongue-in-cheek statements or posts (see "Top Ten Reasons," if you dare), I hope that you will take them with a grain of salt. I use humor to cope with tough things.
And if you read a post and wonder if it's about you, there's a really good chance it isn't. I had heard that a new mom was truly upset at a post that I had written because she felt it was about her, and it wasn't. Sometimes, they aren't about anyone in particular at all. There's a reason I don't use names. Remember...there are more than twenty women in my life who are expecting. There's a good chance you're nowhere in here.
But really, I don't hate you. I care about this special time in your life, even though I'm often inept at showing that. When your baby comes, I will probably ooh and aah and coo and giggle and marvel at what a great job you did. Be excited for yourself and don't pay my pregnancy statements any mind.
2. Hard and heavy posts don't indicate a perpetual mindset. When I started writing about my experience with pregnancy loss, I wasn't drawn to journal when I was having one of my better days. I was and am still often drawn to journal when I'm having one of my hard days. Note that "intense" posts (see "Big Boys Don't Cry" and "Crash and Burn") aren't posted every day. I imagine that posts like these are what provoke the "concern," but I hope it comes across that even the darkest and hardest entries end with some sort of hopeful or positive note.
I do not live in a state that calls to mind the mood of "Crash and Burn;" those feelings have actually become fewer and farther between. There are days--can you believe it?--where I laugh my head off, dance across our bonus room, sing at the top of my lungs, smile until my cheeks hurt. I am able to fully grieve some days and fully rejoice in my newlywed life other days. So because I choose to share about a hard day with you does not mean that all day I have been sitting in a corner in my bedroom in the fetal position with the lights out singing Kumbaya as I cry myself to sleep. I mean, come on. I've only done that twice...
3. I'm willing to be open and honest if it can help someone. In the days after our second miscarriage, I was directed to Angie Smith's blog "Bring the Rain." And oh my gosh, her writing was so precious to me. I clung to her words. I clung to her lessons, to her pain, to her hurts, to her frustration. She got it. She understood. The feelings I felt no longer seemed abnormal or out of place. And as I began to write about my own experiences, that feedback within the first day was so affirming. I got thank you messages for writing and attempting to help others to become more aware of the pain that accompanies a struggle to have kids.
I'm not naive enough to think that I'm everyone's cup of tea or that everyone processes or grieves the way I do. But I hope you won't be naive enough to think that these feelings are rare. Women have talked to me who miscarried decades ago, and they tell me how they still think of the ones they lost. It sticks with you. So, I will keep being open and honest about my feelings, not to please you or even to give you something juicy to read. I'm doing it just in case there's a girl just like me out there searching for someone who gets it. Who understands. Who isn't afraid to talk about the hard stuff. And I hope that somehow, some way, maybe it will be of comfort to her.
4. I don't want to be a "fair-weather Christian." It drives me nuts when people get what they want in life, and then they're able to talk about how wonderful the Lord is, to praise Him, to spread the news of His goodness. It's easy to praise Him when things are easy. It's harder to praise Him when things are hard. I want this difficult time to be a season of spiritual growth for me, and I want to learn to praise Him, even when the clouds haven't passed. Even when it's still dark. Even when it's pouring. You can still praise Him when things are hard, it's just harder to do it. I'm trying so hard to learn how to do that, and I want for you to come along the journey with me and to learn from my mistakes.
I don't relate well to people who haven't experienced "hard stuff." Maybe some people do, but I don't. Growing up in church, the testimonies that stuck with me, the ones that were hard-hitting and powerful, were ones where a huge life change had occurred. It was amazing to see someone like a former alcoholic, drug user, atheist had come to know the Lord. The parable was called "The Prodigal Son" for a reason; no one would have cared if it was called "The Prodigal Son's Brother Who Stayed At Home And Never Did Anything Wrong Ever." I hope that sharing this experience will help you relate to me in some way because I get it. I get what it's like to have things not go the way you want.
But it's okay. We're going to make it. I can feel it. We're going to make it out of here alive.
This is a lot, I know. But I wanted to be able to speak from my heart and let you know that I don't want this experience to get the better of me. My writing is how I cope, how I process, and I'm watching God use it to mold me into whatever He wants me to be. There will probably still be days where you'll see an intense post or two, but know that I'm still okay.
Really. Really.
And I'm hoping that now the only thing anybody's concerned about is if I actually ever sang Kumbaya in the fetal position...
Let's get back to basics.
This past week, it was made known to me that people have been..."talking about my blog." Okay. Great, I think.
No. Not great.
Despite the excitement I had developed over the birth of this blog and how it has helped me to cope, I was told that several posts had people...concerned.
I want all of you out there who have expressed this sentiment to know this:
I. Am. Okay.
Really. Really.
But I guess that some things need to be clarified before anymore posts get written. I want those of you who read and care to hear me out and hear my heart.
Okay, here goes...
1. Contrary to popular belief, I do not--I repeat, DO NOT--hate pregnant women. Have you picked your jaw up off the floor yet? I know that it seems hard to believe, but I really don't. I love pregnancy; I think it's a beautiful God-given experience, and it's a big reason why I chose to enter the field of nursing that I did. Because of the sheer volume of pregnant women in my life at the moment (and given my circumstances), it's tough because I so envy this beautiful God-given experience. Gosh, it's wonderful, and I'd love to be able to join in. But just because I write tongue-in-cheek statements or posts (see "Top Ten Reasons," if you dare), I hope that you will take them with a grain of salt. I use humor to cope with tough things.
And if you read a post and wonder if it's about you, there's a really good chance it isn't. I had heard that a new mom was truly upset at a post that I had written because she felt it was about her, and it wasn't. Sometimes, they aren't about anyone in particular at all. There's a reason I don't use names. Remember...there are more than twenty women in my life who are expecting. There's a good chance you're nowhere in here.
But really, I don't hate you. I care about this special time in your life, even though I'm often inept at showing that. When your baby comes, I will probably ooh and aah and coo and giggle and marvel at what a great job you did. Be excited for yourself and don't pay my pregnancy statements any mind.
2. Hard and heavy posts don't indicate a perpetual mindset. When I started writing about my experience with pregnancy loss, I wasn't drawn to journal when I was having one of my better days. I was and am still often drawn to journal when I'm having one of my hard days. Note that "intense" posts (see "Big Boys Don't Cry" and "Crash and Burn") aren't posted every day. I imagine that posts like these are what provoke the "concern," but I hope it comes across that even the darkest and hardest entries end with some sort of hopeful or positive note.
I do not live in a state that calls to mind the mood of "Crash and Burn;" those feelings have actually become fewer and farther between. There are days--can you believe it?--where I laugh my head off, dance across our bonus room, sing at the top of my lungs, smile until my cheeks hurt. I am able to fully grieve some days and fully rejoice in my newlywed life other days. So because I choose to share about a hard day with you does not mean that all day I have been sitting in a corner in my bedroom in the fetal position with the lights out singing Kumbaya as I cry myself to sleep. I mean, come on. I've only done that twice...
3. I'm willing to be open and honest if it can help someone. In the days after our second miscarriage, I was directed to Angie Smith's blog "Bring the Rain." And oh my gosh, her writing was so precious to me. I clung to her words. I clung to her lessons, to her pain, to her hurts, to her frustration. She got it. She understood. The feelings I felt no longer seemed abnormal or out of place. And as I began to write about my own experiences, that feedback within the first day was so affirming. I got thank you messages for writing and attempting to help others to become more aware of the pain that accompanies a struggle to have kids.
I'm not naive enough to think that I'm everyone's cup of tea or that everyone processes or grieves the way I do. But I hope you won't be naive enough to think that these feelings are rare. Women have talked to me who miscarried decades ago, and they tell me how they still think of the ones they lost. It sticks with you. So, I will keep being open and honest about my feelings, not to please you or even to give you something juicy to read. I'm doing it just in case there's a girl just like me out there searching for someone who gets it. Who understands. Who isn't afraid to talk about the hard stuff. And I hope that somehow, some way, maybe it will be of comfort to her.
4. I don't want to be a "fair-weather Christian." It drives me nuts when people get what they want in life, and then they're able to talk about how wonderful the Lord is, to praise Him, to spread the news of His goodness. It's easy to praise Him when things are easy. It's harder to praise Him when things are hard. I want this difficult time to be a season of spiritual growth for me, and I want to learn to praise Him, even when the clouds haven't passed. Even when it's still dark. Even when it's pouring. You can still praise Him when things are hard, it's just harder to do it. I'm trying so hard to learn how to do that, and I want for you to come along the journey with me and to learn from my mistakes.
I don't relate well to people who haven't experienced "hard stuff." Maybe some people do, but I don't. Growing up in church, the testimonies that stuck with me, the ones that were hard-hitting and powerful, were ones where a huge life change had occurred. It was amazing to see someone like a former alcoholic, drug user, atheist had come to know the Lord. The parable was called "The Prodigal Son" for a reason; no one would have cared if it was called "The Prodigal Son's Brother Who Stayed At Home And Never Did Anything Wrong Ever." I hope that sharing this experience will help you relate to me in some way because I get it. I get what it's like to have things not go the way you want.
But it's okay. We're going to make it. I can feel it. We're going to make it out of here alive.
This is a lot, I know. But I wanted to be able to speak from my heart and let you know that I don't want this experience to get the better of me. My writing is how I cope, how I process, and I'm watching God use it to mold me into whatever He wants me to be. There will probably still be days where you'll see an intense post or two, but know that I'm still okay.
Really. Really.
And I'm hoping that now the only thing anybody's concerned about is if I actually ever sang Kumbaya in the fetal position...
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
2 Big Reasons To Smile
I dumped a lot of tough feelings and thoughts on you the other night, and I want to thank those of you who sent me messages of encouragement, telling me you are praying for me. I'm so grateful for those who continue to visit the blog--it brings more encouragement than you could know when people tell me they've been reading.
Thanks to your prayers, I am feeling much better today and choosing not to dwell on the negative aspects of the moment. All things considered, my life is pretty wonderful, and I'm thankful the Lord has blessed us as He has.
Today, I am looking at the precious things I have, two of which were snuggled next to me this morning...
Thanks to your prayers, I am feeling much better today and choosing not to dwell on the negative aspects of the moment. All things considered, my life is pretty wonderful, and I'm thankful the Lord has blessed us as He has.
Today, I am looking at the precious things I have, two of which were snuggled next to me this morning...
They are so stinking silly and so stinking cute, and I just can't help but smile when I look at them. So, in the spirit of choosing to smile today, I've selected some of my favorite pictures of my silly stinkers. I hope that they will bring a smile to your face, too.
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| Yes, that's her tongue...we call this her "doober face." |
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| 3 reasons to smile :) |
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| There are more pictures of Zoey because she is such a ham! |
Hope everyone has a wonderful rest of the day.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Crash and Burn
Crinkling sand beneath my warm toes, I listened to the waves as they smashed against the beach. Breathing a deep inspiration of therapeutic, salty air, I exhaled the troubles that had wound my nerves so intricately for the past several months.
Ahh. This is the life, I thought. Miles from frustration; ages from pain; far from worry.
It was sweltering hot, and with perspiration dripping heavily from my chlorine-soaked ponytail, I stepped lightly to refresh my feet in the ocean water. The tide bathed and tickled my toes, and because of the brutal heat, my body begged me to venture further out for a cool dip.
The waves, which had originally lapped sweetly against my ankles, began to vigorously charge against me as I waded deeper and deeper. As long as I could see the waves coming, I could brace myself for their strength. But when I turned my back to the approaching tide, the force felt stronger. Harder.
I couldn't tell where or when they'd be coming. The deeper I got, the faster they hit. The harder they got, the weaker I realized I was. Some were so strong that they knocked me over. Some knocked me under.
One. After the other. After the other. Until I briefly questioned, "Will I ever regain my footing? Will I drown here?"
I think it's only fair for those of you who have accompanied me on this journey to hear the "real stuff" that I go through in this grief. Yes, I've been trying desperately to make lemonade from this sour season, but you know what? It would be wrong of me to lead you to believe that every time I have a setback, my first thought is, "Well, golly gee whiz. What valuable lesson can I learn today?"
This isn't Mr. Rogers' neighborhood.
Sometimes, I find that I can move to a place like this quickly. But, folks, it isn't always that simple.
Exhibit A? Let's journey to yesterday morning...
Sunday morning. The alarm sings to let us know that it's time to get up for Sunday School. To be honest, it's a struggle every week over whether or not we'll go. Not because we don't love the class.
Our class roster has quickly become a list of nothing but parents and parents-to-be. It's a fairly small, intimate class, so it's impossible to hide in the crowd, and I often find myself wedged between a rock and a hard place...or a pregnant belly and an even bigger pregnant belly. Two of my classmates are set to deliver in the next month or so. A third pregnancy was announced two Sundays ago. We were one of three couples left who weren't expecting.
So let's drop a bomb, shall we?
All morning, Dru kept telling me that he had a funny feeling; like we shouldn't go that morning. It had been a bit of a tough weekend (Saturday was my second due date, and of course we paused with grief), but I pish-poshed his concerns. For some reason, my stomach was in knots the whole ride there.
As usual, we were running a few minutes late but made it just in time for prayer requests. My last shining hope of a non-mom-to-be eagerly raised her hand.
"I have a prayer request...and a praise..." she began.
My heart fluttered. My fine-tuned, bitter, infertile eye scanned her for a tell-tale bump.
"We have a doctor's appointment this week..."
No, please, dear Lord, no...I feel a wave coming, but I can't see it...it's a big one...
"Because we're thirteen-and-a-half weeks expecting!"
She looked right at me when she said it. Right. At. Me. My face was numb. I heard nothing after. But as I looked around at my classmates, I realized I was the only wife who wasn't pregnant.
With a stupid look on my face, I sat there. Frozen. My ears bleeding from the news. I carefully faced Dru and whispered, "We need to leave. Now." We stayed through the prayer, but as Dru gripped my hand as our leader prayed "...and bless this new life, Lord...," my body started to shake, violently rejecting the news.
We hauled tail at the sigh of an "Amen." As quickly as we had arrived, we were out of there. Dru started the car angrily, and we began to weave in and out of nearby neighborhoods. He talked incessantly of shrubs and landscaping (it's become his "safe place"), and me?
I yelled.
One by one, I named them--those who had announced a pregnancy or had a baby in the last nine months. The girls at work...our sister-in-law...our Sunday School classmates...this girl from Facebook...that girl from Facebook...those six neighbors of ours...
It added up to more than twenty. Twenty.
When I think about that number, I think my head will explode. Really. If you're scratching your head incredulously at my undying frustration, that's okay. I'm thankful you don't understand. But if you've been where we are--even a little bit--I'll bet you get it.
And as much as I want to be a "good Christian girl" and respond how I know I should, this sucks.
It's overwhelming, and it sucks. And you know what? As we drove around yesterday, I did something I haven't done in a very long time. I questioned everything I believe in.
It is possible that even as a follower of Christ, even though you're searching for His promises, His grace, His mercy, His goodness...you may not feel it. You can find it, but you may not feel it.
I spouted off vile things. That God doesn't see me. That He has forgotten about us. That He must not want us to have a baby. That He just flat out doesn't care because if He did, then it wouldn't hurt this much. I cursed the fact that He was asking this much of me. While so many others have it so easy, He's making it hard for us. Everytime a wave comes, He doesn't let me get my breath before another sends me crashing to the bottom.
Stop it, God. Stop!! Give me a break already. I need a break. If He is so great and good and wonderful, why won't He come save me from this pain? Enough already!
I just couldn't feel Him. And because I couldn't feel Him, because He was letting me drown, I doubted that this whole experience was nothing more than a reason to put us down.
In my heart of hearts, I know this isn't the truth. I know that. But what you feel can make what you know seem like a farce. When they don't seem to match up, emotions can override what you know to be true.
But as I picture how I must have looked to my Father--pitching a fit, screaming at Him, attempting to claw free from His steadfast grip--I imagine that, just like a Daddy does when His daughter falls and hurts herself, He has me sitting on a kitchen counter examining my wounds.
Kindly, He takes my hand. Yeah. They're pretty deep. They're ugly.
And while I wipe my teary eyes, hoping that it will take nothing but a kiss to soothe the pain, He pulls out a cleanser to wash over my wounds.
But it burns. It hurts. It feels awful. Because it hurts, I doubt what He's doing. It must not be working right.
"My child," He says lovingly, "this will help. I know it hurts, but this is going to make you better."
Instead of trusting that He knows what's right, that He knows what I need, I kick and scream and doubt that He who created my inmost being isn't giving me what I need.
He is. It just isn't the way that I want. I want the kiss. I don't want the burn.
Friends, I'm sitting on the counter getting my wounds cleansed tonight. It's terribly unpleasant. I'm kicking, screaming, and crying. And I don't want it to have to be this way. But I ask, I beg, that you pray for me and my ugly, wounded body, and that I'll surrender it to the Healer--the One Who gives me what I need and not what I want.
Yeah, the Doctor is in, and even though He's working on me tonight, He's open to new patients.
Need an appointment? I'm sure He'll see you next...
Ahh. This is the life, I thought. Miles from frustration; ages from pain; far from worry.
It was sweltering hot, and with perspiration dripping heavily from my chlorine-soaked ponytail, I stepped lightly to refresh my feet in the ocean water. The tide bathed and tickled my toes, and because of the brutal heat, my body begged me to venture further out for a cool dip.
The waves, which had originally lapped sweetly against my ankles, began to vigorously charge against me as I waded deeper and deeper. As long as I could see the waves coming, I could brace myself for their strength. But when I turned my back to the approaching tide, the force felt stronger. Harder.
I couldn't tell where or when they'd be coming. The deeper I got, the faster they hit. The harder they got, the weaker I realized I was. Some were so strong that they knocked me over. Some knocked me under.
One. After the other. After the other. Until I briefly questioned, "Will I ever regain my footing? Will I drown here?"
I think it's only fair for those of you who have accompanied me on this journey to hear the "real stuff" that I go through in this grief. Yes, I've been trying desperately to make lemonade from this sour season, but you know what? It would be wrong of me to lead you to believe that every time I have a setback, my first thought is, "Well, golly gee whiz. What valuable lesson can I learn today?"
This isn't Mr. Rogers' neighborhood.
Sometimes, I find that I can move to a place like this quickly. But, folks, it isn't always that simple.
Exhibit A? Let's journey to yesterday morning...
Sunday morning. The alarm sings to let us know that it's time to get up for Sunday School. To be honest, it's a struggle every week over whether or not we'll go. Not because we don't love the class.
Our class roster has quickly become a list of nothing but parents and parents-to-be. It's a fairly small, intimate class, so it's impossible to hide in the crowd, and I often find myself wedged between a rock and a hard place...or a pregnant belly and an even bigger pregnant belly. Two of my classmates are set to deliver in the next month or so. A third pregnancy was announced two Sundays ago. We were one of three couples left who weren't expecting.
So let's drop a bomb, shall we?
All morning, Dru kept telling me that he had a funny feeling; like we shouldn't go that morning. It had been a bit of a tough weekend (Saturday was my second due date, and of course we paused with grief), but I pish-poshed his concerns. For some reason, my stomach was in knots the whole ride there.
As usual, we were running a few minutes late but made it just in time for prayer requests. My last shining hope of a non-mom-to-be eagerly raised her hand.
"I have a prayer request...and a praise..." she began.
My heart fluttered. My fine-tuned, bitter, infertile eye scanned her for a tell-tale bump.
"We have a doctor's appointment this week..."
No, please, dear Lord, no...I feel a wave coming, but I can't see it...it's a big one...
"Because we're thirteen-and-a-half weeks expecting!"
She looked right at me when she said it. Right. At. Me. My face was numb. I heard nothing after. But as I looked around at my classmates, I realized I was the only wife who wasn't pregnant.
With a stupid look on my face, I sat there. Frozen. My ears bleeding from the news. I carefully faced Dru and whispered, "We need to leave. Now." We stayed through the prayer, but as Dru gripped my hand as our leader prayed "...and bless this new life, Lord...," my body started to shake, violently rejecting the news.
We hauled tail at the sigh of an "Amen." As quickly as we had arrived, we were out of there. Dru started the car angrily, and we began to weave in and out of nearby neighborhoods. He talked incessantly of shrubs and landscaping (it's become his "safe place"), and me?
I yelled.
One by one, I named them--those who had announced a pregnancy or had a baby in the last nine months. The girls at work...our sister-in-law...our Sunday School classmates...this girl from Facebook...that girl from Facebook...those six neighbors of ours...
It added up to more than twenty. Twenty.
When I think about that number, I think my head will explode. Really. If you're scratching your head incredulously at my undying frustration, that's okay. I'm thankful you don't understand. But if you've been where we are--even a little bit--I'll bet you get it.
And as much as I want to be a "good Christian girl" and respond how I know I should, this sucks.
It's overwhelming, and it sucks. And you know what? As we drove around yesterday, I did something I haven't done in a very long time. I questioned everything I believe in.
It is possible that even as a follower of Christ, even though you're searching for His promises, His grace, His mercy, His goodness...you may not feel it. You can find it, but you may not feel it.
I spouted off vile things. That God doesn't see me. That He has forgotten about us. That He must not want us to have a baby. That He just flat out doesn't care because if He did, then it wouldn't hurt this much. I cursed the fact that He was asking this much of me. While so many others have it so easy, He's making it hard for us. Everytime a wave comes, He doesn't let me get my breath before another sends me crashing to the bottom.
Stop it, God. Stop!! Give me a break already. I need a break. If He is so great and good and wonderful, why won't He come save me from this pain? Enough already!
I just couldn't feel Him. And because I couldn't feel Him, because He was letting me drown, I doubted that this whole experience was nothing more than a reason to put us down.
In my heart of hearts, I know this isn't the truth. I know that. But what you feel can make what you know seem like a farce. When they don't seem to match up, emotions can override what you know to be true.
But as I picture how I must have looked to my Father--pitching a fit, screaming at Him, attempting to claw free from His steadfast grip--I imagine that, just like a Daddy does when His daughter falls and hurts herself, He has me sitting on a kitchen counter examining my wounds.
Kindly, He takes my hand. Yeah. They're pretty deep. They're ugly.
And while I wipe my teary eyes, hoping that it will take nothing but a kiss to soothe the pain, He pulls out a cleanser to wash over my wounds.
But it burns. It hurts. It feels awful. Because it hurts, I doubt what He's doing. It must not be working right.
"My child," He says lovingly, "this will help. I know it hurts, but this is going to make you better."
Instead of trusting that He knows what's right, that He knows what I need, I kick and scream and doubt that He who created my inmost being isn't giving me what I need.
He is. It just isn't the way that I want. I want the kiss. I don't want the burn.
Friends, I'm sitting on the counter getting my wounds cleansed tonight. It's terribly unpleasant. I'm kicking, screaming, and crying. And I don't want it to have to be this way. But I ask, I beg, that you pray for me and my ugly, wounded body, and that I'll surrender it to the Healer--the One Who gives me what I need and not what I want.
Yeah, the Doctor is in, and even though He's working on me tonight, He's open to new patients.
Need an appointment? I'm sure He'll see you next...
Thursday, July 21, 2011
It Could Have Ended Here
It could have been the most memorable day of our lives.
Perhaps I would have woken in the middle of the night, much like they do in the movies, to the discomfort of ever-increasing contractions, perhaps my water having broken.
Maybe I would have shaken Dru to wake him, telling him anxiously, "I think it's time."
I'm sure he would have stumbled around nervously for the car keys, our overnight bags, maybe a quick bite of breakfast before loading my very pregnant self into the car. We probably would have run red lights, sped consciously, woven through traffic. He would have asked me constantly how I was feeling, rubbed my belly, told me how much he loved me. That he couldn't wait to be a father.
I could have been settled in a spacious room surrounded by excited family, eager grandparents. Staff might have asked repeatedly, "Is this your first?" followed by congratulatory sentiments and well wishes.
And then, when they would have told me it was time to push, butterflies would have sprung in my gut.
The moment I have been waiting for could have been within reach.
And when they would have told me that she was here--a girl--I would have looked at Dru and wept with an overwhelming sense of joy.
She could have been here.
I could have seen her face. I could have held her. Touched her fingers. Kissed her cheeks.
I like to think that maybe she had her daddy's blonde hair and big, sparkling eyes.
Sarah. It could have fit her. Maybe she would have looked like a Sarah.
My second pregnancy could have ended here. In an overjoyed hospital room. In a healthy newborn. In a happy ending.
But it didn't. It ended months ago in a cold hospital room. In a lost dream. In tears.
Saturday was my second due date, and we are mourning the fact that our sweet Sarah isn't with us. Our memories of her will only ever be limited to a positive pregnancy test and a couple of doctor's visits.
Our arms feel extra empty this week. But praise Jesus, His arms are extra full.
Sweet Sarah, we loved you from the moment we knew you were with us.
Oh, how we loved you. How we love you still.
We miss you, but we trust that there will be a day...oh, that sweet day...when we can see your face. Hold you. Touch your fingers. Kiss your cheeks.
Until then, we'll be waiting...
Love,
Mama and Daddy
Perhaps I would have woken in the middle of the night, much like they do in the movies, to the discomfort of ever-increasing contractions, perhaps my water having broken.
Maybe I would have shaken Dru to wake him, telling him anxiously, "I think it's time."
I'm sure he would have stumbled around nervously for the car keys, our overnight bags, maybe a quick bite of breakfast before loading my very pregnant self into the car. We probably would have run red lights, sped consciously, woven through traffic. He would have asked me constantly how I was feeling, rubbed my belly, told me how much he loved me. That he couldn't wait to be a father.
I could have been settled in a spacious room surrounded by excited family, eager grandparents. Staff might have asked repeatedly, "Is this your first?" followed by congratulatory sentiments and well wishes.
And then, when they would have told me it was time to push, butterflies would have sprung in my gut.
The moment I have been waiting for could have been within reach.
And when they would have told me that she was here--a girl--I would have looked at Dru and wept with an overwhelming sense of joy.
She could have been here.
I could have seen her face. I could have held her. Touched her fingers. Kissed her cheeks.
I like to think that maybe she had her daddy's blonde hair and big, sparkling eyes.
Sarah. It could have fit her. Maybe she would have looked like a Sarah.
My second pregnancy could have ended here. In an overjoyed hospital room. In a healthy newborn. In a happy ending.
But it didn't. It ended months ago in a cold hospital room. In a lost dream. In tears.
Saturday was my second due date, and we are mourning the fact that our sweet Sarah isn't with us. Our memories of her will only ever be limited to a positive pregnancy test and a couple of doctor's visits.
Our arms feel extra empty this week. But praise Jesus, His arms are extra full.
Sweet Sarah, we loved you from the moment we knew you were with us.
Oh, how we loved you. How we love you still.
We miss you, but we trust that there will be a day...oh, that sweet day...when we can see your face. Hold you. Touch your fingers. Kiss your cheeks.
Until then, we'll be waiting...
Love,
Mama and Daddy
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