My 600-lb. [Christian] Life

Hi.  My name is Chelsea, and I'm addicted to reality TV.

I know, I know.

Ashamedly, I'm one of those who's kept the likes of The Bachelor, Toddlers and Tiaras, and even (gulp) Jersey Shore in business.

I'm aware.  I should know better.  But there's something infinitely fascinating to me about how people live their lives--what they'll say without a script, what they'll do without direction.

Besides...my life is far from entertaining.  I might as well tune in to view what transpires in someone else's...say someone who huffs gasoline hourly or dresses like an adult baby (My Strange Addiction, anyone??).

Enter TLC and their four-part series provocatively titled My 600-lb Life.

It follows four morbidly obese patients over seven years as they undergo gastric bypass surgery and subsequent skin removal surgeries, as well as fend off enabling family members and the ever-present allure of unhealthy food.  Each patient tips the scales at at least 600 lbs., making the surgeries highly risky...yet, in some cases, highly necessary for better chances of long-term survival and improved quality of life.

Meet Melissa before...

...and after.

Her episode was, by far, the most captivating to me.  She began her journey at a whopping 650 lbs. and lost nearly 500 lbs. throughout the course of her treatment.  She battled cruel jokes, a miscarriage, and her husband's infidelity along the way, but her persistence, positivity, and perpetual honesty portrayed her as one of the most successful (and likeable) participants in the series.

If you want (and have the time), I'm including her story from YouTube, but even if you don't watch the whole thing (it's quite long), I do ask that you watch from 51:06 to 52:38, so that you can see one of the things that stuck out most to me.

The scene I'm referring to shows Melissa at one of her darker moments.  Following her second skin removal surgery, she experiences a setback.  She's a prisoner of her hospital bed with wounds that won't heal.  But what truly piqued my interest is why her wounds wouldn't heal.

It was how she was walking.

At this point in her story, she had dropped a considerable amount of numbers on the scale--at least 300 lbs., I believe.

Her weight had changed.  The fit of her clothing had changed.  The way she looked had changed.

But she was walking as though there had been no change.

Her husband and doctor mime the swinging-arm motion she refused to relinquish because she still felt like she was over 600 lbs.

Melissa had taken a number of "right steps"--entrusting herself to a qualified doctor, securing a support system, changing what she put into her body.

But she wasn't going to get and stay better until she committed to walking differently.

Drastic changes can leave our minds and our behaviors feeling like they have to play "catch up."  For instance, how many times have I had to render an "S" into a "C" when I've begun to automatically sign my maiden name since getting married?  Flubbed my new zip code?  Dialed an old phone number?

It's plain and simple, really: old habits die hard.   Our minds become, in a sense, programmed to do things one way, and having to make any sort of alteration can require intense concentration and effort to avoid relapsing into the former way of doing things.

But when it's a welcome change, shouldn't it be easier to break those habits?  I know it took me a LOT less time to get out of the studying habit once I graduated college and passed the NCLEX than it did to adjust to sleeping during the day when I began working night shift.

Melissa's considerable weight loss was a change that excited and thrilled her.  So why was it so hard for her to stop her old way of doing things, especially when it put her health at serious risk?

I could ask myself that same question--spiritually speaking.

Becoming a follower of Christ at the age of six was, by far, the most drastic change that has ever taken place in my life.  It changed everything about me--my purpose here, my goals, my future.  Like Melissa, I have taken some "right steps"--placing myself in the Hands of a capable Healer, surrounding myself with supportive believers and church families, changing what sorts of things I put into my mind.

But I don't always walk like I'm different.

He loved me...but I can be slow to love others.

He accepted me...but I am quick to judge.

He forgave me...but I hold steadfastly to a grudge.

He saved me...but I often live like He hasn't.

I gossip and lash out in anger.  I often don't think before I speak.  I join in unkind talk when I'm surrounded by it.  I'm the first to complain when things don't go as I had hoped.

I'm swinging my arms like I'm the same person I was before He got to me...and it's ruining who I could be.

One of the hardest parts of being a follower of Christ is having to learn to stop having one foot in both worlds.  We tend to be "Christians" in church and when it's convenient and admirable to be, but we may be no different when we're surrounded by the stuff we (supposedly) left behind to be His.

I baffle myself, though, because being His is a welcome change.  He's even outlined how to "walk" like I should:

"You took off your former way of life, the old man that is corrupted by deceitful desires;
you are being renewed in the spirit of your minds;
you put on the new man, the one created according to God's likeness in righteousness and purity of the truth...
...All bitterness, anger and wrath, insult and slander must be removed from you, along with all wickedness.
And be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving one another, just as God also forgave you in Christ." (Ephesians 4:22-24, 31-32)

A long time ago, the "weight" of my sin was removed by a wonderful Healer.  He has cared for me and given me everything I need to live an unencumbered life.  He's shown me how to move, how to be.

Now it's up to me to walk like that weight is gone.

Here we go.

One step at a time...

"Therefore, be imitators of God, as dearly loved children.  And walk in love, as the Messiah also loved us and gave Himself for us, a sacrificial and fragrant offering to God." ~ Ephesians 5:1-2

It's Not What You Think!

Did you ever play the game "Telephone?"

Just in case you've never been a giggly preteen girl, here's the scoop on how to play:

(1) Gather a group and sit in a circle.

(2) One person will silently concoct a simple phrase (i.e. "I want some banana bread") and then whisper the phrase in the ear of the person to the left.

(3) The phrase is then whispered from person to person until it reaches the last member of the circle.  Only one repeat per person is allowed (via saying "Operator"), but after that, whatever you think you have heard, you pass on.

(4) The last person must announce the phrase out loud, which is usually a far cry from the original message.

My older sister taught me how to play, and I would get so tickled when she would tell me how distorted phrases would get in the rounds she played with her friends.  I loved it when she regaled me with the tale of how her original message of "Bring me some figgy pudding" somehow eventually translated into "Nebuchadnezzar is a butt."

Ahh, elementary school humor.

Sure, it can demonstrate how powerful and out-of-hand a mere piece of gossip can get, but what strikes a more resonant chord with me is how easily the truth gets lost.

The past couple of weeks, I've allowed little bumps and bristles to steer my mind off track.  Nothing truly dire or significant has transpired, but minor annoyances--surprising things about my new health insurance that will cost us more money when June arrives, a brand new phone that my clumsy mitts managed to destroy days after our warranty expired, a second back order for our crib that postponed its arrival for an additional three months (which would be a full month after Harlow is born)--have me feeling a bit chaotic.

Yesterday, I was tempted to throw a mild fit when another inconvenience was mounted onto the pile.  I paced back and forth around the living room, choking back the ugliness I wanted to vocalize in my momentary anger.  Instead, I opted to shift the blame toward the easiest Target.

God, can't you just cut me a little break here?

I desire perfection from my life's circumstances on a daily basis, and I'll admit I feel much like the cloud of dust that engulfs the Tasmanian Devil when things aren't "just so."

And when my circumstances make me feel out of control, I often accuse God of not being in control of my situation.

Chaos must mean He's lost the reins.  He's dropped me.  He must not be protecting me anymore.

Often, when my life feels out of sorts, it affects my ability to get a good night's rest.  I'll toss and turn and mull over the "what ifs" and "what do I do nows."  But every now and then, when I anticipate the arrival of a restless night, I'll hum the tune of one of my favorite songs from choir, "Thou, O Lord."

I cried unto the Lord with my voice,
And He heard me out of His holy hill.
I laid me down and slept and awaked.
For the Lord sustained,
The Lord sustained me.

One night recently as I pondered these words, I remembered that they come directly from Psalm 3.  I hoisted Dru's study Bible from the nightstand onto my lap and flipped vigorously to the brief passage.

Lord, how my foes increase!
There are many who attack me.
Many say about me,
"There is no help for him in God."

But You, Lord, are a shield around me,
my glory, and the One who lifts up my head.
I cry aloud to the Lord, 
and He answers me from His holy mountain.

I lie down and sleep;
I wake again because the Lord sustains me.
I am not afraid of the thousands of people
who have taken their stand against me on every side.

Rise up, Lord!
Save me, my God!
You strike all my enemies on the cheek;
You break the teeth of the wicked.
Salvation belongs to the Lord,
may Your blessing be on Your people.
(Psalm 3)

The part I've placed in bold (verses 5-6) had an interesting note beneath it:

"To lie down and sleep are poetic and tangible ways to describe a state of security.  Only a person who feels secure will be able to sleep undisturbed by troubling thoughts ... The psalmist was confident that he would wake again because it is Yahweh Himself who sustained him.  The psalmist's security was unrelated to his circumstances even though he was surrounded by enemies.  Confidence in God's protection does not depend on one's circumstances."  (Holman Christian Standard Bible Study Bible)

Oh, how quickly I tend to forget this vital piece of truth.

Four years ago, Steven Curtis Chapman and his family said good bye to one of their precious adopted daughters following a tragic car accident.  Because I went to school with his kids and heard the ambulances from my church the night it happened, I, like much of our community, was captivated by the story.  It made national news, seemingly reported on every blog from here to Timbuktu.

Many came out in droves to support the Chapman family.  Others were less than kind.

Knowing what devout Christians they are, many hurled violent, distasteful comments at this grieving family.

Where is your God now? they wrote.

Just like "Telephone's" circumstances can alter an original message, oh how often do we let our circumstances color what God has told us to be true:

I will never leave you or forsake you...

Even though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me...

I will not leave you as orphans.  I will come to you...

The second things get rough, we let our circumstances shrink God's sovereignty, His grace, His mercy, His protection.  We deem Him not strong enough, not good enough.

Do we really believe that?

If we don't, then we need to stop acting like we do.

In a recent sermon at our church, our pastor cited a quote from The Chronicles of Narnia--an allegorical series written by C.S. Lewis.

The quote concerned Aslan, the story's lion, mighty king of the magical world of Narnia, and a metaphor for Christ.

One character asks frighteningly about the nature of Aslan in the first book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, questioning, "Is he safe?"

The response?  "'Safe?' said Mr. Beaver.  'Who said anything about safe?  Course he isn't safe!  But he's good.  He's the King, I tell you.'"

Did you get that?

God's goodness has nothing to do with our circumstances.

Zero.

What we seem to have set in place instead of the promise of God's unwavering goodness is that if we love and trust Him, things will always be easy.

He never said that.  He never promised that.  Not once.

At some point, we will all experience undesirable circumstances.


But if we trust Him, if we follow Him--we don't have to do it by ourselves.  He is with us.

That's the truth we overlook.

"Telephone" never could alter the fact that the original message was said.


And no matter how much we twist and distort it, bend it and tweak it--God's truth will remain the same.


But to whom do you choose to listen?  The fickle group?  Those fickle circumstances?

Or the One Who said it in the first place?

But Thou, O Lord, are a shield for me...

I will lie down.

I will sleep.

I will wake again.

For You sustain me.

Thou, O Lord, I choose you.

"The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.  Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged."  ~Deuteronomy 31:8

Don't Tap on the Glass

I.  Love.  Gatlinburg.

I've been at least twenty times in the almost twenty-five (eep!) years I've been alive, and I still get a thrill when we round the bend to enter this perfect, touristy town nestled in the heart of the Smoky Mountains.

What do I love so much about it?

The fresh mountain air when stepping out of the car.  The sound of the water rushing over the rocks during an early morning walk down River Road.  The taste of tangy apple butter and chocolatey brown bears.  The hilarious catcalls of rowdy country boys in their massive trucks as they drive down the strip looking for a date.

But what I love most about Gatlinburg are the memories.

When I was a kid, our trip to the mountains was a sweet family affair--my grandparents (Nanny and Papa, as we called them) would accompany us.  They often gave me and my sister money to do a little something "special" while we there, which usually resulted in an exciting ride up the Sky Lift or a trip up the Space Needle.

"Now," as Nanny would say, "when you get to the top of the Space Needle, you call out for me and Papa, okay?"  She'd settle in her orange balcony chair outside of her motel room.  "I'll be right here listening."

I did as she asked and sent the two of them a giant "HELLOOOOOOO!!!" when we'd reached the top, and when I'd get back down and ask her if she'd heard, she'd always assure me that she heard it loud and clear.

They didn't go with us for many years when Papa got sick.  A few years after he passed away, Nanny began joining us again.

As we got older, instead of sending me and my sister out to do something fun, she'd spend an afternoon with us taking us anywhere we wanted, followed by a scrumptious lunch at Waldo Pepper's--a burger joint with (get this) fries in the shape of airplanes.

We usually picked to go to a local tourist trap, like a museum.  I'll never forget the first time I got to go to Ripley's Believe It or Not! museum.  There's a million exhibits and weird facts along their two or three floors, but one of the most memorable parts was where they showed a video of people who could roll their tongues in a myriad of shapes.  At the end of the video, the commentator invites you to look in a nearby mirror and "try it for yourself!" There we stood, attempting to morph our faces into the crazy shapes we had seen onscreen (to no avail, of course).  Eventually, we grew tired of it and moved along through the rest of the museum.

And then at the end, passing through a narrow corridor to the exit, you see it.

A window.  But it's not a window.  It's the other side of a two-way mirror.  The mirror you look into as you distort your face like a lunatic.

Feeling ridiculous, we blushed and smacked our foreheads, then paused to chuckle at the poor, clueless saps who were desperately trying to twist their tongues.

As we stood there watching, a couple of mischievous boys sidled up to us to make the same discovery. Between guffaws, the boys decided to knock on the glass.  Immediately, the color drained from the face of the current ignorant face-distorter.  Another tap, and we watched as he literally ran off around the corner.  This furthered the boys' side-splitting laughter (and mine, to be honest), especially when the frightened museum-goer peeked back around the corner for another look, only to be scared off by another tap on the glass.

As I mused over the concept of this two-way mirror this week, it sparked a thought about how sometimes we find that a situation has an alternate, surprising perspective.  And when we move from the "raw end of the deal" to one that is less vulnerable, how do we handle it?

Do we empathize?  Or do we tap on the glass?

When I was going through the worst part of my grief last year, I found it most difficult to be around pregnant women.  Not necessarily women who were already mothers; sure, I'd long for the coos and giggles they so heartily received from their little ones, but they weren't the most difficult ones to be around.  It was the expectant women that stung worse.

Everyone is different in how they cope, respond, or view things.  Perhaps I felt this way because I'd never had a newborn--the tangible thing I had lost was a pregnancy.  So it wasn't the babies that necessarily got me down.  It was the beach ball bellies and the promise of new life that made my heart yearn.

I promised myself that if I ever got and stayed pregnant, I would remember what it felt like to be on that end of it, especially when interacting with those who still happened to be on that end of it.

It was important to me that I didn't forget.  Not one little bit.

And since September, I've found my way to the other side of the two-way mirror.

Unfortunately, I've had to watch a number of friends remain on the "raw end of the deal."  Infertility.  Miscarriages.  Hurts.  Whys.  Tears.  Pain.

But now that I'm on the other side, I refuse to let my mindset be, "Whew!  I'm glad I'm not over there anymore!"

And you know what?  This perspective is harder than I thought it would be.  Sure, it's relieving to be in a less vulnerable position.  But it kills me to have to watch others remain on the other side and to know that there's really not much I can do to help.

I remember.  Oh, how I remember being on the other side of the mirror.

When everybody else seems to magically "know" that at some point, it will happen for you.

When it hurts to smile.

When it hurts to congratulate.

When it hurts to get a hug from a beach ball belly.

When you wonder if it's always going to be this hard.

I haven't forgotten.

I can remember feeling a lost connection to "infertile" or "struggling-to-stay-pregnant" friends when they became pregnant successfully.  They were no longer next to me, feeling my pain, but opposite me.  She is one of "them" now, I would think.

I may be one of "them," but I'm still one of you.

There are times when I wish my pregnancy was a suit that I could take off so that I could be a better support to those who are hurting.  I want you to hear my heart.  Please know that--whether we know each other or not--if you're going through a difficult time with this pregnancy and baby stuff, drop me a message, and I will be there for you.  To pray.  To listen.  To do whatever it is that I can to help.

And if you're someone who's also made it to the other side of the mirror, I encourage you to look through and remember what it was like to stand on the vulnerable side.  Don't take advantage of the fact that you're no longer there.  Don't stare and point as though it's something entertaining for you to view.


Don't forget.  Don't forget.

And for heaven's sake, don't tap on the glass.

"Share each other's burdens, and in this way obey the law of Christ."  ~ Galatians 6:2

A Stone's Throw Away

It was Friday, June 17, 1994.

I was 7, my sister was 12, and we were nestled in the back room of my grandparents' house, likely munching on mini Kit Kat bars and learning how to burp on command with our Coca-Colas (sorry, Mom).  We spent many a Friday night there watching TGIF and gorging ourselves on sweets.

But on this particular Friday night, our favorite shows (and apparently the NBA finals) were interrupted by breaking news.

A white Ford Bronco was being tailed by cops as it coasted down the road in California.

This meant little to me, as I was young and uninformed of current events.  All I knew was the man driving the Bronco must have done something...bad.

I suppose you realize that the man driving the Bronco was the infamous OJ Simpson, who was being accused of murdering ex-wife Nicole Brown and Ronald Goldman just days earlier.

OJ's trial is perhaps one of the most notorious ever.  He had a strong history of violent behavior, and all evidence pointed clearly that he was as guilty as homemade sin.

And yet, in 1997, a jury deliberated.  And returned.  And revealed that they had unanimously voted that he was not guilty.

It was the shock heard round the world.  Those who had invested their time and emotion in the case were dumbfounded, as OJ lit with excitement at the news of his newfound innocence.

Most people today still feel certain of his guilt.  But on that day, he wasn't found guilty.  And he went free.

Nearly seven months ago, on July 5, 2011, history appeared to repeat itself when the controversial trial of Casey Anthony came to a close.  Like OJ, the vast majority of the public seemed to agree that this defendant was quite certainly a murderer and, perhaps, dead woman walking.

I watched much of the trial and media coverage surrounding the untimely death of Caylee Anthony and her mother's apparent lack of grief and concern concerning her disappearance.  That day in July, I was cooped up in a Starbucks waiting for Dru to finish his first CPA test, when my mother called me with the news.

"Well, did you hear?" she said ominously.  "Not guilty."

My eyes bulged, my face felt hot, and I was consumed with disbelief.

"What?!"  I exclaimed.  "How?!"

I can remember taking to Facebook to convey my rage, accusing jurors of having sub-par IQs.  There was no way she wasn't guilty.  And yet, like OJ, she was getting away with it and going free.

It's hard to watch those kinds of things, isn't it?  As humans, we demand justice to be served, prices to be paid.

But these people just get to go free.  They can't ever be tried again for these crimes.  A "not guilty" verdict means we presume innocence and [gulp] move on.

But as I watched with gritted teeth the verdict reading for Casey Anthony for what seemed the 100th time on the news that evening, I sensed the Lord tapping on my shoulder.  I was hoping He was there to agree with my anger.  It was "righteous" anger after all, right?  Her satisfied smirks and relieved, dramatic weepiness made my skin crawl.

But He tapped me again, clearly trying to open my eyes to something else.  Something uncomfortable.

"What, Lord?!" I wanted to say.  "This woman is despicable!  She is vile!  She's guilty, and I know it!"

I felt Him gentle as a breeze but steady as the wind.

"Oh, Child," He seemed to whisper.  "Don't you see?  She may not be getting what it seems she deserves.  But neither are you."

Yuck.  I didn't want to see it that way.  I still don't.  I don't want to be compared to her.  I'm not a murderer or abusive.  I could never do those things.  She's way worse.

But is she?  Is she really worse than I am?

Suddenly, looking at her felt like gazing at a looking glass under the harshest lighting, where no flaw can be concealed.

Casey Anthony and I are [gag, retch, vomit] alike in some ways.  She is a sinner.  And so am I.  I may not be a murderer, but I've slaughtered people with hurtful words.  I've lied when I felt the truth was too embarrassing.  I've been proud and self-seeking.

In truth, just by being a human, I'm guilty.  Psalm 51:5 tells us that we were guilty at birth, sinful from conception.  When I fall short of God's glory--and I do, every single day--it hurts Him, grieves Him, displeases Him.

I, too, am despicable, vile, guilty.  I know it.  And He does, too.  I can't fool Him with big words, fancy phrases, or self-righteous statements.

There is Someone always present at my "crime scenes," Who could so easily testify of my faults and judge me guilty.  And the sentence would, indeed, be a fate worse than death.

All of this reminds me greatly of when Jesus was urged by the Pharisees to stone an adulterous woman.  She had been caught red-handed.  And based on the law, it was clear what her sentence should be--death.

There she sat on her knees--dirty, guilty, ashamed, and surrounded by a sea of self-righteous scribes, stones in hand, ready to let her have it.

Oh, the bloodlust that must have been in their eyes.  The pride in their hearts.  The satisfaction that justice would be served.

But sweet Jesus looked at the woman.  He knew what she had done.  He saw her heart.  And, yet, he ruled otherwise.

He looked at the men and spoke sternly in her defense:  "Ye without sin, cast the first stone."

Surely, the Pharisees (like me) gritted their teeth, perhaps nearly crumbled their stones in their greedy hands.  The temptation must have surged like a live wire in their arms to throw anyway.  But one by one, the stones dropped.  One by one, the crowd of men scattered.

Only Jesus remained.  The only one who could have cast a stone.

I love what he says to her.  Oh the compassion, the mercy that exists in his words.  After calling her attention to the lack of judgment around her, he says, "Neither do I condemn you.  Go and sin no more" (John 8:2-11).

Like Casey and OJ and the adulterous woman, I deserve a good stoning.

But someone else who loved me decided that it didn't have to be that way.  He took all my "crimes," my sin, my guilt on his shoulders.  Even though he was and is innocent.  Even though he was and is perfect.  The price was paid for what I've done and will do, but I didn't have to pay it.  Because he did, I am also found with a shocking verdict of "not guilty."

If you know me, you know that verdict couldn't be further from the truth.  But because I believe in Him, praise Jesus, it is so.

What's more, I can't be tried for the same things again--He forgives and forgets, remember?  He doesn't rehash what you've done when you've repented and turned around; any notion that He seeks to inflict further guilt on you is a lie straight from the pit of hell.

But I can't just be complacent with being let go.  Being not guilty compels me to leave the old behind and move on.

By no means do I seek to condone what OJ and Casey might have done (after all, I guess we'll never know for sure?).  But I hope you, too, will realize that we don't necessarily get the verdict we deserve.  That you aren't any better than they are.  And that you will fall to your knees in gratitude and become something better with your newfound innocence.

Our exoneration is wonderful and perplexing, isn't it?

By golly, it's enough to make the outside world grit their teeth.

But look around...

Does anyone condemn you?

Neither does He.

Go and sin no more.

Scarred

It was circa 1992.

I was just a wee little munchkin of 4 or 5, and it was an evening where my family was due to be at church.

I whined and fussed that I didn't want to go because I didn't feel very good.  Instead of going to the nursery that evening, my parents brought me along with them to their class.

I kicked and squirmed on my mom's lap.  And by golly, why did this little area on the right side of my stomach itch so badly?

When my older sister rejoined us in the car for our ride home, she announced that she, too, felt horrible and couldn't stop scratching.

Thus began our two-week adventure with--what else?--chickenpox.

We have pictures of how our bodies were covered from head to toe in itchy red dots.  We played Old Maid and took at least one oatmeal bath a day.

As I got older and ventured into the realm of nursing school, I had to have documentation that I had either had or been immunized against various childhood diseases--mumps, measles, rubella...and of course, chickenpox.

Chickenpox was the only thing I had actually been infected with, not immunized against, and it took much effort and digging through old medical records to find when I had actually had them.

As I waited for the paperwork to come back from my pediatrician's office, I sat in my dorm one evening and inspected the area on the right side of my stomach where my itchy pox had begun.

You know what?

It's the only place on my entire body where there's still a mark.  From my very first chickenpox that appeared.

Hah, I thought.  Why do I need paperwork anyway?  I had the chickenpox.  I have the scar to prove it.

There's a much larger mark that appears on my right cheek--at least an inch or so long.  It caves in like a little ravine and rebels slightly when I try to cover it with powder.

It's a mark from the large cyst that adorned my face when I was 14 years old.  I suffered with it for eight months, enduring whispers, snickers, corticosteroid injections, and a long round of Accutane.

It was a painful time in my life, when everything around me told me that beauty consisted of perfect looks and popularity.

I had a cyst.  I have the scar to prove it.

Last year, our two painful losses left indelible marks on my heart.  These hurts on our hearts are the most difficult kinds of scars, aren't they?  No one else can see them, but they often mark a wound that ran much deeper than an everyday abrasion.

Just as the sight of my tangible scars on my stomach and my cheek remind me that I'm not invincible, that I'm not perfect, that I'm capable of experiencing pain, the marks left on my heart remind me daily through this pregnancy that something could happen.  Something did happen.  Twice.

I had two miscarriages.  I have the scars to prove it.

As the Lord laid this topic on my heart, I decided to do a little research to refresh my memory on the physiology of wound healing.

I looked at many sites, and although I know that Wikipedia tends to be lower on the totem pole for gathering information, I found that some of its phrases were worded perfectly enough to get my neurons surging.

Of scars, the site reads:

"A scar results from the biological process of wound repair in the skin and other tissues of the body.  Thus, scarring is a natural part of the healing process.  With the exception of very minor lesions, every wound results in some degree of scarring (para. 1)."

The site goes on to say that scar tissue is comprised of the same material as normal skin, but it forms in a different manner, one that is of lesser quality than regular skin (para. 2).  [Info taken from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scar]

Scars are often deemed ugly.  They refuse to blend in with the rest of the skin, standing proudly to remind you--and perhaps everyone else--of the pain that has occurred.  And according to the information above, it doesn't even function as well as it used to!

How could it?  It's damaged.

But scars are necessary to heal.

A long, long time ago, a man by the name of Jesus was battered, beaten, and pierced for the wounds we inflict on ourselves, on others, on the Lord Himself.

He was the ultimate sacrifice for everything we do wrong.  Sweet friend, he died for you.

And when he rose on the third day, his body was so beautiful, so glowing, that many assumed he was an angel sent by God.

Death could not hold him!  He had risen!  He was healed!

But as beautiful and perfect as his body now was, his scars on his hands, feet, and sides remained.

Isn't it interesting?

God is perfect and all powerful.  He could have erased any sign of pain and affliction from the risen body of His Son.  But He didn't.

Oh, friends, whatever scars mar your body or your heart, know that they aren't kept around to keep you down.  They aren't meant to remind you of the pain.

They are meant to remind you that you are healed.

Praise God, I am.  Are you?

He knew that scars were necessary for healing.  He did the hard part.  He did the suffering.  All you have to do is run to Him.  And you, too, can experience what it's like to have a heart that is whole, that is surrendered, that is healed.

He paid the price.

He loves you.

He has the scars to prove it.

"From now on, don't let anyone trouble me with these things.  For I bear on my body the scars that show I belong to Jesus." ~Galatians 6:17

Like the Fragrance After the Rain

It's raining today.

There's nothing I love quite as much as a rainy day.  I haven't even gotten out of the bed, the dogs are snuggled quietly at my side, the lights are out, and I'm listening intently to the pitter-patter of the raindrops as they beat sweetly against my windows.

The only thing that could make this morning more enjoyable would be a rumble of thunder in the distance.

When I was a little girl, rain seemed to be a recurring theme in my naptime rituals.

My favorite naptime story that my mother would tell me was called "Moo-Moo the Mouse."  Moo-Moo was a little boy playing outside in the brilliant summertime weather, when his mother called him in for lunch, which often consisted of a peanut butter sandwich cut in the shape of a butterfly.  (I know, Moo-Moo wasn't too macho.  The butterfly shape was for my enjoyment, I'm sure.)  After lunch, Moo-Moo went down for a nap.  And as he laid his furry head to rest, the rain began to fall.

Slowly and quietly at first.

Pitter...patter.  Pitter...patter.

And then gaining with speed and intensity.

Pitter..patter..pitter..patter..pitter-patter, pitter-patter...

The sound effects my mom made here were my favorite part of the story.  The rain continued, lightening toward the end of his nap, until it was time for him to get up and go play outside again.

Naptime also often brought the sweet lullaby of one of my favorite hymns, "There's Just Something About That Name."  The lyrics are as follows:

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,
There's just something about that name.
Master, Savior, Jesus,
Like the fragrance after the rain.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,
Let all heaven and earth proclaim!
Kings and kingdoms will all pass away,
But there's just something about that name.
(William and Gloria Gaither, "There's Just Something About That Name")

I loved these rainy naptime rituals because the imagined rainfall proved comforting, in a way.

But outside of Moo-Moo's story and my favorite lullaby, rain was hardly something I truly enjoyed as a child.

It kept me from playing hide-and-seek.  From swimming in the neighborhood pool.  From swinging on the swing set.

It kept me cooped up inside, nose pressed against the window, wondering when the ugly gray clouds would give way to the warm sunshine.

And truth be told, I couldn't tell how the sweet name of Jesus could be compared to the "fragrance after the rain."  Have you ever gone outside after a rain shower?  It smells less than desirable.  A little like the dogs after they've rolled around in the mud.  Woof.

Even today, there are times when I resent the rain.  It keeps me from tanning by the pool.  Makes the drive to work messy.  And dirties up my car.

But, sweet friends, where are we without rain?

The grass dies.  The earth dries up.  Crops can't grow.  Having grown up in hot, humid Tennessee summers my entire life, I know that a drought turns things ugly.

And of course, when we spurn the spiritual rain that the Lord allows to water our souls, what happens?

We shrivel.  We become ugly.  We stop growing.

In May 2010, my hometown experienced a horrible flood.  It destroyed houses.  Trapped people.  Drowned people on the interstate.  Necessitated an insane amount of money for reconstructing businesses and homes.

Looking at it through our short-sighted human eyes, it ruined everything.

To raise money to help those who had lost everything, my church choir threw a benefit concert.

The title of the program came from one of the focus songs: "Bring the Rain."

When my dad (who is the minister of music at my church) first sent out the email to the choir about the "Bring the Rain" concept, he was met with avid responses, such as, "Oh, I wouldn't be asking Him for anymore rain.  That's what got us into this mess in the first place!"

My dad, who is so wise (perhaps I'm biased? I think not.), replied gently for the choristers to truly look at the lyrics to the song.  Here are the words to the chorus:

Bring me joy, bring me peace,
Bring the chance to be free,
Bring me anything that brings You glory.
And I know there'll be days
When this life brings me pain,
But if that's what it takes to praise You,
Jesus, bring the rain.
(MercyMe, "Bring the Rain)

What a hard thing to pray.  Not only to pray for God's will, but to truly welcome seemingly destructive storms and floods.

It's taken me a long time to get to a place where this seems doable.  That doesn't mean it's become easy, by any means.  But I finally have an acute understanding of what it means to invite hardship into my comfy life.

Yes, it may keep me from the "plans" I've so diligently made for myself.  It may appear to ruin my dreams, the things I've built and the things on which I've wrongfully set my hopes.

But when you learn to relish the fragrance after the rain--not one of wet dog-- but that of an awakening of the earth and the scent of new growth, of hope and rebirth, boy, spending comfy time in the perpetual sunshine begins to seem less important.

The rain is beginning to settle outside, just as it is in this difficult chapter of my life.  But oh, how thankful I am for the rain that He sent to revive my soul; that He's trying to grow me, not destroy me. 

The sun will come out tomorrow (I know, I know, hokey, but couldn't resist), but you know what?  I'm not afraid of the forecast, of the rain that I know will come again.

Please, friends.  Try learning to embrace the rain for the growth it will bring.  Learn to love it, to cherish it.

You won't regret it.

If that's what it takes to praise you, Jesus, bring the rain.

From East to West

Distance from east to west across the state of Tennessee: 440 miles.

Distance from east to west across the continental United States: approximately 3,148 miles.

Distance from east to west across Earth (diameter): approximately 8,000 miles.

Distance from east to west from the sun to Pluto (yes, I still count Pluto as part of the solar system): 5,906,376,272 kilometers.

Distance from east to west across the Milky Way: approximately 1,000,000,000,000,000,000 kilometers.

Distance from east to west across the visible universe: approximately 28 billion light years (one light year = 9,500,000,000,000 kilometers).

****

Temptation is hard to resist, isn't it?

Think back to a time (perhaps it was recently, perhaps not) when you did something you weren't supposed to.  Maybe you took something that wasn't yours.  Said something ugly.  Looked at something you shouldn't have.

Think of how you felt just before you did it.  The appeal was so lovely, wasn't it?  It drew you in like a magnet, grabbed onto your thoughts and wouldn't let go.  If only......if only I could......

The force was just too much, and even though you knew, you knew it wasn't right, you did it anyway.

As a kid, I had an overly sensitive conscience.  I rarely got into trouble, but I had a habit of dwelling on situations and feeling guilty about them.

What if I didn't deserve the good grade I got?

What if I unintentionally hurt that person by what I said?

One time I even told a teacher to mark down a good grade I had gotten on a test because I told her I had accidentally looked at someone else's paper.  I hadn't seen any answers, but it made me feel like I had cheated, and I couldn't live with not having some sort of punishment for it.

Each week, there was something new that I obsessed about in my thought life.  Feeling guilty.  Feeling like I ought to be punished.  Feeling like I didn't deserve to be forgiven.

My mother noticed how preoccupied I had gotten with these sorts of things, and she pulled me out of my room one sunny afternoon to watch a Beth Moore video with her.  The video accompanied a Bible study my mom was doing at the time about the life of David.  I was quickly enamored with Beth's vivacious personality and engaging speaking style. 

She began to talk about David's sin of lusting after Bathsheba.  Which led to adultery.  Which led to lies.  Which led to murder.

David was looking pretty bad.  And yet, Beth said, when he finally repented--truly repented--God forgave him.  He forgave him.  Yes, his actions still had consequences (the baby he conceived with Bathsheba died), but the beautiful thing is that once God forgave him, that was it.  He didn't hold it against him.

And you know what else?  God even called David a man after His own heart! 

Really?  A liar?  An adulterer?  A murderer?  You've got to be kidding!

But it's true!  If we're ready to come back to Him, He's ready to take us back.  And He loves us no less.

Looking back, I really don't think I had done anything truly wrong in those instances that I mulled over as a kid (I know that those thoughts weren't healthy, and I no longer have those).  But there have certainly been times in my life where I have committed a sin...and even though I knew it was wrong, I did it anyway.  And I kept doing it. 

Gossip.  Destructive speech.  Arrogance.  Judging others.

And time and time again, the Holy Spirit will prick my heart and remind me that I really shouldn't be doing it.  And when I fall to my knees in repentance, I don't have to fear that He'll cross His arms and turn a cold shoulder to me.

Quite the opposite!

Listen to the glorious words of Psalm 103: 8-10, 12:

The Lord is compassionate and gracious,
slow to anger and full of faithful love.
He will not always accuse us
or be angry forever.
He has not dealt with us as our sins deserve
or repaid us according to our offenses.

As far as the east is from the west,
so far has He removed our transgressions from us.

Is there something you've done that you feel terrible about?  Stop waiting for your punishment and start looking for His grace.

He isn't waiting to tell you that He told you so.  He isn't waiting to make you feel like the lowest of the low.  He died for you so that you wouldn't have to feel that way.

He loves you.  And He misses you when you're gone.

And all this brings me back to one more distance...

****

Distance east to west from you and your forgiven sin: "one scarred hand to the other."
(Casting Crowns, "East to West")

"If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."  ~ 1 John 1:9

When I Am Weak

There are many things I can't do.

I can't whistle.

I can't sing a solo.

I can't play the violin.

As a kid in elementary school, it became quickly evident that I can't do anything athletic.  Well, I can't do it well.

I was always a good student, save for PE class.  It wasn't that I didn't try--I had tried and failed miserably in the past, and so I resigned myself to the fact that I was no good at sports.  I brought up the rear when running the mile.  If I was placed on the chin-up bar, I would dangle there sheepishly until the coach yelled at me and told me to get down.  It was especially embarrassing if we had to announce to the teacher in front of the whole grade how many push-ups we had done in a one-minute time span.

It would go something like this...

****
"Jones?"

"27!"

"Awesome.  McDonald?"

"30!"

"Fantastic!  Smith?"

Silence.

"[Clears throat.] Smith?"

"[Quietly] Um, 3."

****

Every year in PE class, we did a series of athletic activities--push-ups, chin-ups, sit-ups, sit-and-reach, races--and if our results were within certain ranges, we got a patch representing which level we had reached.  The blue was the best patch, red second best.  I always qualified for the ugly banana yellow patch (which, basically, I could have done zero of everything and gotten that).  I never bothered to pay money to have a stitched reminder that I was only good enough for last place.

I coveted the red and blue patches.  It wasn't that they were prettier or more expensive.  But it meant that the owner was capable.  Better.  Strong.

One of my last years in PE, I decided I wasn't going to let anything stop me from getting a red patch (let's face it: the blue was out of the question).  With every event, I put my heart and soul into it.  I reached farther; got stronger; ran faster.

I was on the cusp of a red patch when I came to my final event--the relay race.  I was placed on a team with three of my classmates.  We were spaced evenly around the track and instructed to run with a baton and hand it off once we got to the next runner.

As luck would have it, I was the last runner, and it was up to me to get across the finish line within a certain time.

My red patch depended on it.

Thankfully, my teammates were all fast runners.  I watched in awe as they rocketed lickety-split around the corners of the track.  Their legs were moving so fast that my eyes couldn't keep up.

And then it was time.  It was my turn.

As the stopwatch continued to count the seconds, the cold metal of the baton was placed deliberately in my nervous hand.  My feet left their starting spot as fast as they could, but my opponents began to pull ahead, despite my head start.

My teacher, who knew how desperately I wanted that red patch, yelled cheers of encouragement my way as I began to look winded.

The seconds ticked.  My feet were slowing down.

The red patch was slipping through my fingers.

Suddenly, I saw my teacher running toward me.  Soon, she was next to me, running with me.

"You've got to move faster," she shouted.  "You're so close.  You're so close!"

I shook my head and hung it in disappointment.  I just couldn't do it.  I just wasn't fast enough.

It was at that moment that my teacher grabbed my hand.  She ran ahead of me, and the force of her grip and speed caused my feet to accelerate.  The breeze picked up in my ponytail, and for the first time, my sluggish feet finally felt what it was like to run fast.  She pulled me the rest of the way, and I crossed the finish line at the last second.

Because of my teacher, I could do it.  Because of her, I got my first and only red patch.

It's hard to admit when I'm weak, when I can't do something on my own.  I don't enjoy asking people for help because I feel like I should be able to do it myself.  Being independent means I'm capable.  Dependence on others makes me feel like I'm incapable, lousy, and a failure.

But you know what?  The Bible doesn't just tell us to accept our weaknesses.  It tells us to boast in them!  That sounds strange, doesn't it?  Can you imagine some skinny, pale guy high-fiving his way through a gym as he shouts, "Guess what!  I'm a weakling!  Isn't that awesome?!"

It sounds ridiculous, but our weaknesses are important.  They're vital.

There's a beautiful thread throughout the Bible of God using the weak.  Think about it...

Moses was a horrible public speaker and even suffered from a speech problem...
   Yet God used his lips to tell Pharaoh to let his people go...

David was several feet shorter than Goliath and too small for a decent suit of armor...
   Yet God used David's hand and a single stone to fell a mighty warrior...

Sarah's womb was barren...
   Yet God used her and Abraham to parent a multitude of nations, even after the age of 100...

It doesn't matter what you can and can't do--don't tell God that He can't use you!

The most beautiful part of our weaknesses is that the holes in our abilities let His strength shine through.  When we aren't able to do it alone, the story stops being about us and becomes magnificently about Him.  It becomes about how He can conquer, how He can overcome, how He can effect change.

If you were strong and great at everything, you wouldn't look to Him.  If we were all perfect, it would eliminate the need for a Savior.

You can't, but He can.

If you will only be willing to be a part of His plan, of His great story, He can use you.

Your speech may not be the most eloquent...but He can speak through you.

Your strength may be dwindling...but He can direct the aim and the force of the stone.

Your feet may be slowing, and as the timer ticks, the finish line may seem a million miles away...but He can pull you through.

Quit shaking your head in discouragement.  He's got your hand.  He's got this.

Take His hand, and run like the wind.

"That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties.  For when I am weak, then I am strong."  ~ 2 Corinthians 12:10

Another Brick in the Wall

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

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

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

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...

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...

Surely

It was a Friday unlike any other.

I had begun my duties for the morning, and as I toiled in the brutal heat, my ear caught the triumphant jeers of a crowd nearby.  Dusting my knees, I dirtied my clumsy two left feet as I ventured to explore the commotion.

Elbows were flying in my face.  Their taunts deafening my ears.  Pushing and prodding my way through the relieved sweat of a multitude feeling justified, I finally caught sight of the crowd's genesis.

A crucifixion, I muttered.

It had been a while since our quiet streets had had one, and the throng shouted with a vengeance to make up for lost time.

I had never seen one, and my eyes perked with curiosity.

I watched as a group of armored guards stood mockingly over the criminal, who lay draped and handcuffed to a post in the center of their circle.  He was dripping with perspiration and bloodied from a good beating.  He hung his head low, letting his chestnut locks fall freely across his brow.

The guards smiled cruelly at their cat-o-nine tails, waiting for the fun to commence.   As the criminal took quick, anticipatory breaths, the first guard slashed his whip across the man's bare back.  The man gave an unearthly wail as his fresh wounds began to seep.  Before he could catch another breath, the second guard followed suit to the first.  Their whipping accelerated with each turn.  It became a game of sorts.

I began to count the lashes.

Seventeen...eighteen...nineteen...

They knew they had to stop at thirty-nine.  By the time they had reached thirty, I choked with empathy.

I don't know if he's going to make it to thirty-nine.

As the last lash scraped fervently across his back, he collapsed to the ground in exhaustion.  I gasped at the sight.

There's no skin left on his back, I thought.  How can he stand that?

Nonetheless, as my mother had always taught me, I reminded myself that these people are criminals.  They get what they deserve.  He must have done something terrible to deserve this.

As the man arched his back to let out a desperate cry, I finally caught a glimpse of his face.  He almost didn't look human.  His cheeks were bruised, his eyes bloodshot.  Dirt speckled his forehead.  Inadvertant wounds from the flogging had stained his face.  And as he wept, I caught his eye.

He looks familiar, I thought.  Yes, he's the one.  The one they call this "Messiah."  But this didn't make any sense.  Just days earlier, I was here for the parade that welcomed him to town.  I had waved a palm branch to celebrate his arrival.  I looked around me.  So had these other people.

My eyes welled.

I nudged the woman next to me who was screaming obscenities at this poor man.

"Isn't he the one they call 'Messiah?'  Isn't his name Jesus?" I asked her pensively.

She pushed me out of her way and further back into the crowd.  Suddenly afraid of the scene around me, I watched as those who had stood singing his praises just a week earlier spat vulgarities in his blood-tinged face.

As I looked hopelessly at him, the guards drew near with a thorny bush cradled horribly in their hands.

It looks like a crown, I thought.  Please don't put that on his head.

But it was too late.  The guards adorned his bloodied brow with their crass creation.  They shoved it harder, harder onto his head, as if to make some petty point.  The man opened his mouth and screamed at the pain that was inflicted anew.

Before a tear could fall from my wide eyes, they began to push him, urging him toward the hill where he would be crucified.  They paused briefly to saddle his scarred shoulders with an enormous wooden beam.

That must be it.  That must be the cross.

He trudged achingly along the stony path, all while insults and spit stung his saddened frame.  I moved quickly to keep up with the crowd as we followed the procession.

His steps became heavy and burdened until he fell flat on his face.  This stole the breath from my body, and I felt my heart telling my feet to move near to his side.  Before my feet could get the message to run to him, a young gentleman had helped the man back to his feet and lovingly carried the beam the rest of the way.

We reached the top of the hill they call Calvary, and the guards shoved the man angrily to the ground, roping his arms to the rough wooden beam.  A nearby guard brought over a handful of rusty spikes.

What is he going to do with those nails?  I thought.  He's had enough.  Please don't hurt him anymore.

But my wistful thoughts were in vain.  My eyes couldn't tear themselves away as the guard centered the spike on the man's palm.  Raising a mallet to the sky, he cracked forcefully upon the nail, sending it shooting into his hand.

I turned and looked away while he finished.  But the sound of the mallet hitting the metal is forever engraved in my memory.

Once he had been sufficiently fastened to the beam, they began to raise the cross until he hung high above the crowds that continued to hurl hatred at him.

And as he bore insult after insult, I finally heard his voice, sweet like honey, emerge from his raw and bloodied lips.

"Father, forgive them.  They don't know what they're doing."

I erupted into sobs.  I looked incredulously at the seemingly clueless onlookers who surrounded me.

But he couldn't have done anything!  He's innocent!  I know he is!  He doesn't deserve this!

His breathing became labored and uneven.  I prayed, hoping for a miracle that somehow he would come down, free himself and save us all.

Exhausted, he spoke once more.

"It is finished."

His head dropped.  His body lifeless, save for his dirtied locks that rustled in the breeze.

I fell to my face wondering why it had to be him.  Why him.  Thunderous clouds began to ominously loom overhead, and as the first raindrop landed painfully against my cheek, I knew.

Surely, this was the Son of God.

**********

I wish this was a made-up story; a fictional tale that was limited only to the imagination.

But it isn't.

That guard didn't nail Jesus to the cross.  I did.

The thorns didn't pierce his brow.  I did.

The whips didn't tear across his back.  I did.

No, he didn't deserve it.  I did.

But because He loved me and because He loved you, He did.

Every lie, every bit of hate, every obscenity, every sin was taken to the cross that day.  And it was settled.  It was forgiven.  It was finished.

But praise Jesus, because He didn't remain in the grave, neither do we.  Neither do we.

Believe, friends.  Believe He wasn't a criminal.  Believe He wasn't just a prophet.  Believe He wasn't just a good man.

Believe.

Surely, this was the Son of God.

"But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed."  ~Isaiah 53:5