tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29795926778102700392024-03-13T22:51:55.458-04:00Waiting For The Daywhen all things will be made rightEbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.comBlogger390125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-2019993383112390942019-07-31T15:46:00.000-04:002019-07-31T15:50:39.870-04:00Give us eyes to see<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The church is full of people who can easily recount the ways in which God has blessed them. A good job, a loving spouse, health and financial blessings abound. “<i>God blessed me”</i>they happily pronounce after receiving some good thing or another. But ever since Owen died, I’ve had it in for that particular word. In fact, I’ve downright hated it. What about people like me? People who received death and suffering from the same hand that dealt them life and joy… were we cursed? Did God turn his eyes away the day Owen died? Did God love other people more because He blessed them with babies that lived? What is a blessing? And how did I get left out?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Our whole world had crashed down around us. Just as his crib and dresser were carried out of our tiny apartment, so was my heart carried up the winding roads of North Georgia to be buried next to my grandfather in the Blue Ridge Mountains.</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Church was very difficult in the weeks and months after we lost our son. Well-intended comments meaning to bring comfort often brought more pain. “We’re praying that God blesses you with a child.” “I’m praying God blesses you with children.” Their words stung. I wanted Owen! I wanted the son I lost… the blessing of Owen’s life. My body was raw with grief. Electric currents of pain frequently tore through me at the sight of newborn babies and pregnant women. They were everywhere. I couldn’t escape them. And I couldn’t escape the feeling that God had blessed them and cursed me. What had I done wrong? What could I do better? It felt as if God’s goodness… as if His blessings were reserved for other people. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">One Sunday morning I actually managed to make it to church and decided to sit near the front in order to see my husband in the worship band. The pastor began his sermon with the birth story of one of his children. My body jotted upright and I thought quickly of escape. Of running out the double doors and never coming back. My fear of making a scene kept me glued to my seat. His story was sad and beautiful. He recounted a scary labor and delivery and his newborn son being rushed down the hall to the NICU while his wife was tended to by the doctor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">“But God was gracious,” he said with a smile. “We were blessed that our son came home from the NICU just a short time later.” His story was sad and beautiful… and so very different from mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">My grief over my son left me unable to see the colors others painted over their lives. Yes, yes it was good his son was healthy and alive. But no, no, no… why did mine die? Why was God gracious to him and his son? And again, with blessings?? What can I do to get the blessings others get so easily? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A year after Owen died and was stillborn, just a week after his first birthday, I miscarried our littlest one. I was seven weeks pregnant and the spark of hope this new baby had given my heart could not be put out by death. It seemed illogical. Perhaps it was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The night I miscarried I wept and screamed to my husband for reassurance that God had not abandoned me, that He had not forsaken me. The physical pain of my miscarriage was nothing compared to the ripping of my broken heart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The darkness of that night is still vivid. It is just as real to me now eleven years later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The assurance of His Presence with me in that darkness is an Ebenezer stone I carry with me each day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I woke up the next morning seeing how blessed I am. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">My eyes opened that morning to the reality of His Presence with me. I began to see the blessings in things I hated.<i> It was a painful labor not to turn away</i>… it was hard and scary not to creep back into the darkness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But as I felt His Presence with me, my heart began to experience the blessings of the things God had given me. </span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">God gave me blessings that showed me how compassion and empathy can light up the world and bring back color. Blessings that offer a hand hold to someone else who is barely holding on. Blessings that whisper</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><i style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">He has not abandoned you. I’ll hold on for the both of us right now.</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">My story is different from my pastor’s. But was God gracious to my pastor and not to me? <i>No. </i>My answer is firmly no. The blessings God gave me through my babies in Heaven keep getting better and richer as each year passes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I believe we can change the narrative around blessings. We can begin the conversation again... blessings can be found in anything that brings us closer to Himself, our loving and tender Heavenly Father. Those things that show us our place as His children, and pull us into a deeper and more vibrant relationship with Him. Blessings are all around us, if only we have eyes to see.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-13190604570351806192019-07-17T12:50:00.000-04:002019-07-17T12:50:08.810-04:00Grief over the Years<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I was a newly married 24 year-old when I found out I was pregnant with my first child. It was then that I started seeing chubby, bright eyed babies everywhere. Stretched baby bumps, beautiful pregnant mamas. Toddlers holding their parents' hands jumping, bouncing, barely contained balls of energy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I was devastated when Owen was stillborn a month before his due date. And what had once brought me joy and excitement now ushered in new waves of grief and pain. The mere sight of a baby or a pregnant woman would send me into a full blown panic attack. It was over a year before someone (my doctor) told me I had PTSD. And that those were my triggers. What a messed up, terrible fortune - to have something so angelic, so beautiful turn me into a shaking, tearful, hyperventilating mess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">It has taken time and a lot of counseling but I no longer get panicky around babies or pregnant women. The hyperventilating and the shaking have turned into a deep and personal sadness. Honestly, even eleven years later I still need space from conversations centered around pregnancy, birth and babies. In the world of bereavement, it is what we call being gentle with ourselves. You don't always have to put on a brave front and you certainly don't have to stay in a situation that is causing stress or triggering you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">This November, Owen would be turning twelve. I have four beautiful and wild children in my arms. The year after Owen died, my broken heart endured two more losses during pregnancy. I started to believe I would never having living children. I thought that maybe somehow I was doomed for loss, and loss would be all I would ever experience. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">It was not so for me. I am so thankful for the four children that call me mommy. The years have passed slowly and my PTSD is now under control. Babies and pregnant women no longer cause panic attacks. I do not suffer panic and rage from my triggers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">But the grief? The aching and sorrow? They are my companions, day in and day out. They have never left. I have made space for them in my home, my heart. I call on them on quiet days when my living children are out playing with friends or on daddy dates. I sit with grief, comfortable and worn like an old blanket. Sewn with tears and soft as silk is my grief over my missing children. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I have been steeped in grief, and grief colors everything. In the beginning, the colors were gray and dull, with shades of pitch black and searing white blinding me from all other colors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">But the colors are brighter now, full and vibrant. The birdsong is louder in my ears. When color and sound returned, they were brighter than I remembered, more beautiful. And when the wind blows my hair and stirs the grief within, I smile at the thought of my three babies… just out of sight, but always in my heart. They have shown me the full spectrum of this beautiful and hard, sad and joy-filled world. And I am so thankful for them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-66233116753868849002019-07-11T12:41:00.000-04:002019-07-11T12:41:00.338-04:00Stillbirth is Still a Birth StoryLast month, a piece I wrote about Owen's birth story was published in an online magazine called Still Standing.<br />
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I feel humbled and overwhelmed that part of Owen's story has been read and shared among so many within and outside the bereaved community. I feel so passionately that silence is not the way forward as we heal. We share our stories, our heartaches, our pain with others in order to offer a handhold to others.<br />
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By sharing we call out <i>you're not alone. </i><br />
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We whisper, we yell, we sing in our stories <i>There is healing... there is a way forward... there is hope. You are not alone. I will walk this road with you. Hold on... </i><br />
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<b><a href="https://stillstandingmag.com/2019/06/27/stillbirth-is-still-a-birth-story/" target="_blank">Link to Still Standing </a></b>Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-5867264209254100652019-03-18T20:23:00.000-04:002019-03-18T20:29:06.584-04:00Saying goodbye to 2018<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Goodbye 2018; you were quite a doozy.<br />
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I realize it's March already and Spring is on our doorstep, but as with many of the things in life... I'm a day late (or a few months late).<br />
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A year ago, we moved to a brand new city, a brand new state- one neither of us had ever lived in before. We took up homeschooling again after a year in public school. We started a new apprenticeship in church planting. We both sat at each of our dad's hospital beds wondering if we would ever get the chance to talk to them again. (I hesitate to share all the details here as it is a part of my story- but it is not my story at the same time) We celebrated the first birthday for our youngest baby. I started writing again. This time prompted by an author who wanted my input in the form of our story of grief.<br />
We are healing and growing and moving forward after a difficult couple of years.<br />
The sun is shining again... and it feels like spring in our hearts.<br />
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The burdens I've felt called to carry have been so heavy. I've been so preoccupied with their weight that it never crossed my mind if I should be carrying them.<br />
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Until recently I hadn't even questioned if they were mine to bear.<br />
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My heart is light and my mind feels clearer. They were not actually my burdens and no one had ever asked me to carry them. The weight has fallen away, and as Jesus tenderly tells us- his yoke is easy, his burden is light.<br />
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He gives us rest.<br />
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<br />Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-78939671428520925322018-05-13T15:12:00.000-04:002018-05-13T15:18:58.448-04:00Eleven years a motherEleven years ago I was a newly married 24 year old pregnant with my first child.<br />
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This year, Mothers Day finds me 11 years older, still a mom... with four children in my arms and three children just out of sight. It can be hard, this day. It's confusing, even to me, to know how to 'do' a day like this one. And it seems to be getting more confusing as the years go by, and as the number of children in my arms finally out numbers the children we have in Heaven.<br />
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I think it's confusing because there are so many voices 'out there' and inside that tell us it shouldn't be so <b><i>hard</i></b>.<br />
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Hard is a word my heart keeps coming back to, and hard is a word my brain keeps trying to figure out.<br />
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As a Christian in this culture of southern Christianity and in this country, I sense a powerful obligation to numb the hard in favor of something more positive, something that brings others more happiness and comfort than what hard can offer. Whatever your struggle, there is a tremendous amount of pressure to gloss over the hard so you don't hurt your witness.<br />
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But what hard gifts us with is far more beautiful than the false comforts of fluffy precepts that life gets better, that hard times won't return, that time heals all wounds, that victory in this life means life will be easy.<br />
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Hard can bring more hope than you ever thought possible. Hard will lead you to true hope when all your positive thinking has run out, when you're no longer victorious over struggle and sin, when life keeps coming with brokenness after brokenness.<br />
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I have seen firsthand what can happen when you gloss over pain and struggle in hopes of shining a light on the hope of Heaven- but what you're highlighting when you do this is your own discomfort of hard... <b><i>not the comfort of hope.</i></b><br />
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If you want to offer a handhold to someone in the midst of pain, be prepared for hard. Take a deep breath and look to Jesus' example.<i> Look to Jesus</i>. Keep your eyes lifted up, and keep a firm grasp. Hard is not going anywhere. But our <b>hope</b> is real, though the way is hard.<br />
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In the midst of broken things, broken lives, broken bodies, broken relationships, we can stand firm in the hard and call out to others... <i>come</i>. Come stand with us. Come lie down and rest. Come. Just come. Though the way is hard, <b><i>our greatest hope is unchanging. Our hope is sure and lasting. </i></b><br />
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<br />Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-77181959796888221922017-09-08T11:39:00.001-04:002017-12-14T21:42:55.590-05:00Elliot's birthday<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="/var/mobile/Containers/Data/Application/99AEF242-4734-4244-A10E-85521A45D1FE/Documents/Blogger/blogger-image--944903131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="/var/mobile/Containers/Data/Application/99AEF242-4734-4244-A10E-85521A45D1FE/Documents/Blogger/blogger-image--944903131.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="/var/mobile/Containers/Data/Application/99AEF242-4734-4244-A10E-85521A45D1FE/Documents/Blogger/blogger-image-1105324444.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="/var/mobile/Containers/Data/Application/99AEF242-4734-4244-A10E-85521A45D1FE/Documents/Blogger/blogger-image-1105324444.jpg"></a></div>Chris dropped me off at the hospital admissions main entrance as he sped up to the parking garage to park. We were late to our designated arrival time at labor and delivery. We had to drive an hour to get to the hospital that morning and we had gotten stuck behind a car driving 15 mph below the speed limit. Our nerves were fried and I practically jumped out of the car when we finally got there.<br>
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I knew exactly where to go...I've walked those halls before, and nothing had changed in ten years. </div>
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I've never had a planned c-section day before. I've never had our plans for my baby's birthday actually work out. Both Hannah Mae and Cooper were born weeks before my doctors had planned and I was rushed down the labor and delivery hallways into operating rooms for emergency c-sections with both of them. </div>
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This time I went to bed the night before my baby's birth knowing that the next day I would be holding her in my arms. I nervously checked in with admissions and changed into the breezy hospital gown with excitement and anxiety at an extreme high. This time I was walked calmly down the hallway and into the operating room, stopping to say a quick 'I love you' to my scrub-wearing husband who was waiting outside the OR. This time I sat at the edge of the operating table with the nurses and techs while my doctor snuck up behind me and playfully tapped my back to say hi. </div>
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There was no emergency that day. There were no concerned faces and no rush to get my baby to safety. </div>
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Elliot Elizabeth was born crying in that cold OR. It was so very beautiful. Born at 6lbs 5oz- a whole pound bigger than Cooper, and two pounds bigger than Hannah Mae. She is the sweetest, most clingy baby we've had and we all adore her.<br>
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There are some that would roll their eyes at me calling a birth by c-section beautiful and serene. It is major surgery, yes. It is scary, yes. But Ellie Beth's birth was the most beautiful and peaceful and serene birth I've experienced. She was healthy and thriving inside my womb, and she was healthy and thriving as she was born. And as I type this, she is healthy and thriving in my arms. </div>
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That is the goal of pregnancy and childbirth. </div>
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I was so very bitter and angry after Owen died. I hated that my body could not carry a baby without a lot of medical intervention. I actually hated my body itself. I hated the twice daily shots I had to give myself and the hours and hours and hours of extra monitoring and doctors appointment. After Hannah was born, so tiny and growth restricted, I told Chris I was done. I did not ever want to be pregnant again. I just couldn't go through that torture again, the self loathing that pregnancy induced, and endless fears that my body would hurt another baby. </div>
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But then came Cooper. And Elliot. </div>
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I've had to let go of the idea of 'normal' pregnancy and being a 'normal' pregnant woman. And with the letting go came a precious peace. I grew into a thankfulness for the injections that burned and bruised, for the hours I spent quietly resting while hooked up to monitors, listening to my babies heartbeats. </div>
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I have never had a normal pregnancy. And that's ok. I gave birth to four beautiful babies and I get to raise four beautiful babies. One I did not carry or give birth to calls me mommy, and one I did carry and give birth to has never called me mommy. But I am their mom just the same.<br>
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Ten years ago I left the hospital without my baby and with a broken heart. The nurse that discharged me walked us down the back stairwell and out the side door, away from the nursery glass window, away from the rooms filled with crying newborns.<br>
<br>
Three weeks ago I entered that same hospital to deliver my baby girl under such extremely different circumstances. I never thought I'd step foot in that labor and delivery hospital wing again. I never thought I'd have happy memories from that place.<br>
<br>
I'm not the mom I thought I'd be when I was pregnant for the first time ten years ago. I could never have imagined in my worst nightmares or in my best dreams what our life would be like. Our life changed forever in that hospital room with the death and birth of our first baby.<br>
<br>
Our life is so much better because of that precious baby boy. He is more than a sad story... so much more than a tragedy. Telling and re-telling his story- the story of our God's faithfulness, the story of how grace broke into our lives is an ebenezer so big no shadow of difficult circumstances can cover its light.<br>
<br>
Three weeks ago we left that same hospital, hugging and waving happily to the nurses who cared for us, Chris walking behind my wheelchair carrying our newborn daughter in her car seat.<br>
<br>
Our Father God is the same ten years ago, today and tomorrow. The God who walked with us down that sad, dark back stairwell is the same God who led us out the front door rejoicing. He is the same. </div>
<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="/var/mobile/Containers/Data/Application/99AEF242-4734-4244-A10E-85521A45D1FE/Documents/Blogger/blogger-image--738297898.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="/var/mobile/Containers/Data/Application/99AEF242-4734-4244-A10E-85521A45D1FE/Documents/Blogger/blogger-image--738297898.jpg"></a></div>Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-70426830049916937192017-08-13T18:08:00.000-04:002017-08-13T18:08:26.898-04:00FragileI'm currently sitting on the couch with my feet propped up, trying to relax...but I'm 36 weeks 3 days pregnant, and I'm entering into unchartered territory.<br />
I've never been this pregnant before.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I don't know what to do with myself. I keep making lists and organizing, and folding little baby girl clothes, and remaking lists and crossing things off, and generally pacing and driving myself crazy.<br />
<br />
Wednesday afternoon is my scheduled c-section. I'll be just hours shy of 37 weeks pregnant. Our precious Elliot is still doing well, growing like she should be growing, and rolling around and about. The last two ultrasounds I've had have shown that she's almost in the 50th percentile and has a head full of hair. This is by far the most normal and boring pregnancy I've ever had.<br />
Honestly, again, I don't know what to do with myself.<br />
<br />
<br />
I feel like all my edges are electric and raw. I feel overwhelmed and overstimulated. My mind is not a safe place and I can't trust my thoughts right now. I know that sounds awful and unhealthy, but this is what it's like to have PTSD from a late term pregnancy loss, and have to re-enter into all the triggers of the last few days before delivery.<br />
<br />
<br />
Ellie was such a surprise, and the last seven and a half months have been steeped in so much uncertainty and anxiety, but she is our bright shining light by which the Lord has shown us such tenderness and goodness. She is a treasure and we're so thankful for her.<br />
<br />
<br />
Pregnancy is a time when what I say and believe about needing to be truly dependent on grace gets tested. My nerves are fried and I feel so fragile. I know I am weak and incapable on my own. I could get caught up in pride and ego so easily and not want to admit that this shit is hard. It is one of the hardest things I've ever done. There is not a day that goes by that I don't struggle with anxiety and fear so palpably that I could actually wrap my arms around it. But still, I could hide it. Most of my anxiety and panic attacks are internal.<br />
<br />
But I believe it is when we are weak that we get the biggest glimpses of who the Lord is and who we really are in Him. And so I boast in my weaknesses. I boast in my inability because it draws me nearer and nearer to Him, our saving grace. And I want others to see Him in this way. It is such a gift.<br />
<br />
He is a capable and strong Savior who longs for us to come to Him. He is a gentle and merciful Father who loves us with an unending love. He is a kind and powerful Lord who holds us all in His mighty hands.<br />
<br />
<br />
As I sit here waiting impatiently for Ellie Beth's birth, I can't help but think of all the worst case scenarios and fear something happening to her.<br />
The only thing that stills my anxious heart is remembering who He is and who He's always been...<br />
my good, good Father.<br />
<br />
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<br />Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-985068037212216142017-06-06T10:28:00.001-04:002017-06-06T10:28:01.862-04:00On we goyea though we walk<div>
through fear and uncertainty,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
hope goes before us</div>
<div>
in blinding light, </div>
<div>
we cannot see the way.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
yea though we walk</div>
<div>
feet stumbling in darkness,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
we lift up our eyes.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
eyes lifted up</div>
<div>
hearts longing for hope,</div>
<div>
on we go, on we go.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
hope goes before us</div>
<div>
in gentleness and mercy,</div>
<div>
we cannot see the way.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
yea though we walk</div>
<div>
though trouble would dismay,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
we lift up our eyes.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
eyes lifted up</div>
<div>
to fix our hearts above</div>
<div>
on hope, on love;</div>
<div>
on we go, on we go.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-61238171515687701872017-06-04T21:33:00.001-04:002017-06-04T21:33:57.251-04:00Fear not, keep onI never imagined that we'd find ourselves in this particular set of circumstances.<br />
<br />
Life is full of surprises.<br />
<br />
<br />
On January 3rd we drove all our worldly belongings packed tightly in a huge U-haul, having found ourselves without a job and without the prospect of a new job on the horizon. We moved from the home we built and loved for the past three years down to home in Georgia. And into the basement of generous family.<br />
<br />
January 7th I dug an old pregnancy test out of a still packed bag. When those two dark lines appeared, my hands shook and I choked back tears as I held it up for Chris to see as he sat perched by the tub washing our two youngest, one screaming, one splashing. I will never forget his response. "Seriously?!?!" he said as his eyes lit up and then the sound of the deep belly laugh that came right after.<br />
<br />
Our Father, who art in Heaven... what a sense of humor and drama He has.<br />
<br />
<br />
I spent almost three months in shock. My emotions ranged from disbelief, to fear, to anger, to the smallest bits of hope and excitement.<br />
<br />
Life is not always what you think it will be. And sometimes the surprises that come will feel more like dark thunder clouds quickly appearing on a blue sky day.<br />
<br />
<br />
My hardworking husband got a job washing windows, leaving early before the kids are up in the morning and coming home just an hour or so before bedtime. When he isn't washing windows, he spends his time on networking phone calls and at conferences making connections.<br />
<br />
Our first ministry call had been beautifully and wonderfully challenging, calling us to go deeper in the Word, deeper into our identity as beloved. It ended with the realization that the Lord was calling us somewhere new, though the road was unknown to us at the time. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done... to leave a place and a people, precious friends, that I had grown to love so much.<br />
<br />
"My feet are light... my eyes are clear... I cannot see the way from here..."<br />
<br />
<br />
We left winter behind in Indiana and found ourselves in the middle of what felt like springtime in Georgia. The kids have been outside in the warm sun for months, running around in short sleeves, riding bikes, playing in the rich red Georgia clay and throwing rocks in the lake behind my parents house.<br />
<br />
<br />
The days have been long, slow adjustments of new routines. I spend a lot of time out in the backyard, listening to the sweet birdsongs of cardinals and blue jays and watching nature come to life as spring springs all around us. The lake shines bright blue as it slowly swishes up onto the red rocky clay of the shoreline.<br />
<br />
This unexpected and beloved baby is a girl. A precious baby sister that her big sisters could not be<br />
more excited to hold and love.<br />
<br />
<br />
"But on we go... He knows the way, and in his arms he keeps me safe"<br />
<br />
<br />
I honestly have no idea where we'll be this summer when Elliot is born.<br />
<br />
When I cannot remember myself what I know to be true, I have so many precious friends who remind me of the truth. The Lord is guiding us and we can trust Him. He was not surprised by our circumstances when we found out that our church could not financially support us in the new year. And when job prospect after job prospect did not pan out. When it was clear that we were going to need to move in with family while we worked to figure out our next steps. He was not in the least bit surprised or concerned that I found myself pregnant four days after moving into my parents basement.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Fear not, keep on, watch and pray..."<br />
<br />
<br />
I have been overwhelmed with one consistently recurring truth in the past five months...<br />
<br />
Our capability is not, in fact, a fruit of the Spirit. We do not have to rely on our understanding or ability or works in order to gain rest and security in the Gospel. That is not the Gospel of good news at all.<br />
<br />
The Gospel is simply and beautifully recognizing our deep need of a Savior. It is forsaking all trust in our ability to redeem ourselves and leaning all of our weight onto Jesus as He lived and died to make us sons and daughters of God Almighty. It is crawling up into our Father's lap and receiving the acceptance and security of a Holy Father. It is not the quantity of our faith but the quality of the object of our faith. In what... in whom are we putting our trust?<br />
<br />
We will not receive more of Jesus once we hit a standard of understanding and knowledge. We've already been given all the grace of Jesus. Capability nor perfectionism is a fruit of the spirit.... but the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control... and against such things there is no law.<br />
<br />
Over the past year, I had been struggling with and had slowly fallen into the belief that I could rely on my own understanding of the Gospel and that if I relied on my knowledge of grace and my understanding of Jesus that I could stand in front of our holy God.<br />
<br />
But it is just Jesus that saves.... just faith alone in what Jesus has done on my behalf.<br />
That is such a relief.<br />
Such a <i>freeing, burdenless</i> <i>relief.</i><br />
<br />
All our understanding of grace is meant to draw us nearer and nearer to Jesus, the Messiah, comforted that it is finished on our behalf so we can truly rest in our acceptance, and grow in love, joy, peace, patience, goodness, kindness, gentleness, faithfulness, and self-control by the Spirit living inside of us. <br />
<br />
We can turn to see the beauty all around us and in others because nothing is up to us nor in what we can do.... or what we are capable of doing for God in this world. We are meant to point to Jesus in all things... What endless beauty and joy and hope to be found in him.<br />
<br />
What freedom there is when you see that perfectionism and success and capacity are not actually what our Father wants for us... oh, what a weightless freedom to know that we can and should boast in our weaknesses and in Jesus' saving grace.<br />
<br />
<br />
I think we'll always be thankful for this difficult season of our lives. It has been full of grief and fear, but puncutated with so much hope and the peace of seeing that we are safe with our Father, who knows what He's doing and where He's leading us.<br />
<br />
<br />
I never imagined that we'd find ourselves in this particular set of circumstances.<br />
<br />
Life is full of hope and joy and endless beauty when we fix our eyes on Jesus.<br />
<br />
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<br />Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-66892125714026833642017-02-10T21:02:00.000-05:002017-02-10T21:18:59.499-05:00Rememberings of an unashamed people watcher I've sat at my window and watched car after car roll through stop signs as people walked/jogged/biked on the concrete trail that crossed town. I've seen parents with babies in strollers, toddlers trailing behind crying and stomping their feet, trying to enjoy a sunny weekend afternoon. I've watched professional bike racers and kids on training wheels share the path with ease and probably some frustration mixed in.<br />
<br />
We witnessed the craze and excitement of Pokémon Go as fifty people, old and young, crowded the street corner where three Poké stops were located.<br />
<br />
Late one night I sat up and prayed for the homeless woman who set up her pallet across from our apartment. She yelled out several times a minute until, I suspect, she decided to forgo sleep and got up to walk downtown, leaving her pallet behind.<br />
<br />
Every Saturday morning our family woke up to the sights and sounds of the farmers market coming to life. Wildflowers gathered up and tied with string, fresh eggs and vegetables spilling out from every canvas bag carrying man, woman and child. And every first Friday night, the shops turned into art galleries and people gathered to hear pop up concerts on the street corners.<br />
<br />
One night just before last Christmas, Chris and I watched as the police arrested a man for pulling down the colorful Christmas lights from a downtown business storefront. Those colorful lights stayed discarded on the pavement for days.<br />
<br />
<br />
We watched and wondered many a late weekend night where the formal clad college students being picked up by charter bus were headed.<br />
<br />
We've watched lively parades and (road)bikers with protest signs and loud jazz bands stroll the b-line at dusk. I spyed a young couple get engaged right on our street corner as the sun set behind them and a photographer snuck priceless photos.<br />
<br />
Each weekend brought with it a line for the steakhouse across the street, and the amazing smell of steak-filled smoke as it wafted up to our window. And every November we watched in fascination as parade goers gathered excitedly on Krampus night and strange creatures roamed at dark around us.<br />
<br />
We sorrowfully watched as the beautiful handmade mural of Bloomington and its sister city was<br />
ripped and torn as it came down when the building it was attached to was demolished.<br />
<br />
Mid-September came with my favorite weekend. The annual music festival brought the loud deep<br />
thudding of drums and international music that filled our walls. We opened our terrace doors wide and let the cool autumn air in, mixing with the sounds of beautiful music and people laughing from the streets below.<br />
<br />
I've sat and marveled at hundreds and hundreds of sunsets. And thousands and thousands of snowflakes as they floated down to cover pavement and rooftops below. The historic Bloomington Antique sign painted across the large brick building and the smoke stack that loomed on the edge of downtown ever our home's backdrop.<br />
<br />
We witnessed life and joy and heartache from that big beautiful window of our third floor apartment.<br />
<br />
<br />
We lived life and joy and heartache inside that 900 sq ft two bedroom apartment. I will always miss<br />
and be thankful for that home and what the Lord gave us there...<br />
<br />
the sweet friends that filled it, the prayers and tears and joy we shared inside those walls...I will never forget the late night laughter and conversations with all the people we loved and that loved us so well. All the meals shared and game nights that lasted late... the playdates with little kid friends and cups of tea with their mamas. The relaxing craft nights with friends (and too much chips and dip) and community groups that became like family. My youngest baby girl turned into a big girl who talks and acts like an independent teenager, my oldest became a reader and my baby boy... we brought him home from the hospital to that tiny apartment and watched him take his first steps and say his first words inside those walls. Chris and I celebrated our 12th anniversary just before moving... and that apartment ...it was our home together and I had never felt closer to my sweet husband.<br />
<br />
Bloomington... you gave us so many unexpected blessings and we will always love you.<br />
<br />Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-56015295068547590132016-12-29T21:58:00.000-05:002016-12-29T22:11:24.916-05:00Let them lead me Things feel very challenging right now. In the midst of boxes stacked high in our small apartment, and heartbreaking goodbyes and sad lasts in our last days here, I am craving normalcy and praying for peace.<br />
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I have always sucked at transitions.<br />
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I held Cooper for about an hour last night as he fought against heavy eyelids and sleep. He snuggled close and pulled my arm tighter against his body, looking up at my face and whispering "hi mama" as he touched my chin with his sticky little fingers that smelled of sweet peanut butter.<br />
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I closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep in hopes that it would encourage him to close his eyes too. He chattered and giggled to himself, saying "bat bad guy" over and over again laughing quietly. When I peaked at him a few times, he was staring at his hands raised up toward the ceiling, waving them around and turning them over, finally bringing them down to cover his nose and mouth and giggling some more. Then he turned his head and touched my chin again... "My mom.... My mom..... My mom" he whispered firmly over and over again as if he scolding someone invisible.<br />
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As he laid there as close as he could get to my side, I realized that in the midst of the chaos of boxes and cleaning and questions and uncertainty and sorrow... there is peace and rest here too. There is so much comfort just being still in the presence of my good, good Father. His hand sustains us all.<br />
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"why are you cast down low, o my soul?<br />
why are you cast down low and in turmoil?<br />
hope in God, for I shall again praise him,<br />
hope in God, for He is my salvation...<br />
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send out your light and your truth<br />
let them lead me"<br />
-Sandra McCracken<br />
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<br />Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-54359699995580648762016-12-03T22:23:00.000-05:002016-12-03T22:23:00.857-05:00Watch and pray Though Chris finished all of his ordination exams and was ordained about a year ago, I still struggle to call myself a pastor's wife.<br />
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It has been a good, hard year.<br />
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Last fall in the months leading up to his ordination, I felt so much fear and worry over this life of ministry. I was very preoccupied with whether I had both the capacity and competency to do full time ministry. Honestly, I actually had a panic attack that Sunday during church in the hours before Chris took his vows.<br />
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In all the anxiety surrounding the ordination service, I had forgotten where to go... where to look. My head had been bent so low that all I could see were the things I wasn't good at and where my feet might stumble.<br />
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Lift up your head, oh my soul.<br />
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Lift up your eyes,<br />
I lift them up to You.<br />
From where does my help come?<br />
My help comes from the Lord.<br />
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This Lord? The one who was in the beginning, the one who made the Heavens and the Earth is the<br />
same one who sits in the dark places with me, the one I trust with my deepest wounds, and I have learned that I can trust him with this too.<br />
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Though fear and worry still struggle against the truth, He has taught me to sit with Him, the Lord of all things... He has shown me that I have security in His love, that it is right and good to strip away the layers I tacked on thinking I needed my own carefully placed metal armor. He has shown me tenderness and mercy in ways I never knew I needed. He has taken my roots deep into solid ground, to the place where hope abides and heals.<br />
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I am His child. I am made in His image and I am beloved, just as I am. My worth and value are never in question with Him.<br />
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He has set the sun and the moon, and He has set me as well.<br />
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These are the truest things about me, whether or not I am a pastor's wife. They are yours too.<br />
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I do not want to keep my head bent so low... there is so much beauty and hope and life to see when we lift up our eyes.<br />
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<br />Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-82374583953202325652016-06-08T21:09:00.001-04:002016-06-08T21:14:50.226-04:00Come and be loved<div>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Have you ever thought that we view others as mirrors? </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I can't remember exactly where I heard this (and I know I'm paraphrasing and plagiarizing this) but it has been rolling around in my head for months. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">What if we stopped viewing ourselves in relation to what someone else looks like? What if we stopped measuring ourselves against the person in front of us, and stopped imagining how our images lined up with theirs, as if theirs was the standard.... or worse, as if our image was the standard... </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">What if when we looked at the person staring back at us, we just appreciated them for the unique and wonderfully made human being they are? </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I don't want to be a mirror that calls others to look and compare themselves or judge themselves against my standard. I have no standard. I have no standard because I did not receive a standard to achieve when I ran to my Father and climbed up into his lap. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I received so much gentleness, so much kindness and grace when I deserved none of it. </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">My hard heart... my bitter, angry, unrepentant heart did not in turn recieve bitterness and hardness. I </span><span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">received a gentle hand... </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255 , 255 , 255 , 0); font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">an invitation to sit and cry, to be comforted and accepted and loved.</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We are called <b><i>not</i></b> to fit a standard... but in our uniqueness together... as broken and imperfect as we may be, we are called to reflect the gentleness, the kindness, the acceptance and the comfort of a Father who longs for us to draw near to Him. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>This is His church. We are His people.</b><br /><br />And the closer we draw near to Him... the further we shrink back from the things that tempt us away from our Father... we are transformed by his infinite love for us. How could we not? It is irresistible. </span></div>
Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-34693688076178833852016-05-15T08:11:00.001-04:002016-05-15T08:11:48.759-04:00Resting<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">There is a lie that masks itself as truth, putting on church clothes and behaving nicely in the row in front of us. It sounds like wisdom, this lie, penetrating deep into our hearts. <br></span><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It was a battle, a feat to get out the door to church that morning. Everything in you screamed to stay home, to stay where it was safe under the covers, but you went anyway. Late, of course, you snuck in the back hoping no one notices the mess you know you are. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Your heart is longing for the acceptance, for the peace that comes with security. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><i>You are not as good as you should be</i>, a quiet whisper brushes past you. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Our clothes may be neat, our homes may be tidy, but our minds hold a mess of doubts and questions. Am I accepted? Am I safe? Is there something I still have to do, what can I do?? </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><i>You are not as good as you should be</i> reverberates inside your head until it makes its way to your heart, taking hold of you. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But we must not believe it. We must fight against it... This lie. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But fighting does not look like working. There is no good work you can do to gain the security and acceptance we long to have. There is no work you must do before you can rest. That is not our fight to win. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Fighting looks a whole lot like resting. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Because it is. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Fighting... faith... It is a resting. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We rest in the unchanging, never stopping, always and forever love. We rest, lavishly soaking up the security and love of our Father. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And in our resting, we gather up our friends to come with us. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Come and rest, we confidently say. <i>You are more loved than you ever dared to dream. </i></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></div>Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-60684060351954682442016-05-10T15:19:00.001-04:002016-05-10T15:20:19.332-04:00Hope, 7 years later<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It started the day we found out Owen had died. It came from friends, a few family members and my doctor. <br><br><span style="font-style: italic;">It will be better in time. You'll have more babies. It gets easier. You're still young, you can have more. Time heals all wounds. </span><br><br>What those words offered me was hopeless. Time <span style="font-style: italic;">does not</span> heal. Grief's burden does not get easier to carry. Having a child that lives will in no way replace Owen or take my grief away. Maybe I will never deliver a living child and being young certainly does not guarantee a body that is able to carry a child to term.<br><br>I found no hope in their words, all except one.<br><br><span style="font-style: italic;">Jesus loves you. He loves you...</span> my pastor boldly proclaimed to me at Owen's funeral.<br><br><br>16 months later by God's grace, I am able to say, boldly and without shame... <br><span style="font-weight: bold;">Yes.</span> Yes, He does. And in these three beautiful words we have <span style="font-weight: bold;">great hope</span>.<br><br>I cannot hope in time, for in time more suffering may come. I cannot place my hope in having living children. I cannot hope for a reprieve from suffering on this earth, because I will always be disappointed. If I place my hope in something that is passing, something easily shaken, then when it fails- where will I turn?<br><br>But if we place our hope in the Lord, we will never be disappointed because <span style="font-style: italic;">He is unchanging</span>.<br><br>And we will have great hope.<br>Hope that we will never be abandoned. Hope that when everything else is gone, He will never forsake us. Hope that when I leave this earthly home, I have a Heavenly home waiting for me.<br><br>Hope that one day, all things will be made right. </span><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It has been 7 years since I wrote these painful, beautiful words. At this point in my life, I had no idea if I would ever know what it was like to hold my living children, to raise them and watch them grow up. I had no idea I would be given three babies to hold in my arms. I had no idea. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But I knew hope. I knew hope, because I knew Jesus. I clung to him like he was a lifeline amidst waves that threatened to drown me. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Do you want to know the truth? </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I have days that feel scary, and hopelessness presses in. Waves push against me, threatening to overwhelm me. I still struggle with questions of why, Lord? and prayers that sound more like bargaining... please Lord, no, please help...</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But even in struggling.... my hope is still unchanging, unshakeable. My hope is Jesus, who is secure. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">In a world full of insecurity and brokenness, in a body that struggles and fights within itself, I cling to my Jesus, to be nearer and nearer to Him, to know Him better. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">He is still my hope. And oh, how beautiful, how precious it is. </span></div>Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-90286220401644834462016-04-12T15:40:00.001-04:002016-04-12T15:40:38.172-04:00this hearts desire<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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my eyes prick with the sheer beauty<br />
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of this ordinary life.</div>
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the squeals and smells,</div>
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the sweetest of smiles,</div>
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the passing glance as they run by</div>
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feet plodding underneath with imprecise precision;</div>
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so sure of where they're headed...</div>
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to adventure,</div>
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to Joy indescribable,</div>
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to the exciting unknown;</div>
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full of beauty, sorrow, pain and loss<br />
full of hope</div>
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with a heart securely loved. </div>
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Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-3356461364586267242016-01-25T23:24:00.001-05:002016-01-26T00:39:23.666-05:00Free<span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I've been writing here for seven years, and have written so much of my heart about grief and struggling and hope and waiting and all that comes with it. I sometimes feel </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">like I am becoming a broken record. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">But I realized recently that I still need to hear the same things over and over, that I still am learning the same things over and over again. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">You're free and that's all I'm trying to say. If you weren't free then Jesus wouldn't be who he says he is.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I </span><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #191919; font-family: Trebuchet, 'Trebuchet MS', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">never</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> want anyone to feel like there is no freedom to ask God 'why?' or to go to the Father with our questions. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">We have such great freedom to unashamedly go to our Father in Heaven and sit in his lap and cry our eyes out asking 'why?' There is so much freedom to struggle over and over again with the same things for the rest of our lives. </span><br />
<i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #191919; font-family: Trebuchet, 'Trebuchet MS', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">He loves us. He cares. He is much much more patient and kind than we can imagine.</i><br />
<i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #191919; font-family: Trebuchet, 'Trebuchet MS', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></i><span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">When Jesus comes back and makes all things right, there may not be a single question on our lips. It may not matter at all why. And the whys may be a part of God's secret things that we can never know.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">But... but that doesn't mean that at some point in our lives those questions aren't important to us. Those burning questions of why, the messy struggling in this broken world can pull us into a deeper relationship with God. They can cause us to <b>run to Him and fall into His lap, a sacred place.</b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The burning we feel from the questions can start to fade, in time. But it is not by someone </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">telling us not to ask, just to 'let go and let God'. It is not after someone tells us that the why is not for us to know. There is <b>great freedom</b> to ask why... to ask anything. It's true, we may never get an answer. We may never feel a </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: trebuchet, 'trebuchet ms', arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">peace about the why.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">And if there is no answer, no peace about the whys.... in the end, we're still sitting in His lap, talking to our Father and we can find peace and rest in </span><i style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #191919; font-family: Trebuchet, 'Trebuchet MS', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">who He is</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I remember the first time I ran to the Lord after Owen's death. It was just over a year later... it was raw and in broken sobs, collapsed on my husband's shoulder. I cried out, begging for reassurance that the Lord had not abandoned me. I had lost another baby, our third, and I was desperate for answers. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Eight years later, I have found no peace in the why of Owen's short life, in the loss of our babies. I still don't understand. I still ask why sometimes. I still cry my eyes out and struggle with the reality of their absence. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">But I do have peace. <i>There is rest.</i> </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">My tears soak through, then stubbornly dry and then fall again... and I look down and realize <i>I've never left His lap.</i> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; font-family: "trebuchet" , "trebuchet ms" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-65751814171184001982016-01-18T15:18:00.005-05:002016-01-18T18:06:21.013-05:00Balance and a tight rope walkSky gray<br>
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Snow blown about by the freezing wind.</div>
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Coffee warm in my hands,</div>
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Growing cool as I linger over thoughts of quiet,</div>
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Daydreams of naps,</div>
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covers drawn over my head. </div>
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I have spent this past year longing for balance. Balance of time, energy, homeschooling... you name it. Having three children in 4.5 short years was definitely not the plan... I spent a couple of heartbreaking years wondering if we would ever have living children.<br>
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These three little boogers are amazing, precious and oh, the love... this mama love is incredible. </div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">But I need to back up... You must know that having a second child (and then a third) rocked me to my core. Three years ago, I kissed my husband and two year old goodbye as they bounded out the door for a daddy date. I crawled back in bed, pulled the covers over me and snuggled down to write and think. The night before we had finally gotten '</span><i style="text-align: center;">the </i><span style="text-align: center;">CALL'. The call where your case worker congratulates you and your husband on being chosen by a birthmom and you fall on the floor crying and laughing. </span></div>
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It was a <b>great</b> night. </div>
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The next morning as I relished in daydreams and happy anticipation, my phone rang and our caseworker's number popped up again (aptly named in my phone 'BABY'). Dread filled me as I felt it could only be bad news. I never expected her to say that our birthmom had gone into labor the night before and that she had a healthy baby girl. We thought we had four to six weeks to prepare! I paced our apartment as our caseworker explained that though she was early, the baby girl was healthy and would be ready to leave the hospital tomorrow.... and would we be able and willing to bring her home then? </div>
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Yes. YES! You can only imagine our response. </div>
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Almost exactly three years ago, we drove fifteen minutes down the highway to meet our baby girl for the first time and bring her home. </div>
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Being Ruby's mom is one of my greatest and challenging roles. It is a privilege and an honor. My love for her is far more complex and beautiful and <i>deep</i> than I could have imagined that snowy January day three years ago when we first learned of her precious life. </div>
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I know comparing children is always a recipe for disaster, and I honestly never intentionally did that... but, you see... I had certain expectations ... as well as a self righteous, grace-less perspective on parenting.<br>
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Hannah was a laid back, "easy" baby. By the time she was 10 months old, she was sleeping soundly 12 hours each night. She napped three hours in the afternoon for years. Hannah Mae was not prone to tantrums or power struggles as a toddler (but has <u>so.many.tantrums at five!!</u>). I had so much of my identity wrapped up in my ability to be a "good mom" and in the fact that my kid was "easy". </div>
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<b><i>I really did think there was a formula to being a good mom and that I had cracked the code to having a tantrum-less, easily correctable and laid back good sleeper. </i></b></div>
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Ever since Ruby was a very small baby, she has struggled with sleep. At almost three years old, I don't think she has slept through the night yet. She is high spirited and easily frustrated. She has always known exactly what she wants to do or say, and not being to do or communicate that will cause a screaming fit on the floor. My tried and true techniques just did not work. </div>
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And oh, the mess of anger, guilt, failure and resentment that caused in my heart. Ruby is just a normal kid with normal kid behavior, but my heart elevated her behavior and her lack of response to <i>my formula</i> to dangerous heights because I had staked my identity on whether or not my kids were "good" and if they were, then that meant I was a "good mom".<br>
Being what I had defined as a good mom was my highest aspiration. Of course, I didn't really know that was what I was doing in my heart, but it is now painfully and shamefully obvious as the past year and a half, I have become more irritable, less patient, more angry, and less gracious to my kids. Especially less gracious to my oldest daughter as I realize that I have boxed her into the role of the "laid back one" who doesn't have tantrums... except she does have tantrums now and struggles with emotional regulation (just like her mom). I have been walking a tight rope with my kids, focusing on behavior instead of their own individual hearts. </div>
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<i>Please don't hear me say my love for my kids depends on their behavior. It is not that all. </i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>The heart of the matter actually is much much more about</i><i style="font-weight: bold;"> </i><b>my heart</b><i> than their behavior.</i><b> </b></span></div>
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These past three years of parenting two (and now three) differently built children and I have been longing for more... more balance, more order, more time, more sleep.<br>
(I really don't thing that those are bad things to desire... seriously, especially the sleep! Oh especially the sleep.) </div>
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I have felt a growing ache in my heart recently that maybe what I have actually been craving was more grace, more mercy, more freedom... <i>more Jesus. </i></div>
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What if in seeking so desperately for balance in this chaotic life, we find that t<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">he balance is a man... and his name is Jesus. </span><br>
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My prayers these past few months have been full of contrition and brokenness, and of hope...<br>
I long to provide my kids a safe place. A place to be themselves, to mess up and to struggle. A place to be loved as they are. A place to see grace over and over and over again. A place to experience Jesus.</div>
Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-15143779363809394282015-11-06T21:36:00.002-05:002015-11-06T21:54:55.022-05:00For the promised morning, oh how long?My neck is bent over to the side awkwardly and a small fuzzy headed baby is snoring softly into my ear. I'm lingering over post-bedtime snuggles with my youngest. He is decidedly a mama's boy, and I am 1000% ok with that.<br />
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This past year has been both one of the sweetest and hardest years we've had since we became parents, the second time- not the first. Our days are full, loud, messy and unapologetically ordinary. I could write for days about the complexities, the contradictions, the messiness of being a bereaved mom.<br />
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But I'm drawn back here to write about my first son, the one who would be eight this Sunday. The one whose absence stretches over everything- to quote someone much more eloquent than me.<br />
The son I can't hear snoring or hold in my arms. The one who made me a mom, though I never experienced motherhood with him how I longed to. The one my arms ache to hold, the one I think of every time someone asks me how many children I have or when we take a family picture.<br />
The missing one. Our first son.<br />
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This grief is a sacred thing... a beautiful, rich, hope-filled part of us.<br />
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With a five year old, a two year old and a newly one year old baby, this year has looked different from years past. There are no long pauses of quiet rest or reflection on the boy who would be eight.<br />
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Stitched into our life, our days, is a fabric worn soft with brokenness and held together by hope.<br />
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And it is so beautiful.<br />
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Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-34553263048277809482015-07-20T23:22:00.001-04:002015-07-20T23:42:43.284-04:00the hope we have<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Bitstream Charter', serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After Owen died, we went into survival mode. There weren’t very many plans made or at least none that I made. I had no energy for anything except my grief. We lived, breathed and ate our grief. It was everywhere and in everything; in the clear blue skies outside our window, the sounds of children playing down the street, the grocery store. Nothing was innocuous. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Everything</em> was a reminder of what was lost.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I’m not going to say it was the right way to do things or that we were wrong either. It was just the way we chose to grieve. I’m not even really sure it was a conscious choice, but it was how we did things nonetheless. God has been gracious to us in our grieving, no matter if it was right or wrong. Seven years and eight months later, we are growing in grace, in acceptance and healing. But complete healing and acceptance won’t come until Jesus comes back and because of this we grieve as well. We have to wait.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This is our Father’s world and one day, he will renew all things </span><em style="border: 0px; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">here</em><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. He will make all things right. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After Owen died it was hard for me to care about anything. I just wanted to be with my baby. Honestly, I just wanted to die too. A year after his death and after losing two more precious ones to miscarriage, I started writing here. Writing on this blog has been so cathartic for me, so healing. I have felt my hands loosen around the dream of what could have been, and have let my heart feel the hope of what is to come. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As the years have passed, some slowly and painfully, and others rather quickly, I have begun to see this living as more than just a waiting. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There is still waiting- waiting for our Jesus to come back- but there is so much more to living. Living means we still have a purpose on this earth. A mission...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But what is the mission? Doing good things? Being good people?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I am thankful it is so much more than that... making known who God is as <i>we know Him better and deeper</i>, and caring about what God cares about. His people, His creation, His glory.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Praise the Lord he is so abounding in patience, in mercy, in faithfulness, and in love. He will never abandon us, never let us go. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In the dark, scary, unknown places we <i>can</i> trust him... </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">oh, the hope we have. </span></div>
Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-23235138972873424422015-04-30T15:37:00.003-04:002015-04-30T15:43:20.470-04:00This parenting thingThese days with three kids... many weeks pass by with such urgency... get the two year old up before she starts screaming, make breakfast, drink coffee, fix ten snacks, get everybody dressed, drink coffee, change two diapers, make the grocery list, run to the store, get the diapers washed and hung up to dry, drink coffee, pick up the toys scattered on the floor, throw in a load of laundry, eat eat eat, vacuum all the crumbs night after night, three songs, a prayer, tuck into bed, lights out, and count the hours in my head until the baby will wake to eat, and start the day all over again.<br />
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It isn't only the daily tasks, the sheer work load of raising three kids that is draining. It isn't just that I don't sit idle or rest at all anymore. It isn't how my house is never clean anymore, or that I spent most of my time making food and then cleaning it up.<br />
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It is the constant worry.... Am I listening enough? Am I paying attention? Am I present with them right now? Do they know I love them even when I get impatient and grumpy and frustrated? Am I generous with my time and energy and emotions?<br />
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Is it enough? Is it enough??<br />
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Am I enough?<br />
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Our precious five year old has started to worry about things. She fixates on something and asks over and over if a feeling or a thought will go away. She asks why she needs to go potty all the time. She<br />
worries that her hands will always feel sticky. She looks at me, eyes wide and teary, and asks why she worries about everything all the time. I cry with her, knowing deep down this struggle she feels.<br />
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I worry too.<br />
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Today before rest time, we read Matthew 6 together. I let the words wash over me... like a fetter I felt my heart anchor to the truth. Why do <i>I</i> worry all the time?<br />
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Because I forget Jesus.<br />
Because I forget so easily what is true, what is real, what will never change.<br />
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This parenting thing? It is more than I ever dreamed.<br />
It is more work, more tiring, more rewarding, more worry filled, more amazing than I could have<br />
dreamed.<br />
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My heart has doubled... it has tripled, and it is bigger each day as it grows to hold all the love, all the worry, all the desires I have for these precious babies the Lord has given us.<br />
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I feel stretched in ways I didn't think I could be stretched, and I am called every day to trust the Lord in ways I don't want to... in ways I thought I could leave behind when we finally brought our precious 4 lb baby home from the hospital.<br />
I thought the worry, the questioning, the doubt and fear would fall away after we brought Hannah Mae home after 35 weeks of stress and fear. But it hasn't. It hasn't, and it is a daily battle.<br />
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Oh, my heart. But He <b>is </b>enough.<br />
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He is enough. His Word is enough. His atonement is enough. His grace is enough. <i>He is enough. </i><br />
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<i>He is enough. </i><br />
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Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-18932993837477041692015-04-22T14:40:00.002-04:002015-04-22T22:43:58.515-04:00to my heartwhen tears come<br />
let them fall<br />
like rain washing<br />
like truth telling.<br />
<br />
your worry, your fears,<br />
your pain.<br />
this weakness we feel<br />
in our bones<br />
<br />
there is beauty in your vulnerability,<br />
in your tenderness<br />
there lies your strength.<br />
<br />
Run, my daughter, run<br />
fly free, fast.<br />
your feet are ready,<br />
strong and brave.<br />
<br />
there is no shame<br />
in wanting<br />
nor despise in need.<br />
<br />
we stand with you<br />
with tears, with hope.<br />
there will come redemption,<br />
and joy... joy comes in the morning.<br />
<br />
fly free, fast<br />
your feet are ready<br />
strong and brave.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-18705578089528768902015-03-25T22:24:00.003-04:002015-03-25T22:25:51.459-04:00A prologue of sorts<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I suppose the most natural place to
start is at the beginning. But like most beginnings, this one starts at the end
of something. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Chapter
1<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
morning is unusually cold. Early spring air blows in gently through the open
window and I shiver under the thick green blanket. Looking down, I take in the
ratty wool blanket tucked in around me. Stephen must have come to my rescue
after I opened the front window in my haste to get fresh air. This blanket is a
true testament of my love for my darling husband. Under no circumstances other than love would I keep such an impractical and scratchy eyesore of a blanket.
We hardly need such a heavy blanket where we live, but Stephen insists on
keeping it around. And I do love my husband, I sigh contentedly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I love
having the windows open when I sleep, hearing the nightly routine of nature
float in as I fall asleep, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">or try to
sleep</i> I note grumpily. Even in the middle of summer in our hot southern
home I love throwing open the windows in the middle of the night. The soft
chirping of birds and crickets act as a mid-summer’s night lullaby to my sleepy
ears, and the steady whir of the overhead fan lulls me to sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Shifting
uncomfortably on the couch, I wonder how long I’ve been asleep. As my eyes
flutter open a sudden panic overwhelms me. The clock on the fireplace ticks a
soft rhythm, but the rapid beating of my heart pounds in my ears. It is five
thirty in the morning. My breathing turns uneven as I try in vain to calm down.
Breathing deeply I turn over on my back and look up at the creamy white ceiling
above me. I feel as if I’ve had a lovely daydream interrupted by a nightmare. The old grandfather clock Stephen and I found on an early morning yard
sale spree ticks louder. But that must be my imagination, I reason. The ticking
of the clock is always the same rhythm, the same volume. It is as dependable as
my father’s homecoming at six o’clock every weekday evening. You could set a
watch to my father. His routine never varied from week to week, and I remember
waiting impatiently for his return each night, dragging my schoolbooks out to
the front porch in an effort to appease my mother as I waited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
shift heavily on the couch and look out the wide front window of our living
room. The breeze is lazily floating in past the curtains that I drew back late
last night in an effort to cool the room quickly. I hear the clock tick slower
now. Again, it must be my imagination…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Charlotte? Charlotte, are you okay?”
she asks with concern. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Um, y-yes.” I stammer. Where am I? I
look around the cluttered room and remember. Two overflowing bookshelves line
one of the far walls while the others are decorated with framed diplomas and
cheap stock paintings from the brand name craft store from the next town over. “Sorry,
Claudia. I guess my mind drifted off.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m
sitting in my therapist’s office. I have a tissue in my hand and my head feels
fuzzy. The dark green walls have always made me feel a little claustrophobic.
There is an aching in my chest and a pit in my stomach. These are things I
know. What I don’t know is how I got to Claudia’s office. Or where my car is
parked. Or why I decided to wear a sweater in this awful heat. I fidget with my
sleeves and pull out at the front of my sweater uncomfortably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You left us for a minute… what were
you thinking about?” Claudia asks. She looks more than concerned; she looks
afraid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Right. Um, I…” I try not to swallow
loudly. “I was just thinking.” I respond in my best non-committal voice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Would you like to talk--“<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Claudia, I’m so sorry.” I look at my
watch-less arm quickly. “Not to be rude, but I forgot I had, um, someplace to
be now.” I try not to look her in the eyes as I clumsily gather up my purse and
scarf from the plaid couch under a large painting of a stone cottage nestled by
a lake. I can feel Claudia’s eyes on me as I stumble over my feet and leave
somewhat ungracefully, shutting her office door with a quiet click. Shuffling down
the steps to the front door I feel the scarf in my hands and pause. Seriously,
what was I thinking this morning? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A wall
of cold air hits me when I open the front door, and a wreath bangs loudly next
to my ear. I sigh inwardly and look up to the cloudy skies above me. Right. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Of course</i>. It’s December and Christmas
is right around the corner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I pull open the wreathless door and step inside as fast as I can. I have never been
mistaken for someone who has it all together, but that little episode has left
me feeling pretty shaken. I take a deep breath and turn the lock, leaning on
the door for support. At least I found out where I parked my car. And
thankfully I didn’t break the window trying to get into that doppelganger car
outside of Claudia’s office. I peek back outside and see my white ’97 Honda
Accord parked safe and sound in front of the house. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Seriously, Charlotte, you’ve got to get it together.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s
not the first time someone has lost their car in a parking lot, and it’s not
this someone’s first time either. But even by my standards, forgetting that I
walked the six blocks to my weekly counseling session is getting a bit
ridiculous. Padding into the kitchen, I stop at the refrigerator to check its
contents. My stomach rumbles impatiently. I’m not sure I ate breakfast, but I
am quite sure that 3 o’clock isn’t exactly lunchtime. It will have to do, I
mutter to myself as I eat cold leftover pizza straight from the box. </span><i style="font-family: 'Courier New'; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">How cliché, Charlotte.</i><span style="font-family: 'Courier New'; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> I can hear my
mother’s pejorative tutting from three states away. Oh well, today has not been
a gold star kind of day, so why start now? Now that I think of it, this type of
all or nothing behavior is what Claudia has spent the last three sessions
harping on. I lean my head back on the cold surface of the refrigerator door
and sigh. I know that’s not fair. Claudia does not harp; she’s kind and
thoughtful. And concerned about me, I remember uncomfortably.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">She’s not the only one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
house sits quiet around me and I know that I should get up and turn on the
radio. The whir of the bedroom fan and the soft tick of the clock from the
living room fill my ears with sound, but my mind hears the relentless quiet
nevertheless. I run my hand across the soft blue shapes on the fabric of the
window seat beneath me, tracing the circles with my fingers. This window seat
in the middle bedroom has been one of my favorite spots in the house ever since
Stephen first showed me this little house on Fourth Street. Though five years
ago I didn’t know that I would be living here or that he would be my husband. But
once he proposed it wasn’t long before I had designs planned for each room in
our new house. The fabric store down on Main was one of my favorite stops on my
way home from work. I loved picking out all the colors and patterns and
textures of our new home. After our humble abode was decked out and completed,
I would go back and spend hours pouring over fabric swatches dreaming of the
day when… when…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sighing
deeply I get up and pace the room.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>I didn’t hear
the keys in the lock, but the door slamming into place gets my attention.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Stephen??” I call out uncertainly. The
house answers back with creaking floorboards and silence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-36686272191442487372015-02-11T11:34:00.002-05:002015-02-11T16:20:33.033-05:00Pictures, parenthood<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Little feet jumping, dancing, stomping</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Chubby cheeks waiting to be kissed</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Wispy hair tickling my nose </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Sweet sticky little kid smells. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Sour-sweet shoulders</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Clothes forgotten in the washer</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Dinner eaten late, standing barefoot in the kitchen</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Coffee ice-cold, rewarmed again. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Screaming, fighting, crying.</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Tantrums run wild,</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">breaking up the day</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">with pleas for help.</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Late night bowls of cereal</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">in bed, a baby in my lap. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Unwashed hair braided back,</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">'Workout' clothes become pajamas, </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">become tomorrow's clothes.</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Maker of stories, milk out of thin air. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Half eaten apples, like potpourri </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">litter the carpet next to Batman and Cinderella. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The vacuum, my music. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Busy, busy, busy </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">yet the day seems undone.</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The sun sets on an unchecked to do list</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">and frustration builds. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The pretty little picture I had made</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">in my head of this life,</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">disappoints. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And the guilt rages on. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Countless tears shed and dried,</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">my own mixed with theirs. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Half whispered prayers of grace-</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Grace grace grace.</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Grace kneels down with us. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Grace washes and calms</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My weary soul.</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My sinful self. </span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Grace for these precious children</span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">w</span>hose faces look to mine for love<br />
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">for comfort, for security </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">and acceptance. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div>
Pictures of parenthood,</div>
<div>
the picture of Love.</div>
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His mighty, faithful Love</div>
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that holds us all together.</div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Amen and Amen. </span><br />
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<br />Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2979592677810270039.post-22507559054766237522014-11-24T18:39:00.002-05:002014-11-24T19:06:04.742-05:00Story<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I was thankful to share this at our church recently, and I'm so thankful to God for making beauty from ashes.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">My</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> husband, Chris and I have been married for almost ten years. We were married fairly young- he was 20, and I was 22. I actually bought his beer on our honeymoon. We were young and in love, and believed that love was truly all we needed to make it.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">But it started on our honeymoon- the fighting, the hurt, the unmet expectations, and letting each other down. We struggled. We loved each other a lot, but we didn't know how to love each other. </span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Marriage was not the fairy tale we imagined it would be and the life we had planned and dreamed would not be the life we lived.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">About two years after we were married, I was shocked to discover I was pregnant. Once the shock wore off, we were truly ecstatic to be having a baby. Though Chris had just graduated from college and our plans for the future were decidedly undecided, the little boy we named Owen soon became our joy and we made new dreams.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Early one morning, a month before </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">my</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> due date, I found myself worrying about Owen's movements. When was the last time I felt him move? </span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Later that afternoon at the doctor's office, an ultrasound confirmed our worst fears. Owen did not have a heartbeat. He was gone. In a flash, all our dreams, our world came crashing down.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I remember our pastor coming to our little apartment and sitting across from me, </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">my</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> hands still holding </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">my</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> pregnant belly, and I told him "I'm not angry at God. I'm not angry". And I wasn't. </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">My</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> heart was broken and I was in shock. Two days later I delivered our only son stillborn.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Slowly the shock wore off... Slowly the reality of what had happened hit me... And I was angry. Irate. I felt cursed. Betrayed for daring to hope- for wanting something so badly. I felt so hopeless. </span></span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">To be honest, the next year is a blur of grief. We tried again to have a baby, and twice we miscarried. It was after our third baby died that I broke. </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">My</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> heart, so hard and angry at God, was transformed.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">One night about a year after Owen died, Chris and I were lying in bed in the dark, too quiet of our apartment and I broke down. I begged him to tell me that God had not abandoned me, that he had not forsaken me. I still could not read </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">my</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> bible or pray, so Chris started to tell me what we call true and beautiful things before I fell asleep each night. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">"The Lord is your keeper" </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">"He is before all things and in Him all things hold together" </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">"Blessed be The Lord who daily bears us up. God is our salvation"</span><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">My</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">story</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> of hope is not that </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">my</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> husband and I don't fight anymore, because we do.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">It is not that I don't have bad days full of anxiety and sorrow, because I do.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">My</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">story</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> of hope is not the two beautiful girls we have running around our house, though they fill our hearts with joy... and it is not the beautiful baby boy who was born seven years </span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">after his big brother.</span><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">My</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">story</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> of hope is that God has not forsaken me.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">When I was unable to get out of bed after Owen died, when I railed at God and stopped going to church for almost a year, and had all but given up... The Lord held onto me. He would not let go.</span><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">My</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">story</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> of hope is that I have hope. Hope that God will never abandon us; he is with us right now by His Spirit and Jesus is going to come again and make all the sad, broken things untrue.</span><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">I'll end with one of </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">my</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> favorite true and beautiful things from Psalm 121- "I lift up </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">my</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> eyes to the hills, from where does </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">my </span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">help come? </span><span class="il" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">My</span><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> help comes from The Lord who made heaven and earth. He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber. Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is your keeper."</span></span>Ebehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01933568282191797153noreply@blogger.com3