An Arrow in the Making

For a Fearless Father-To-Be on a Very "Viable" Valentine's Day

2012-02-14T10:35:00.002-08:00

He was scared that night.

Just a boy.

Shy. Nervous. Scared to death.

He stood across from me in the church gym, looking my way. I tried to remain as open and available as possible.

"He wants your number," a guy friend had come beside me to whisper. "He's just too afraid to ask."

I sent the friend back his way--much like in a 6th grade lunchroom--with a message that if he wanted it, he'd have to come over here and get it.

It took him a solid 30 minutes or so after that for him to finally approach me...as I was walking out the door.

He whipped out his super-cool Sprint walkie-talkie phone that his dad had let him borrow and, with fingers that shook as much as his terrified voice, prepared to enter my digits.

"Um...can I have...um...your...your number?"

I smiled. It's about time.

****

He was scared that day.

There we sat in a dark theater on our first date. Jim Carrey was starring as Bruce Almighty, and by the time we had gotten more than an hour into the movie, I looked down at my hand, which he still hadn't grabbed.

We played a silly, silent game of "I just bumped his elbow. Did he feel that? Did he mind? He's not moving it, so maybe he doesn't. Maybe if I let my hand sit free he'll notice," until--with mere minutes to go in the movie--a part that made us turn and laugh toward each other gave him the opening to tuck my hand in his.

Oh the excitement that surged through me.

I smiled. It's about time.

****

He was scared that day.

He'd called me up on a Saturday for an early bird special at Old Spaghetti Factory.

Dinner? At 4:30 on a Saturday?

His knees bounced up and down with jitters as I munched curiously on the bread and butter in front of me. He was looking from side to side, all around--almost as though he was looking for someone.

With a bite of salad still freshly scooped into my mouth, he dropped to his knees and told me he couldn't wait any longer.

"Will you marry me?"

I silently nodded, and he slid a promise of forever onto my left hand.

We'd talked about this day since we were sixteen. After five years, here it was.

I smiled. It's about time.

****

I was scared that day.

Terrified, to be exact.

My knees bounced nervously up and down as I sat in the waiting room. He grabbed my hand and gave me a smile.

If he was afraid, he didn't show it.

I wanted to cry. I expected the worst.

"Do you think we'll see a heartbeat?" I said with minimal hope.

He smiled again and kissed me on the cheek.

"You know what? I do."

As we sat in that dark little room, all of the memories of the past year consumed me. The positive tests. The silent ultrasound in the ER. How I had never wanted to try again. How he had looked longingly at a father and his daughter and said that he was meant to be a dad. How horrible I felt that I hadn't been able to make him one.

I couldn't look at the screen. But he wasn't afraid to. Eyes glued, he watched for any sign of life.

****

I look at him sometimes and marvel at how fearless he's become. At how much he's grown in the almost nine years I have known him.

I know that some may think I "missed out" on "dating around" by staying with my high school sweetheart.

But I wouldn't trade anything in the world for having been able to watch him grow up.

Who would've thought that that boy who was scared to talk to me in the church gym would be the first to say "I love you" and wait patiently for 6 months until I said it back?

That even though he had been saved for several years, he would have the courage to get baptized in front of all of his friends at the age of seventeen?

That, despite his fear of blood, he wouldn't let go of my hand in the hospital as I lost our second baby?

That even though for months I was afraid to acknowledge the reality of this third pregnancy and had told him incessantly about all that can go wrong, he would embrace our daughter-to-be, tell her every day how much he loves her, and ask hopefully if he can read her a book each night before we go to sleep?

That he would tell me on a June evening to go ahead and start a stinking blog already or that he would do it for me?

Dru, you are far braver than I will ever be. And I'm so thankful to have had a front-row seat to watch you become such a wonderful, God-fearing man.

I think you're right. I think you were meant to be a dad.

Can you see me smiling?

It's about time.

A Stone's Throw Away

2012-01-31T17:15:00.001-08:00

It was Friday, June 17, 1994.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?!" I exclaimed. "How?!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But look around...

Does anyone condemn you?

Neither does He.

Go and sin no more.

It's A...

2012-01-03T12:52:00.001-08:00

...HEALTHY baby girl!!!

Again, thanks to so many of you who have continued to pray for us. She is wild--wouldn't be still for any of the ultrasound (I believe our tech called her "crazy"...so at least we know she definitely belongs to us...), and she appears to be perfectly healthy. Praise God!!

Here are the other pictures we received today. Again, couldn't be more thankful to those of you who have kept on praying!

Sucking her thumb :)

The Dance

2011-12-24T09:27:00.001-08:00

Time for another confession on my part: I am a terrible dancer.

When God made me, He gave me a passion for music (singing and piano, that is) and two lead left feet. Oh, sure, over the years in children's/middle school/and high school choir productions, I have had to attempt in-depth choreography, but even if I was able to learn the steps, I just looked...well...awkward.

I don't have that freedom of movement that accompanies the style of a really good dancer. The look on my face says I'm counting beats in my head, trying to remember the next step, and praying zealously that it will be over soon. I can't let loose and really dance in front of others because, well, I just feel silly.

The only place I would ever really let loose and dance with great abandon was the privacy of my locked bedroom as an adolescent. The music blaring enough to rattle my windows, I threw caution to the wind and moved however I felt. I didn't care how I really looked because no one else could see.

Now, at the risk of losing all of my friends and being mocked mercilessly for the rest of my life by those who see this, I am willing to prove to you that I can't dance. Below is a country music video I was cast in when I was seventeen or eighteen; I'm mainly in the very first part of the video, as I am "Jenny" who "wants the fairy tale." But oh boy, I come back for an encore toward the very end. After filming my short part, the director had us all come back to the set at the end to just, well, dance. And have fun doing it.

Mind you, that was not in my part description, and I panicked, thinking, I have to dance? And it's going to be on video?! Since I couldn't back out at that point, I took a deep breath, leapt onto the scene and, in my nervousness, broke out into some sort of strange shimmy/awkward body roll. Unfortunately, this horrendous two-step made it into the actual video. Whenever I come across the video, I always watch the final frames with my hands over my eyes, as if it's a horror movie. Here, just see for yourself...

Yup, see? Bad dancer. But you know what I remember most about that day of shooting?

Boy, did I have fun!

Looking silly or not, I had a great time with the people there, and despite the awkward shimmy/body wiggle that now sits permanently on YouTube, the fun I had makes it hard to pin it as a terrible or embarrassing experience.

Sometimes, we focus so much on having a perfect end result of a situation--or rather, we spend our time worrying incessantly about an imperfect end result--that we miss out on the opportunities of the experience itself.

In the midst of my six-year courtship with Dru prior to our marriage, we had a terrible breakup. I'm not talking about a weenie adolescent breakup, but one where we hurt each other deeply, so much so that there were more reasons for us to stay apart than to get back together. I remember talking with my mom one night as I sat in the aftermath of a failed three-year serious relationship, expressing that I wish I had known it would end this way. Then I wouldn't have wasted my time.

She wisely asked that I reconsider the notion, reminding me that that's not how life works.

"It's like that Garth Brooks song 'The Dance,'" she said. She could only remember a few lyrics, and in a forlorn post-breakup state, I listened to the song myself to hear its message:

And I,
I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end,
The way it all would go.
Our lives
Are better left to chance,
I could have missed the pain,
But I'd have had to miss the dance.
(Garth Brooks, "The Dance")

As the Lord had it, we didn't stay apart forever, and we came back together with a more mature relationship than ever. But even if we hadn't, how could I have written those three wonderful years off with its precious memories--our first kiss, when we said "I love you," all of those date nights, of never wanting to get off the phone on a school night? If I had known the "rough patch" would come, I wouldn't have been able to truly enjoy those moments. I would have missed the dance.

I have thought much about this sentiment throughout this pregnancy. I spent the first three straight months in complete fear of what might happen. I refused to take any "belly pictures," buy any maternity clothes, purchase anything for the baby.

In ten days, we go for our "big ultrasound," which will do a full anatomy scan of the baby, and hopefully we will find out if a little boy or girl is on the way for us. People are starting to ask what we're doing for the nursery.

Oh, yeah. I guess I have to do that, don't I? I have to prepare a nursery.

Up until this point, the baby has been more in my imagination, not something I was actively preparing for. And it really scares me to think that I have to start actually acting as though this baby is really coming.

My "chorus" for this pregnancy is that I "hope" things are going okay, I "hope" we'll have a healthy baby. But now I can't just say it. I have to live it. To me, having to believe that this baby is a reality is like doing my uncoordinated dance in front of a room full of people--I just feel silly.

Hoping is hard for me. Is it for you, too, sometimes? If we experience something devastating, we might take that to mean that that's how it's always going to be. We diffuse the accusation of being pessimistic by stating that it's "just being realistic."

Angie Smith's blog "Bring the Rain" (the link to the home page is to the left on my blog roll...HIGHLY recommend that you read through her story) had two entries about having "permission to hope." This two-part story (the entries are separated by months and months of trials and grief), which begins here and concludes here, has always paricularly spoken to me. When the rest of the world assumed they would be filled with worry and dread, they allowed themselves to "hold onto the balloon" with all of their might. They hoped when it felt as though there was nothing to hope for.

I haven't truly given myself "permission to hope" in this pregnancy. I'm waiting for the bad news. I'm waiting for the hurt. I'm waiting for what I assume to be "reality" for me.

And I'm missing the dance.

Stepping out with hope and faith in an unnerving situation can be such a beautiful opportunity to cling to the Lord and His promises. But "getting our hopes up" makes us feel vulnerable that, at some point, they will be dashed--which is precisely why I have tried to be so careful not to "hope too much" from this pregnancy.

But that isn't what God wills for us. He doesn't allow these difficult situations because He want us to sit and stew in our own worries and anxieties. He does it so we will turn it over to Him.

Mind you, what I seem to keep forgetting is that the hope is not in a perfect outcome, but in His perfect will. And in that case, what am I feeling silly for? I know that hope can't be dashed!

If you can't shake the worry, your grasp is more tightly wound around a lead weight of doubt than His precious "balloon" of hope.

I understand if you still feel silly having hope in a situation that has been devastating for you in the past. But whether or not you miss the pain, don't miss out on the opportunities in store while you LIVE the experience!

Whether you move professionally or you're an awkward body wiggler like me, let's stop concentrating on how perfect or imperfect the end result will be.

Live. Hope.

Dance.

"Thou hast turned my mourning into dancing; thou hast put off my sackcloth and girded me with gladness." ~Psalm 30:11

Scarred

2011-12-06T08:18:00.001-08:00

It was circa 1992.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of scars, the site reads:

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

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

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

How could it? It's damaged.

But scars are necessary to heal.

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

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

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

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

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

Isn't it interesting?

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

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

They are meant to remind you that you are healed.

Praise God, I am. Are you?

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

He paid the price.

He loves you.

He has the scars to prove it.

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

Grief and Giving Thanks

2011-11-22T07:28:00.001-08:00

Memories of last year have come screaming back to me this week.

A few days ago, I started putting up our Christmas tree, listening to cheery Christmas music for the first time this season, relishing in the twinkle and sparkle of our evergreen decoration.

But as the music played and my fingers intricately intertwined branches with strands of lights, my heart came to a brief, unexpected halt.

This is just like last year.

On November 18, 2010, I got confirmation of my second pregnancy, in the midst of closing on our first home and moving all of our belongings out to Spring Hill.

Since we were nearing the Christmas season, I opted to go ahead and begin "decking our halls," instead of unnecessarily storing all of the decorations for a mere week or so.

The smell of our new home was intoxicatingly sweet. We set our television to a music station that played a variety of Christmas carols. As I trimmed the tree, a song came on that I had never heard before, entitled "Baby's First Christmas."

Both Dru and I stopped in our tracks at the impeccably appropriate lyrics, and I dropped my hand to my tummy with a glowing smile.

"This will be our baby's first Christmas," Dru said beaming. He kissed me gently, and I continued to bop along to the happy tune.

How could I have known.

I had gotten my initial blood draw at that point, noting a level of 25. I wasn't very familiar with the expected ranges at that point in time, but all I knew was >5 equals pregnant. I was pregnant. That was all that mattered to me.

I remember being apprehensive going in for my follow-up blood draw on November 22. I scheduled my appointment for early in the morning, so that I might have a chance of getting the results sooner. Following my lab visit, I needed immense distraction to keep myself from worrying, so I set out to get Christmas wrapping paper from a local Michael's.

My appointment had been so early that the store wasn't even open, and I sat freezing in my car, waiting for the "closed" sign to be overturned.

And while I waited in the car, I started to talk to my baby.

I called Sarah "Little Bean." I told her how much I loved her. That her daddy loved her. That she was so wanted. I told her to please keep growing. Get big and strong.

I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon on the floor of our new bonus room wrapping "fake" Christmas presents for under the tree (a trick I picked up from my mother to make the tree look more complete).

A snip of the paper, and I'd glance menacingly at my phone. Nothing yet.

A twirl of some ribbon. No call.

I had wrapped ten presents or so by the time my phone started ringing with the news. They had told me that my level needed to double, and when the results came back at 40, I was confused and asked if that was okay. The nurse said that it was probably fine, since the numbers were going up. I believed her optimism, and with a new appointment scheduled a week later, I hung up the phone feeling relieved, unburdened, and one step closer to really having this baby.

I should have known.

Friday arrived with a devastating discovery. I remember being in disbelief at the blood, trying to rationalize it away as "hopefully normal." I paced back and forth across the bonus room, dancing around the idea of calling my doctor.

It was the day after Thanksgiving. No office was open. No one could see me anyway until Monday.

I remember the chilled sensation I had as I held the phone to my ear and called my doctor. My heart thumped wildly in my chest when he told me that I could wait it out until Monday or go to the emergency room.

The emergency room? Me?

I had never, ever had to be a patient in a hospital for anything. And I had only been to the emergency room twice in my entire life, once for each parent...

****

Two months or so before I got married, when I was still living with my parents, I was helping to pull weeds when I heard a faint "Help me, help me, help me, help me," coming from just inside the house. While trimming some branches in our backyard, the blade of the trimmer had detached and fallen on my mother's arm. She had a death grip on her arm as she continued to whisper (yes, whisper!) for help. She told me what had happened in disjointed sentences, and she told me that there was blood, and that she had seen "white," as in bone.

I asked her repeatedly if she could move her hand so that I could take a look at it, but she screamed that no, she was afraid she was going to bleed to death if she did (we are quite dramatic in our family).

Unsure of what to do, I loaded her up in the car and drove--ahem, quite quickly--to the hospital. It really would have been quite hysterical if someone had been a fly on the wall of the car. After a bumbling and unnecessary call to 911 (I know, I know, but I had no idea what I was doing), my mother sat paralyzed with fear in the passenger seat, praising God aloud for each green light that we got.

This was the incessant soundtrack for my drive: "Oh, Jesus, Jesus, please, please give us a green light! Thank you, thank you, Jesus, thank you for the green light..."

Once we got to the ER, she was seen quickly, stitched up (there was no visible bone, but she had exposed her tendon), and sent home, laughing about our harrowing drive the whole way back.

My only other ER experience had been much scarier.

When I was a senior in high school, my dad became very ill. He had a history of extremely low platelet counts (ITP, for the medical people out there), and his spleen had been removed to help prevent excessive destruction of his platelets. Without a spleen, it can be harder for your body to deal with sickness.

He had had stomach issues for a few days and mostly stayed in the bed. It was a Saturday, and I was crafting a paper for Bible class, when my mom came downstairs and told me how worried she was about my dad.

"He won't answer me when I talk to him," she muttered ominously.

After deliberating with his doctor on the phone, my mother phoned for an ambulance to come and get him. I went into his room where he lay--he was white as a sheet and curled up in the fetal position. As I stood there and looked at him, the faint ring of a siren began to sound through our neighborhood.

"Daddy, they're coming for you," I told him.

It was a horrible sight to see my dad having to be carried by several men down our winding front staircase.

We followed the ambulance to the hospital and sat petified in the ER waiting room. They gave us updates about how terribly low his blood pressure was. After getting some IV fluids, he began talking again and even cracking a few jokes (that's my Dad!). He spent a few days in the hospital before they were able to send him home. He ended up back in the hospital weeks later, sick for a second time with C. diff.

****

And now it was my turn? Surely not. My arm wasn't falling off from a freak accident. I wasn't bedridden with a horrible illness.

The ER? Me?

Dru loaded me up in the car, and I began to weep incessantly.

My parents were out of town for Thanksgiving, visiting my sister, her husband, their son, and the new grandbaby in Texas. I called my dad to let him know what was going on.

As we rounded the corner to get on the interstate, my mom called my phone.

I was so distraught that I made Dru answer it. I couldn't even talk.

After speaking with her for a few seconds, he put the phone up to my ear and made me listen.

"Chels?" she said. I whimpered an unintelligible response. "Oh, I am so sorry you're having to go through this again."

I heaved life-draining sobs into the phone and listened to her tell me that she loved me.

Walking into the waiting area felt surreal. I gave my name and found a seat. The air was thick with the scent of illness. There was coughing. Sneezing. Phones ringing.

I remember that after waiting hours for a room, I discovered that of all things, they had given me a male nurse, and he was about as old as I was. He began to tell me that not only would I need blood work, but I would need a pelvic exam and a transvaginal ultrasound. Score.

Really? I pondered. Couldn't they have given me someone with a little more...estrogen to handle this?

The silence of my empty hospital room chilled me to the bone. I was afraid of what they might do to me. Would it hurt? Would my baby be okay?

I should have known.

Like I said, the memories have come screaming back to me.

This week, I am grieving that my second little one didn't make it. That I had to experience this painful loss.

But during a week devoted to giving thanks, I choose to couple my grief with a grateful heart.

I am grateful that I am 12 weeks pregnant today, which is twice as long as any of my other pregnancies have lasted.

I am grateful that I have seen a beautiful heartbeat on two different occasions.

I am grateful for the friends and family who have stuck by me in this difficult season.

I am grateful for this blog and the catalyst it has become for my spiritual growth.

I am grateful for the two little ones who shared my body last year and for what their brief lives have helped to teach me.

I have grief. But I give thanks.

I hope that no matter what season of life or storm is passing over you that you are learning to do the same. Because even when it doesn't feel like it, He is good.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

"Rejoice always, pray continually, and give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." ~ 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

Ultrasound Update

2011-11-07T11:59:00.002-08:00

Thanks to everyone for the texts and prayers this morning!!

Your prayers were very much felt--I was at peace today as I drove in for my appointment.

The doctor did a quick ultrasound to make sure everything was still okay. She told us that the baby's heart rate is great (in the 160-range) and that the size is right on target. She said the baby looks "perfect."

We are rejoicing at this good news and looking forward to watching this little one grow more and more each time.

In the meantime, here's the latest picture of Baby Childress...

As always, THANK YOU for investing in our story!!

A Little More About the Story...

2011-11-04T09:09:00.001-07:00

First of all, I want to thank everyone for congratulating us, especially those who have committed to holding us in prayer as we continue on this journey. We have been inundated with support and love, and we simply cannot thank you enough for investing in our story.

I wanted to provide a little bit more background about what's been going on the last two months, so that you can have a more complete picture of what's been preoccupying our thoughts and energy.

In the wee hours of the morning on September 22 (do you see a pattern here with when I take tests?? Patience is NOT my strong suit), I scurried off to the bathroom. I had been advised by a good friend who has been through two early losses herself to always use a test that brings up a plus or minus sign. Bypassing the way of a digital test, she said, allowed for deciphering a faint positive, which a digital test might otherwise read as negative.

I had already gotten three negative tests that month, and I wasn't super hopeful about this one, but I felt like I needed to take it for my sanity. I did my business and glared at the test like a hawk.

C'mon, c'mon...give me another line...

And by golly, I couldn't tell if it was my eyesight or the 2-a.m.-stupor, but what. is. that.

I ran into the bedroom and flipped on the harsh overhead light (I know, I know, that wasn't very nice to Dru), and I screamed at him to look at the test with me.

I'm sure we looked ridiculous.

We'd hold it under the lamp, squint, look at it with our glasses, then hold it under the lamp again.

"I see something," I stated matter-of-factly. "Do you see something? Please tell me you see something."

"I guess I see something," he said, still holding it under the light. He later admitted he didn't see anything.

The test was that faint.

Normally, the minute I get a positive test, I am supposed to notify my doctor so I can get a blood test. The earlier I could confirm it, the earlier they could start me on medicine, if need be, to help me sustain the pregnancy.

I tossed and turned. I can't call my doctor over a "maybe." They'll think I'm nuts. I have to be sure.

Hours later, Dru went out and got me a digital test. For the second time that day, I waited a painful three minutes that might possibly change our lives.

This time, the result was perfectly clear.

I walked silently and flatly out of the bathroom. Dru was walking down the stairs shaking his head, as if he already knew the answer.

"No, right?" he said.

"No, I'm pregnant," I said quietly and without enthusiasm.

His mouth dropped instantly to the floor, and he ran to embrace me.

"Now, now, let's not get excited," I said quickly. "The first one was so faint. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. This might not be a good thing."

Minutes later, I was on the phone with my new doctor's office, explaining that I had gotten a positive test that morning.

"Oh, honey, that's wonderfu--" she began.

"No, no, no," I said cautioning her. "I need a blood test. Today. I have a history of early miscarriage, and I need to know what's going on."

She booked me for the lab, and I had my blood drawn in the following two hours.

Though they always send my blood work off stat, it wasn't until after 4:00 that afternoon before I finally got the call I'd been waiting for.

Pregnancy hormone levels, in the four week range (which is what I assumed I was in), have a wide scale of normal, but a normal value is often in the hundred or even thousand range. The numbers should double at least every two days in early pregnancy. A level less than 5 is considered negative for pregnancy.

"Well, honey, it's 14," the nurse said.

My face went numb.

"Oh, that's bad, " I said stoically.

Let me refresh your memory: my second pregnancy saw me with an initial blood test of 25, which only went up to 40 after four days. But my old doctor and his nurses kept telling me, "It's probably just early. Let's just keep drawing blood." The ER doctor told me that those numbers clearly meant that the pregnancy was doomed from the start.

I know I'm not a rocket scientist, but 14 is less than 25.

"No, it's not necessarily bad," the nurse said sweetly. "It could just be that you are really early."

I laughed bitterly at the statement and reluctantly agreed to come in for a follow up test in four days to see if it was doubling.

The day of my second blood draw, I was a mess.

I hadn't told a soul that I was pregnant, not even my parents, so the burden felt especially unmovable. As I made the long trek to the doctor's office for what I assumed would be bad news, fear overwhelmed me. I cried, embittered with a pain that was both old and new. I just had no hope that this was going to be it for us.

There was just no way. The number was too low.

I got it together just before I entered the waiting room (and you know how much I love those), and I gave the receptionist my information, telling her I was only there for bloodwork. She handed me my paperwork, and I found a seat.

Right on top was the lab sheet. "Hcg level draw, quantified" was checked.

The reason checked for the blood draw? "Threatened abortion."

Grief seized my heart as I saw those words. They hadn't mentioned anything to me about thinking that I was miscarrying. I began to surmise that they had thought that my low levels were an indication of poor embryonic development and that they had merely not wanted to tell me.

My name was called, and I sat petrified in the seat, holding my arm out to be stuck.

The lab lady, who I have come to know because I see her so often, set my papers down and prepped my arm.

Quietly, I asked her, "So, they think I'm miscarrying?"

Surprised, she stumbled over her words. "I, uh, I don't know. Is that what they told you?"

Crying openly now, I wailed, "The paper had a check mark beside 'threatened abortion.' They didn't say anything to me about that. If it is, this woud be the third time."

She paused her work and sat with me for a moment. She handed me a box of tissues and an attempt at encouragement.

"You know, my daughter went through a whole mess of those before she got it right." She didn't mean it in that way, but the words stung with fresh hopelessness. "You're gonna get one that sticks. You'll see," she said with assured promise. "Then you won't be able to stop having them!"

She continued on drawing my blood as I sniffled. As things turned out (ahem, as God had graciously planned), I was the last lab patient scheduled, and they let me sit there while they went and got my nurse.

My oh-so-wonderful, couldn't-have-made-it-this-far-without-her nurse (have I mentioned how much I truly love my new doctor's office?!) came quickly around the corner to find out what was making me so upset. Through renewed sorrow, I explained my fear of the low numbers because of my last pregnancy and the horrifying checked "threatened abortion."

With much understanding, she explained that the "threatened abortion" was in no way a reflection of how she and the doctor felt, but merely for insurance purposes. She hugged me and said that she truly believed I was just so early in my pregnancy that my hormones hadn't caught up yet. She put an extra emphasis on "stat" with my lab order and promised she would call as soon as she had the results in her hand.

I thanked the sweet staff profusely as I headed anxiously out the door.

Along the way, the Lord placed a precious stranger in my path. She was by herself and also walking to the parking garage at a similar pace to mine. I sniffled here and there, still so worried. Kindly and quietly, she asked me if I was okay. She quickly admitted that it wasn't any of her business and that she wasn't trying to pry, but she would like to pray for whatever was upsetting me.

Isn't the Lord beautiful in His timing and placement of people and events?

I told her very simply that I was pregnant and afraid that I was miscarrying for a third time. This perfectly lovely stranger put her arm around me and told me how sorry she was and that she was already praying for me. She asked me if I needed a ride to my car, and I politely told her that I thought I would be okay, thanking her immensely for her willingness to talk to me and pray for me.

I walked through the garage trying to find my car, confused both by my anxiety and my poorly selected parking spot. A car slowed to a near halt as I rounded an aisle for the second time, and the same sweet stranger rolled down her window to ask if I needed help finding my car.

"I was praying this whole time," she explained, "that if the Lord needed me to pick you up and talk with you or listen to you that I would."

I was so touched by this woman's heart and her willingness to be still and be present for a complete and total stranger who was boo-hooing her way through a parking garage.

Thanking her once again, I exclaimed that I had just seen my car and that I would be okay.

Climbing into my car, I reached for my phone. Although Dru and I had promised we wouldn't tell anyone about the pregnancy, I needed my parents.

I called my mom (once again in tears) and told her that I was pregnant, but that my numbers were low. It wasn't how I had hoped to present our big news, but I needed someone to sit with me while I waited for the phone call.

When I got to her house, there wasn't much talking, and there was zero excitement. She hugged me, and I went up and lay down on the exact couch where I had awaited my blood results confirming my first miscarriage.

I had told my mother that my level of hormone needed to be at least 56, which would mean it had doubled every two days. Silently, I prayed--prayed--please, Lord, let it be 56...

My faithful nurse called me a mere hour and a half later. My heart beat faster than it ever has.

"Hello?"

"Chelsea? It's 134!!!"

I nearly. dropped. the. phone.

My faith had run so thin the previous few days that this wonderful, perfect news had seemed, well, impossible.

I had doubted God when my result came back at an ugly 14. There was no way it should have been this good. It was lower than when I had had a doomed pregnancy.

It was as though the Lord was saying, "Hey, remember Me? Remember the One Who put the stars in the sky? Created the oceans? Fashioned the universe? 14 can't hold Me back. Just watch and see what I can do."

Hah. And all I had asked for was a 56. Oh, how little we think of our Lord sometimes...

My tears dried immediately, and for the first time since I had gotten that positive test, I smiled with a joy and a peace that overflowed my soul. As I stayed on the phone with the nurse, I did something I had never done before--schedule an ultrasound.

They planned for me to come in what I thought was when I would be 7 weeks pregnant. I was excited and terrified at the prospect of getting to see our baby for the first time.

But. My faith grew thinner as the weeks passed by. I really wasn't experiencing any symptoms. No nausea or anything, and I began to doubt that things were going okay.

I googled "symptoms of blighted ovum," and "did you see a heartbeat at 7 weeks?" and other horrifying stuff that only made me worry even more.

It was the night before our first ultrasound (the exact moment that spawned "A Security, A Surrender"), and I couldn't sleep. I tossed. And I turned. And I worried. And I wept.

I wanted this baby so badly.

I got out my Bible and read those beautiful passages about the Lord holding my future. And I did something I hadn't done in a long time.

I fell to my knees. And I held out my hands. And I surrendered.

I surrendered the hurt. I surrendered the worry. I surrendered this baby.

"Lord," I prayed, "I love this baby so much. But I love You more. Please, Lord, be with me. I give You this baby. I give it to You. I give it to You."

It was the most freeing moment I have experienced. To loosen my grasp on something that wasn't mine to begin with and to place it in His perfect, trustworthy hands. He knows what to do with it.

After that, I slept peacefully.

I was still quite nervous as I sat in the waiting room, patiently (okay, okay, impatiently) waiting to hear my name called.

Lord, I prayed silently, Can you do me one thing? Can you please just give me a nice ultrasound tech?

At that moment, my name was called.

Dru took my hand, and we stepped into the tiny ultrasound room. The tech introduced herself, instructed me to sit on the table, and began asking me a myriad of questions.

"So," she began, "is this your first pregnancy?"

I winced.

"No, ma'am. My third."

She paused, looking peculiarly at me.

"I had two miscarriages last year. September and November."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said quietly. Her fingers punched in the acquired information on her computer: 2 spontaneous abortions.

Yuck.

"Okay," she said excitedly, "since this isn't your first pregnancy, you probably know the drill about what to expect today."

Silently, I thought about that. The only "drill" I know is you pee on a stick and get your heart broken. So, if that's what you're referring to, yes ma'am, I know the drill.

I lay back on the table and faced a large screen. Dru sat at my feet with his eyes glued to the screen. The tech explained what she was doing as she did it and then quietly clicked around on her computer.

The view was a mess of black and gray, and I couldn't make anything out. It went along for what seemed like forever, and the tech wasn't saying anything. I remember from the ER that a silent ultrasound is not a good ultrasound.

I lay my head down on the table and stared at the ceiling.

"Well," she said, "I see a sac..."

She paused.

"Oh, and there's a heartbeat!"

Like a bucking bronco fresh out of the gate, I sat up and stared at the screen.

"Where?!"

She pointed out the flick, flick on the screen and then typed in BABY with an arrow pointing to it. I cried tears of relief, tears of joy.

It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

She had me hold my breath and counted the baby's heartbeat at a strong 131 beats per minute.

"You're still very early," she explained. "You're probably only in the 5 or 6 week range."

I smiled lovingly at the screen.

"You know," she said, "I was praying for you the whole time. I was praying I would see something."

Knowingly, I smiled back.

"You know," I said, "I prayed for you. I prayed that I would have a sweet ultrasound tech."

She exclaimed her thanks for the encouragement, and then turned around. "Have you had a bad ultrasound tech experience?"

My memory recalled the day in the ER when the tech refused to say a word to me but complained constantly under her breath about why transport couldn't have come and pushed me to the ultrasound room.

"Yes ma'am," I said simply, "but you were wonderful."

We have now made it to a solid 9 weeks and 3 days, and each day feels like a victory. I praise God every day that I wake up and am still pregnant. My experience has taught me to live in the here and now--not so much down the road in names and nurseries--but to be thankful for this moment, this day, and to see it as a blessing.

Once again, our next ultrasound is on Monday, and we greatly appreciate your prayers of peace and patience. I will update as soon as I can with any information (or pictures) we might get.

Love to each and every one of you, and I hope you make it a good day.

Chelsea

Long Way Home

2011-10-30T18:57:00.002-07:00

When Dru and I were dating, the distance between our houses and our young age (we were only 16) kept us from spending as much time as we wanted with each other.

On the weekends, we would spend the whole day together, and when he'd have to drive me home, I'd often tell him to take the long way.

I didn't want to go home yet. There was nowhere in the world I wanted to be other than in that car, holding his hand, kissing his cheek, and soaking in every ounce of him that I could.

Any other time, any other circumstance, I would have preferred to be home snuggled in my bed. Out of the car. No more riding. Just get me there as fast as you can.

But not now. Just another turn around the block. One more minute. One more kiss. Please?

It isn't often that we opt to take the "scenic route," is it? You have to have the perfect combination of ample time, gas, and patience to make the drive last on purpose. Often, we find ourselves lacking in these resources.

Sometimes, when we're low on spiritual "resources," the Lord still requests that we take the long way home with Him.

And the trip rarely occurs in the comfort of a car. It's on foot. And rocky terrain.

Lately, the Lord has taken my hand and asked me to take a walk with Him.

He has taken me on two walks similar to this. The first walk accompanied my first pregnancy, and I was so excited at the idea, that I let go of His hand and scurried fervently toward what I thought was a promising finish line.

But it wasn't. It was a ditch.

I sat nursing my scrapes and bruises for a while, but I eventually caved to His gentle calling for me to get up and keep going. I took His hand, and we began our walk as I found out I was pregnant for a second time. While I didn't immediately leave my Father in the dust, before I knew it, I had slipped away from His grasp and landed in another ditch.

Two dreams crumbled into the dirt in which I lay.

He sweetly presented His hand again, but I spurned it. I cried, and I begged that He just let this painful journey be over already. I just wanted to blink my eyes and be home. I wanted a shortcut, not the scenic route.

Patiently, He waited for me.

"Come with Me," He whispered gently. "Let's keep walking."

I grabbed onto His beautiful nail-scarred hand, and this time, I didn't let go. I stumbled here and there on rocks of fear and doubt. My gaze easily veered from His lovely countenance to the unfamiliar scenery around me.

He led me to a quiet stream and revived my soul with rest and peace. He bandaged my wounds. He comforted me. And I got comfy in this respite from pregnancy, from the unknown, from the hurt.

But yet again, He beckoned me, "Let's keep walking."

I was afraid to. I liked it here. I liked knowing what to expect.

But He called me. And I went to Him.

I grabbed onto Him tightly, closing my eyes when it started to get dark.

"Lord," I wondered, "where are we? Where are we going?" This walk felt eerily familiar to the first two walks we had taken, and it frightened me. I feared a ditch with every step.

"Lord," I cried, "I'm so afraid! What if it happens again? I don't think I can go through that pain again."

Squeezing my hand, He whispered lovingly, "My child, it doesn't matter where we are or what you face. Just keep looking at Me. Stay with Me. I am with you. I am here."

Every time I think our walk's end is imminent, we keep going.

I'm almost 9 weeks into my third pregnancy, and we're still walking hand-in-hand.

And the longer we walk, the more time we spend together, the more I want it to last.

I have no idea where we're going. Frankly, I have no idea where we are. I've never journeyed this far. It's scary sometimes.

But it's only scary when I quit looking at Him.

Friends, I've thought long and hard about when to share this news. First, I wanted to wait until after the first trimester. Then, it moved up to after the second ultrasound at my 10-week appointment.

I didn't want to tell because I didn't want to have to take it back.

But let's face it, there will never be a time when everything feels certain. The risk will always be there.

So I feel compelled to do it now.

Because I need your support and your prayers now.

We have no idea what the Lord has in store for us this time. And while our first inclination is to ask for you to pray for a completely healthy pregnancy and a healthy newborn in June, my time spent walking with the Lord has taught me otherwise.

I surrendered this baby to Him weeks ago. No matter what, this baby will be fine. We have full confidence that if He chooses to call this baby to heaven, it will have the best Lap to sit on, and it will experience even more love than we could ever give it.

Friends, please pray that no matter what, God will be glorified and that we will be at peace with whatever He has planned. We ask that you pray that as we continue to walk into unknown territory, we will be gracious and obedient in whatever growth He wishes to accomplish in us this time around.

We're excited but reserved (it's hard not to be), fearful yet hopeful.

Maybe I'll end up in another ditch. I don't know.

But what I do know is that I'm living proof that the ditch isn't the end of the world, even though it feels like it sometimes. It's just a part of taking the long way home.

I'm excited for the destination, but you know what?

Part of me keeps wishing for one more spin around the block so that I can soak up all I can of Him.

Hey, when the company's this good, it's hard to want to leave.

Please pray for us. Our next ultrasound is 11/7, and no matter what, I'll update here with the results.

But right now, I think I'm going to get back to my walk.

All praise to the One who gives and takes away.

Like the Fragrance After the Rain

2011-10-28T08:18:00.001-07:00

It's raining today.

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

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

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

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

Slowly and quietly at first.

Pitter...patter. Pitter...patter.

And then gaining with speed and intensity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, sweet friends, where are we without rain?

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

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

We shrivel. We become ugly. We stop growing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You won't regret it.

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

A Security, A Surrender

2011-10-05T06:39:00.001-07:00

I was never one of those kids who was eager to start driving. I'm not really sure why, but when I turned fifteen and got my permit, I was never leaping at the opportunity to get behind the wheel.

I don't know if I was just scared or if I really didn't care. Either way, my parents would force me to practice every time we went somewhere.

Being that I wasn't yet sixteen, one of them would always sit up front with me.

My dad was usually pretty even keel when he sat up front--calmly telling me to get over, turn right or left, watch out for that curb, etc.-- but my mother was truly a hoot.

She often kept a white-knuckle death grip on the door handle, was quick to yell "STOPPPPPPP!!", and she kept her foot glued to her "imaginary pedal."

Yes, that's right. Anytime we approached a stop sign, a stoplight, or anything where my foot didn't quite hit the brakes at the speed she would have preferred, she would lift her right leg and stomp on the floor of the passenger's side, as if she was trying to brake the car herself.

It made me die laughing every time because it looked so funny. I understand why she was so nervous--especially since five years earlier, when my sister was learning to drive, we took a death-defying left turn into oncoming traffic.

But I digress...

What was so hard for her was that the car was out of her control. Something that she typically had full reign over was now in the hands of someone else, someone inexperienced. And that made her fearful.

It's hard to give up control, isn't it?

Have you ever given someone money or a gift...and yet still kinda sorta given them instructions on what they should do with it? A way of saying, "I give you control of this....but here's what I think you should do with it."

Control provides us with security because we feel it limits the possibilities of things that can happen. We have a better idea of what to expect. Even if it isn't perfect or the best, knowing what's coming is better than awaiting the unknown.

Recently, I read Jaycee Dugard's memoir, A Stolen Life. Jaycee was eleven years old when she was kidnapped by Phillip Garrido and his wife Nancy, and they held her in captivity for eighteen years. She spent those eighteen years being reguarly raped and taking care of her two daughters that were fathered by Phillip.

One of the most interesting statements she made in the book, though, regarded why, in those eighteen years, there was never an attempt to escape from her kidnappers. Early on, Phillip had cautioned her that if she didn't do everything he said and just as he wanted it, he would sell her to his friend who would keep her constantly locked in a cage.

She explained that although Phillip's treatment of her was horrifying and painful, the unknown scared her more. She decided that she would rather put up with rape than some unknown thing from some unknown person that might be worse.

Staying in captivity with Phillip gave her an odd sense of control because she knew what to expect.

Do you feel that way, too? Would you rather stay in a miserable situation so you could know what was coming and maintain a sense of control? Does the unknown --the possibility that things could truly be worse--scare you more than anything?

It certainly scares me.

Lately, Dru and I have been experiencing a time of uncertainty. His CPA exam results threw us a curveball, and people are beginning to ask quite frequently if we are ready to start trying to get pregnant again.

These things should be exciting for us--the possibility that he will get to move up in his career, and us maybe making a decision to start trying for a baby again.

But all they do is fill my brain with worries, wonderings, and what-ifs.

Why?

Because I know the future of these things isn't in my hands. It doesn't belong to me. It isn't up to me.

And it's hard to proceed into something so unknown.

I tell myself over and over again that I can't be so afraid of what the future will hold. There's no sense in it. It will merely drive me crazy.

But I keep stomping my foot on my "imaginary pedal" because I think that if I can just do something--anything--it will have some effect on the future.

My mom's imaginary pedal never did stop the car or even slow it down. And my worries and what-ifs won't change what is to come.

In the last few weeks--following the news of Dru's test results--I tossed and turned and couldn't sleep because I was feeling so worried about the future. Normally, I'll let those sorts of thoughts plague me until I magically fall asleep somewhere in the middle of the night.

But that night, I didn't.

I sat up. I turned on the light. And I grabbed my Bible. And I read the Psalms of David when he, too, was experiencing a fear of the unknown.

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

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

I lie down and sleep;
I wake again because the Lord sustains me.
Psalm 3:1-5

Lord, how long will You continually forget me?
How long will You hide Your face from me?
How long will I store up anxious concerns within me,
agony in my mind every day?
How long will my enemy dominate me?

But I have trusted in Your faithful love;
my heart will rejoice in Your deliverance.
I will sing to the Lord because He has treated me generously.
Psalm 13: 1-2, 5-6

Lord, You are my portion
and my cup of blessing;
You hold my future.

I keep the Lord in mind always.
Because He is at my right hand,
I will not be shaken.

Therefore my heart is glad,
and my spirit rejoices;
my body also rests securely.
Psalm 16: 5, 8-9

Praise God, there is not an inexperienced Driver in the seat next to me! He can see what's to come. He knows what's to come.

I don't have to know where we're going. I just have to turn over my life (including all of the imaginary pedals) to the One who knows where we're going.

I may not be in control, but I have never been more secure than when I surrender to Him.

Won't you find the security and surrender, too?

Put your foot down. Let Him drive.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you a hope and a future." ~ Jeremiah 29:11

From East to West

2011-09-20T07:41:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

Temptation is hard to resist, isn't it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gossip. Destructive speech. Arrogance. Judging others.

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

Quite the opposite!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

When I Am Weak

2011-09-17T18:34:00.001-07:00

There are many things I can't do.

I can't whistle.

I can't sing a solo.

I can't play the violin.

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

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

It would go something like this...

****
"Jones?"

"27!"

"Awesome. McDonald?"

"30!"

"Fantastic! Smith?"

Silence.

"[Clears throat.] Smith?"

"[Quietly] Um, 3."

****

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

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

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

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

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

My red patch depended on it.

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

And then it was time. It was my turn.

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

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

The seconds ticked. My feet were slowing down.

The red patch was slipping through my fingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can't, but He can.

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

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

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

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

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

Take His hand, and run like the wind.

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

I've Fixed Video #1, and Here's Video #2...

2011-09-09T20:12:00.001-07:00

I've made the Gatlinburg video public (shouldn't need a password now), and you can click here for the wedding video.

Enjoy and goodnight!

Videos

2011-09-09T19:16:00.001-07:00

I am super excited about my new DVD slideshow builder that I've bought, and I wanted to share a few videos with you guys so that you can see a happier, lighter side of me. :)

I'm a novice, so cut me some slack on how amateur the work is, but I hope you enjoy this first video of our recent family trip to Gatlinburg.

Crank up your volume, too, because the video is accompanied by some of my favorite tunes.

The wedding video will be up in just a little while, and I'll post it if you'd like to see it as well.

Click here for the Gatlinburg video. Let me know if there are problems loading it!

A Year Ago...

2011-09-03T17:04:00.001-07:00

It all began.

Sunday, September 5th, 2010, I snuck off into the bathroom after a pre-Labor Day get-together for my first glimpse at a positive pregnancy test. Dru and I fell to the floor laughing, smiling, and over the moon.

We knew it would be life-changing, but it changed our lives in a way we couldn't have imagined...and frankly, in a way we didn't want to imagine. I'm not glad I miscarried, but I wouldn't change the truly precious life lessons God has taught me through this season of hardship.

I'm so grateful to all of the people who have prayed for us during this time of heartache, grief, and growth. Thank you to those of you who have been tried and true friends to us and haven't given up on us.

We appreciate you all and hope that sometime in the future we'll have wonderful news to share with you. But until then, we'll keep letting the Master strip us of our branches in the hopes of soaring...someday...

Please continue to pray for us this week as we remember some bittersweet moments.

Have a safe and happy holiday.

Another Brick in the Wall

2011-08-28T19:48:00.001-07:00

Because my grandfather was a magician (yes, you read that correctly), my sister and I used to be major fans of David Copperfield when we were growing up. We still have a number of VHS tapes (remember those?!) with recorded specials on them, and to identify which is which, each has a strip of tape with a written description of each special's most memorable trick. Among some of my favorites...

1. "Niagra Falls." David is strapped inside a buoyant container that is sent adrift toward (what else?) Niagra Falls. Mysteriously, he emerges from a flying helicopter soaking wet seconds after the container--which we all believed still had him in it--has tumbled mercilessly over the edge.

2. "The Dozen-Piece Trick." David cuts one of his dancers into a dozen pieces and puts her back together, all while rocking out to some awesome 80s tunes in his tapered, acid-washed jeans.

3. "Fires of Passion." David hangs upside down in a straightjacket in an amphitheatre in Caesar's Palace, dangling over flaming twelve-inch spikes. Magically, you watch as he unbinds himself and swings to safety minutes before the rope he's attached to falls into the flames.

For some reason, as a kid, my favorite trick and oft requested special to watch was what I had dubbed "The Exploding 'X.'" In this trick, David is trapped in a safe inside an abadoned building; he must escape and reemerge under a tarp marked with an "X" just yards away, all while the building explodes.

I think what was most fascinating to me was the way the building went down. No wrecking ball. No flames. All they used was one button--one measley little button--and with the touch of it, the building--solid and massive as it was--literally crumbled into dust.

I think of how much effort must have gone into the construction of the building that was frivolously brought to its knees. I can remember last year, as we watched the builders fashion together our tiny home, how intricate the work could be--packing the foundation into a solid sheet of rock; steadying the wood to create the frame; carefully laying brick after brick to help the structure stand, to keep it strong, to make it work.

It took effort. It took time. It took some mighty dedicated builders.

It's the same with the Christian walk, isn't it? Before a sound and useful structure (i.e. Christian) can exist, it must start with a solid Rock-like foundation (the Lord) and a supporting framework (a basic knowledge and understanding of the Word, what God has done for us, and the concept of salvation). Bells and whistles like paint color, furniture, and fancy fixtures (fruit of the Spirit, characteristics reflective of Christ) follow as the spiritual walk matures and gains depth.

But the bricks. The first line of defense. A support and protection of the inner workings of the structure.

Where do they come from?

I like to think of the bricks as encouragement and support from other believers. There's nothing quite like community and solid fellowship. They can help build one another up, and they can help provide strength against stromy attacks of the Enemy.

The more we encourage each other, the more bricks we have laid. The more bricks we have laid, the stronger we get.

But what happens when our motives, our words, and our choices far from build others up?

Years ago, when I was merely a teenager, I developed an enormous cyst on my right cheek (I have the scar to prove it). What started as a fairly small bump grew and grew until it took over half my cheek. It was purple. Ugly. And very hard to cover up.

My dermatologist told me it was the biggest one she had ever seen at the time. Score.

It made me insanely insecure. We tried treatment after treatment, ointment after ointment, shot after shot, and there it continued to sit, plaguing my face. One boy even asked if "that mark on my face" was because somebody was beating me up at home (no, but thanks for asking). Really, I did my absolute best to put it out of my head and not let it get to me.

My sweet friends at the time assured me often that "it wasn't a big deal," "it wasn't as noticeable as you think," and "it doesn't really matter." I believed them and drew a sense of strength and confidence from their steadfast encouragement.

But I'll never forget the day someone decided to hurl a wrecking ball.

A boy who had shown interest in me at the time was talking to me before Sunday School one morning, and in the midst of our conversation, he looked intensely at my right cheek. I had completely forgotten about it until I felt his disgusted stare burning a hole through my face.

Snidely, he remarked, "You know, you don't have enough makeup on your face to cover that thing up."

Growing hot with humiliation, I turned my flushed countenance from his view and attempted to blink away the tears that now clouded my vision. I walked away immediately, feeling ugly and horrible to look at, and I vowed from that moment on to make sure I always had enough makeup on to cover my flaws.

I can't recall a specific person or a specific bit of encouragement during that time; but I can recall the time, place, person, and words that involved an acute crumbling of my self-esteem.

No matter the multitude of positive things people may say, the few negative things tend to leech onto the soul.

You see, it takes a great deal of effort, time, and builders to make a structure strong; but all it takes is one button to detonate it--and all the bricks, the encouragement, and the strength can come crumbling to their knees.

So, ask yourself: what kind of person are you?

Do you seek to bring encouragement to others, to build them up? Are you a bricklayer?

Or are you a detonator?

Putting all of my feelings out there in the open for a number of people to see (and I'm perfectly aware that I am doing this) has certainly left me vulnerable to some detonation; some comments have really gotten me down.

But thankfully, the Lord has blessed me with a number of bricklayers. Just when I so very needed it, a sweet co-worker of mine approached me the other day and, completely unsolicited, told me, "I just wanted to let you know that I can tell you're getting better. I can really tell. I can't put my finger on it, but you just seem...lighter. Anyway, I just thought you should know."

She couldn't possibly have known how much my soul needed to hear those words. I lavished her with a million thanks and told her how much it meant to me to have that encouragement.

Though some of my structure had crumbled, she chose to start laying new bricks. And for that, sweet lady, I offer you my sincere, heartfelt gratitude. Bless you.

I'm not asking for you to be my bricklayers by any means; and I'm just as guilty of being a detonator as the next person. But please, friends, be mindful that even the smallest, most seemingly insignificant words can bring a person to her knees. The things you say have power.

It's up to you how you will use them.

I know, it takes time and effort and a great deal of dedication, but help the Architect complete His designs. You don't have to do it all yourself, but do one. Just one.

Lay a brick.

"Therefore encourage one another and build one another up, just as you are doing." ~ 1 Thessalonians 5:11

I'm Not Inviting You to My Birthday Party

2011-08-22T07:53:00.001-07:00

When I was a little girl, it was always the biggest insult. You wronged your best bud on the playground--got to the swings first, beat her at hopskotch, didn't pick her first for your team--and she would hit you with a doozie.

"I'm not inviting you to my birthday party."

There it is. The formal dis-invitation to the best soiree this side of the jungle gym.

Oh, sure. Now it seems like such a petty punishment. But, oh my. When you're six years old, not getting invited to your friend's birthday party is the end of life as you know it.

What's funny is that the birthday party was usually not going to be anywhere in the near future. She could have had her birthday 3 weeks earlier, but she wanted you to know that in 49 weeks, you would not be sitting next to her and enjoying a slice of Malibu Barbie pink birthday cake.

But, of course, we don't do those sorts of things as adults. Telling someone who has wronged you that they won't be receiving an invitation to your birthday dinner would probably warrant public mocking and a label of L-O-S-E-R.

So how, as great big, fancy, mature grown-ups, do we make sure people pay for what they've done?

1. The Silent Treatment. Ah, the never-goes-out-of-style freeze-out. If they speak, you stare. If they ask a question, you don't answer. In theory, the lack of communication is supposed to send the wrongdoer into a psychotic tailspin until they finally apologize. But, of course, that's assuming that the fact that you aren't talking is a bad thing...

2. The Guilt Trip. This one is laden with accusatory statements such as, "You made me feel like..." or "You're a terrible person!" Heap it on high and heavy until the person can bear it no more. The guilty will grovel in no time.

3. The Passive-Aggressive Approach. This one is draped with dramatic sighs and eye rolls. It allows you to continue on with your life as you normally might, save that you appear palpably troubled by something but refuse to cop to it. Coupled with "The Guilt Trip," the opponent doesn't stand a chance.

You dance around the problem--wringing it like a saturated washcloth, squeezing every ounce, every drop from it--until finally the wrongdoer comes around. "I'm sorry" is shared in a heartfelt manner, and you kiss and make up. You forgive the person, and you tell him or her so.

Okay, but what do you do with that hurt? Surely, you wad it up and toss it in the garbage. You have no need for it anymore. It's done. Finished. Wiped clean.

But no, no. You fold it neatly and tuck it quietly in your back pocket, sharpening it daily and whipping it out like a pocket knife the next time you argue.

I know I've definitely done this in my "tiffs" with Dru. And the hurts I rehash often don't make any sense when hurled like grenades at a later date. We could be scuffling over where to eat for dinner, and I might say something to the effect of, "Well, I should get to choose because when we were in 11th grade, you did such and such."

It's pointless and petty. But be honest...do you do it, too? When you say you forgive someone, do you really mean it?

I think one reason we choose to cling to these hurts is because, in a world where we tend to feel "not good enough" or sub-par, it gives us the feeling of having an edge. They messed up, not you. They were weak, not you. They weren't perfect, not you. And now, they have to fall to their knees for your mercy--admitting their wrongs, and *ick* humbling themselves.

There's a sense of powerlessness that comes from being betrayed. But there's a sense of power that comes from withholding forgiveness, of making sure that the other person is sorry, of overwhelming them with guilt until it burns.

It's a terrible way to handle things. Especially when the person is truly sorry. Yeah, yeah, we know... The Bible instructs us to forgive as He forgave us; to love our enemies; to pray for those who persecute us.

But what about when the person who has wronged you isn't sorry?

Unfortunately, in this fallen world, people often aren't sorry when they hurt you. Even people in leadership positions and those who are closest to you sometimes aren't sorry.

Months and months ago, I had someone I looked up to betray my trust; this person went behind my back and used all of the yuck that I've been through this past year as an opportunity to whisper. It was terribly hurtful when it came to light, and to make matters worse, the person wasn't sorry because they did not feel as though they had done anything wrong.

It angered me more than anything, and any respect I had for the person was completely shot. And since this person wasn't sorry, forgiveness didn't really seem to be in order.

And then, as He always does, the Holy Spirit--barely audible yet intensely resonant--spoke gently to my heart.

****

You know, Chelsea, I died for you. I died for you, and I forgave you.

Yes, Lord. I know that. But...

I died for her, too.

****

Sigh. I forget that sometimes. Sermons are so focused around the concept of "me, me, me." He died for me. To forgive my sins. He loves me.

But all of the people who hurt us--who betray our trust, who let us down, who hurt us, who aren't sorry--He loves them, too. He forgave them, too. He died for them, too.

And you know what? You might be a person that someone else is struggling to forgive.

Don't wait for them to be sorry or for them to ask for forgiveness. Jesus didn't wait for you to ask; He just did it. Our ability to forgive shouldn't be dependent on whether or not the other person is sorry. You might wait forever for that. And forgiving someone doesn't mean that trust and respect are automatically restored; actions still have consequences. But don't let their sin trap you in your own sin of unforgiveness.

Your forgiveness really doesn't have any control over the other person anyway because, frankly, you don't have any say in their punishment; that's God's business. But choosing to forgive can help release you from your pride, your anger, and your bitterness.

Once your Father has forgiven you, He doesn't hold your wrongdoings against you. When He gave His Son, that was it. Done. Finished. Wiped clean. He's not waiting to rehash those hurts or to put you down. He loves you. And when He forgives you, He means it.

It might be a day-by-day process if it's a really deep hurt, such as abuse or infidelity. Forgiveness isn't always a one-time thing. You may have to keep choosing to forgive and keep choosing to move on, and you may need someone's assistance to do so.

So take out those old hurts from your back pocket and stop sharpening them. Let them go dull. Let them disintegrate. Don't give them the power to hurt you any further.

They might never find a seat at your birthday party again, but don't let that empty chair, that vacancy, be a reminder of something you weren't able to do.

Now, come on. Learn to let it go. Learn to move on.

It's time to party.

"Then Peter came up and said to him, 'Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?' Jesus said to him, 'I do not say to you seven times but seventy times seven.'" ~ Matthew 18:21-22

The Suspense Is Killing Me....

2011-08-11T09:12:00.001-07:00

I used to love the show Full House. I've for certain seen every episode at least three times. Every afternoon at 3:00 pm, my rear end was parked on a sofa cushion and ready to listen to the theme song...

"Whatever happened to predictability
The milk man, the paper boy, the evening TV,
You miss your old familiar friends, but
Waiting just around the bend...

Everywhere you look,
Everywhere there's a heart (there's a heart)
A hand to hold onto
Everywhere you look
Everywhere there's a face
Of somebody who needs you

When you're lost out there and you're all alone
A light is waiting to carry you home
Everywhere you look."

Ahhh. The good ol' days.

I remember there was an episode where Uncle Jesse was preparing to go to a cocktail party with his fiance Becky, and he was intimidated by all of the "smart people" who were sure to be attending. To give his intelligence (and ego) a boost, he gathers a multitude of literature and begins to "read."

In order to get through all of them in the short amount of time he has, he vows to read the first and last sentence of each book.

Picking up A Tale of Two Cities, he reads aloud, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." Flipping to the last page, he recites, "It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done."

He chuckles and remarks flatly, "Wow. Surprise ending." The laughtrack is cued and they go about solving their problems in the half hour allotted.

It wasn't until I got to my senior English class and actually read the book that I realized how ironic this part of the show was because it is, in fact, a surprise ending (and a tearjerker, I might add).

But of course he didn't get that from reading two sentences in the book. How could he understand? He had completely bypassed the story.

My family is awful about trying to guess endings to movies and television shows. As soon as we hear that there's a "surprise" or a "twist," my mom especially picks through her brain and announces her guesses to the rest of the viewing party before the opening credits have begun to roll...

"She's gonna get together with him."

"He's gonna die."

"He's already dead."

My dad will groan and moan and tell her to quit guessing because it ruins the suspense. When, inevitably, one of her theories proves true, she sits back in her chair with a satisfied grin and says, "I knew it."

Isn't it that way when we try to guess what the future will hold?

People visit fortune-tellers, read tarot cards, shake a magic 8-ball because the suspense is killing them. They want to be prepared for what's coming. They want to know what's coming.

But...what if you could know the future? What if you could read the last sentence of the book that is your life? Would you be content? Would it ruin the surprise?

Or, like Uncle Jesse, would you even understand it?

For almost a year now, I've been stuck in a chapter of my life that I've been praying will end. Now. Now. Now. Page turn after page turn, and the main character continues to be deeply flawed and stuck at a fork in the road between bitterness and acceptance.

Frankly, I would love nothing more than to flip to the end of the chapter to see what happens. Where will I go? What will I do? Who will I become?

How will all of this resolve?

And wouldn't you know it? After patiently waiting to find some redeeming quality to the story, well, by golly, here comes a twist...

I've written at length about how difficult it has been to watch the pregnant women in my life as they grow and plan for their upcoming ventures as new moms. One in particular was extremely hard for me to accept. It was horrible, awful, could-not-have-been-worse timing, and it left me with an unfortunate bitterness that persisted for most of her pregnancy. I'm not proud of it. But there was so much anger, so much resentment, so much yuck that went into it that my heart could barely handle the sting.

Only my mother and my husband truly know the depth of pain that I felt throughout her pregnancy.

It wasn't until a week or two before her due date that we actually opened up to this couple, aired our dirty laundry, and came together with empathy, understanding, and true fellowship. The meeting that we shared was divine in nature and just what I needed.

And wouldn't you know it...

As the Lord would have it, I got to be there with them the day their baby was born. I got to watch them become parents, the excitement and anticipation scribbled all across their faces, their inexplicable joy when they finally saw the lovely face they had waited months for.

And I was the first to hold.

There's so much I wish I could share but won't for certain reasons, but I just kept thinking, Wow. I could never have dreamt up this part of the story. I could never have imagined it.

You know why?

Because He's such a good storyteller. And if we will be patient enough to sit and listen, instead of interrupting him constantly to try and figure out the ending, we can revel in, marvel at, and truly appreciate the incredible stories He weaves.

I wouldn't have understood if I had looked ahead for a peek at what was to come. But because I haven't bypassed the story, I do. I get it. I get it. What seemed like horrible, awful, could-not-have-been-worse timing turned out, remarkably, to be perfect timing.

So gather in a circle, sit cross-legged, and listen closely. I can tell, this story's going to be a good one.

And remember, no peeking...

"Many are the plans in a man's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails." ~Proverbs 19:21

Roots

2011-08-04T07:51:00.001-07:00

I definitely don't have a green thumb. In fact, I think my thumb shoots out poison that kills any plants within a ten-mile radius.

It's sad, really.

When we moved into our house in November, the developer was kind enough to start us out with some landscaping. Nothing fancy, just a few shrubs, bushes, and one tree. And they covered it in that awful Georgia pine. If you've ever tried to plant or pull weeds in Georgia pine, you know that it's like sticking your palms in a knife drawer. Because I'm so smart (read: ditzy), it took me a couple of times to figure out that you need to wear strong gloves when you're messing with it.

Once the weather got warmer, we decided to improve our curb appeal. We ditched the Georgia pine for some luscious midnight black mulch, and I picked out a couple of Gerber daisies to plant along the front of the house.

A few days later, one of the Gerber daisies was missing. Dru told me he thinks a deer ate it. (P.S., I haven't seen one deer since we moved out here. I think he just didn't want to tell me that my poisonous non-green thumb killed it.)

Because pulling weeds became too tedious, he bought weed-killer spray, and unfortunately, he missed and sprayed all of our ground cover. They shriveled and turned brown. Desperate to keep something alive, I sat there on a humid Saturday afternoon and pruned every last one of those plants down to the nub, which was the only green part of them left. The plants didn't just subsequently die, I'm pretty sure the earth opened up and swallowed them, because there were no traces of them to be found.

We really stink at gardening.

As the brutal summer heat wore on, we vowed to somewhat give up on our gardening until the fall, when things were more likely to survive. But poor Dru couldn't stand the sight of our naked, shriveled lawn any longer, spending an afternoon at Home Depot shopping for new ground cover.

But a curious thing happened as he started planting that afternoon...

One of our little plants had decided it wasn't over yet. Not yet.

After realizing it wasn't a weed, Dru let me know that one of our little plants had come back. I asked him if any of the others had shown signs of returning, and he told me no. That was the only one.

Wow. That little plant must have some strong roots.

He thought about digging it up and planting a brand new one, but we decided that no. It's come this far; why don't we see what it can do?

Maybe you feel like one of our plants today. Maybe you feel like you've been sprayed to death; the heat's too much; there's no way, no reason you should keep growing.

You see others around you, just like you, and they've quit. They gave up.

But no. Not you. You've got some roots. Strong roots. No matter how much the world tries to make sure you're stunted, well I'll be if you don't continue to stick around.

Not even just stick around. My goodness, look how you've grown.

You may not feel it. Maybe you aren't as grown and pretty as everyone else, but you certainly stand out. Come on. Keep going. Don't give up.

Let's see what you can do. Let's see what He can do.

"The righteous shall flourish like a palm tree, He shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon. Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God. They shall still bear fruit in old age; they shall be fresh and flourishing." ~Psalm 92:12-14

Hear Me Out...

2011-07-31T20:50:00.001-07:00

Okay. Deep breath.

Let's get back to basics.

This past week, it was made known to me that people have been..."talking about my blog." Okay. Great, I think.

No. Not great.

Despite the excitement I had developed over the birth of this blog and how it has helped me to cope, I was told that several posts had people...concerned.

I want all of you out there who have expressed this sentiment to know this:

I. Am. Okay.

Really. Really.

But I guess that some things need to be clarified before anymore posts get written. I want those of you who read and care to hear me out and hear my heart.

Okay, here goes...

1. Contrary to popular belief, I do not--I repeat, DO NOT--hate pregnant women. Have you picked your jaw up off the floor yet? I know that it seems hard to believe, but I really don't. I love pregnancy; I think it's a beautiful God-given experience, and it's a big reason why I chose to enter the field of nursing that I did. Because of the sheer volume of pregnant women in my life at the moment (and given my circumstances), it's tough because I so envy this beautiful God-given experience. Gosh, it's wonderful, and I'd love to be able to join in. But just because I write tongue-in-cheek statements or posts (see "Top Ten Reasons," if you dare), I hope that you will take them with a grain of salt. I use humor to cope with tough things.

And if you read a post and wonder if it's about you, there's a really good chance it isn't. I had heard that a new mom was truly upset at a post that I had written because she felt it was about her, and it wasn't. Sometimes, they aren't about anyone in particular at all. There's a reason I don't use names. Remember...there are more than twenty women in my life who are expecting. There's a good chance you're nowhere in here.

But really, I don't hate you. I care about this special time in your life, even though I'm often inept at showing that. When your baby comes, I will probably ooh and aah and coo and giggle and marvel at what a great job you did. Be excited for yourself and don't pay my pregnancy statements any mind.

2. Hard and heavy posts don't indicate a perpetual mindset. When I started writing about my experience with pregnancy loss, I wasn't drawn to journal when I was having one of my better days. I was and am still often drawn to journal when I'm having one of my hard days. Note that "intense" posts (see "Big Boys Don't Cry" and "Crash and Burn") aren't posted every day. I imagine that posts like these are what provoke the "concern," but I hope it comes across that even the darkest and hardest entries end with some sort of hopeful or positive note.

I do not live in a state that calls to mind the mood of "Crash and Burn;" those feelings have actually become fewer and farther between. There are days--can you believe it?--where I laugh my head off, dance across our bonus room, sing at the top of my lungs, smile until my cheeks hurt. I am able to fully grieve some days and fully rejoice in my newlywed life other days. So because I choose to share about a hard day with you does not mean that all day I have been sitting in a corner in my bedroom in the fetal position with the lights out singing Kumbaya as I cry myself to sleep. I mean, come on. I've only done that twice...

3. I'm willing to be open and honest if it can help someone. In the days after our second miscarriage, I was directed to Angie Smith's blog "Bring the Rain." And oh my gosh, her writing was so precious to me. I clung to her words. I clung to her lessons, to her pain, to her hurts, to her frustration. She got it. She understood. The feelings I felt no longer seemed abnormal or out of place. And as I began to write about my own experiences, that feedback within the first day was so affirming. I got thank you messages for writing and attempting to help others to become more aware of the pain that accompanies a struggle to have kids.

I'm not naive enough to think that I'm everyone's cup of tea or that everyone processes or grieves the way I do. But I hope you won't be naive enough to think that these feelings are rare. Women have talked to me who miscarried decades ago, and they tell me how they still think of the ones they lost. It sticks with you. So, I will keep being open and honest about my feelings, not to please you or even to give you something juicy to read. I'm doing it just in case there's a girl just like me out there searching for someone who gets it. Who understands. Who isn't afraid to talk about the hard stuff. And I hope that somehow, some way, maybe it will be of comfort to her.

4. I don't want to be a "fair-weather Christian." It drives me nuts when people get what they want in life, and then they're able to talk about how wonderful the Lord is, to praise Him, to spread the news of His goodness. It's easy to praise Him when things are easy. It's harder to praise Him when things are hard. I want this difficult time to be a season of spiritual growth for me, and I want to learn to praise Him, even when the clouds haven't passed. Even when it's still dark. Even when it's pouring. You can still praise Him when things are hard, it's just harder to do it. I'm trying so hard to learn how to do that, and I want for you to come along the journey with me and to learn from my mistakes.

I don't relate well to people who haven't experienced "hard stuff." Maybe some people do, but I don't. Growing up in church, the testimonies that stuck with me, the ones that were hard-hitting and powerful, were ones where a huge life change had occurred. It was amazing to see someone like a former alcoholic, drug user, atheist had come to know the Lord. The parable was called "The Prodigal Son" for a reason; no one would have cared if it was called "The Prodigal Son's Brother Who Stayed At Home And Never Did Anything Wrong Ever." I hope that sharing this experience will help you relate to me in some way because I get it. I get what it's like to have things not go the way you want.

But it's okay. We're going to make it. I can feel it. We're going to make it out of here alive.

This is a lot, I know. But I wanted to be able to speak from my heart and let you know that I don't want this experience to get the better of me. My writing is how I cope, how I process, and I'm watching God use it to mold me into whatever He wants me to be. There will probably still be days where you'll see an intense post or two, but know that I'm still okay.

Really. Really.

And I'm hoping that now the only thing anybody's concerned about is if I actually ever sang Kumbaya in the fetal position...

2 Big Reasons To Smile

2011-07-27T06:45:00.001-07:00

I dumped a lot of tough feelings and thoughts on you the other night, and I want to thank those of you who sent me messages of encouragement, telling me you are praying for me. I'm so grateful for those who continue to visit the blog--it brings more encouragement than you could know when people tell me they've been reading.

Thanks to your prayers, I am feeling much better today and choosing not to dwell on the negative aspects of the moment. All things considered, my life is pretty wonderful, and I'm thankful the Lord has blessed us as He has.

Today, I am looking at the precious things I have, two of which were snuggled next to me this morning...

They are so stinking silly and so stinking cute, and I just can't help but smile when I look at them. So, in the spirit of choosing to smile today, I've selected some of my favorite pictures of my silly stinkers. I hope that they will bring a smile to your face, too.

Yes, that's her tongue...we call this her "doober face."

3 reasons to smile :)

There are more pictures of Zoey because she is such a ham!

Hope everyone has a wonderful rest of the day.

Crash and Burn

2011-07-25T19:10:00.001-07:00

Crinkling sand beneath my warm toes, I listened to the waves as they smashed against the beach. Breathing a deep inspiration of therapeutic, salty air, I exhaled the troubles that had wound my nerves so intricately for the past several months.

Ahh. This is the life, I thought. Miles from frustration; ages from pain; far from worry.

It was sweltering hot, and with perspiration dripping heavily from my chlorine-soaked ponytail, I stepped lightly to refresh my feet in the ocean water. The tide bathed and tickled my toes, and because of the brutal heat, my body begged me to venture further out for a cool dip.

The waves, which had originally lapped sweetly against my ankles, began to vigorously charge against me as I waded deeper and deeper. As long as I could see the waves coming, I could brace myself for their strength. But when I turned my back to the approaching tide, the force felt stronger. Harder.

I couldn't tell where or when they'd be coming. The deeper I got, the faster they hit. The harder they got, the weaker I realized I was. Some were so strong that they knocked me over. Some knocked me under.

One. After the other. After the other. Until I briefly questioned, "Will I ever regain my footing? Will I drown here?"

I think it's only fair for those of you who have accompanied me on this journey to hear the "real stuff" that I go through in this grief. Yes, I've been trying desperately to make lemonade from this sour season, but you know what? It would be wrong of me to lead you to believe that every time I have a setback, my first thought is, "Well, golly gee whiz. What valuable lesson can I learn today?"

This isn't Mr. Rogers' neighborhood.

Sometimes, I find that I can move to a place like this quickly. But, folks, it isn't always that simple.

Exhibit A? Let's journey to yesterday morning...

Sunday morning. The alarm sings to let us know that it's time to get up for Sunday School. To be honest, it's a struggle every week over whether or not we'll go. Not because we don't love the class.

Our class roster has quickly become a list of nothing but parents and parents-to-be. It's a fairly small, intimate class, so it's impossible to hide in the crowd, and I often find myself wedged between a rock and a hard place...or a pregnant belly and an even bigger pregnant belly. Two of my classmates are set to deliver in the next month or so. A third pregnancy was announced two Sundays ago. We were one of three couples left who weren't expecting.

So let's drop a bomb, shall we?

All morning, Dru kept telling me that he had a funny feeling; like we shouldn't go that morning. It had been a bit of a tough weekend (Saturday was my second due date, and of course we paused with grief), but I pish-poshed his concerns. For some reason, my stomach was in knots the whole ride there.

As usual, we were running a few minutes late but made it just in time for prayer requests. My last shining hope of a non-mom-to-be eagerly raised her hand.

"I have a prayer request...and a praise..." she began.

My heart fluttered. My fine-tuned, bitter, infertile eye scanned her for a tell-tale bump.

"We have a doctor's appointment this week..."

No, please, dear Lord, no...I feel a wave coming, but I can't see it...it's a big one...

"Because we're thirteen-and-a-half weeks expecting!"

She looked right at me when she said it. Right. At. Me. My face was numb. I heard nothing after. But as I looked around at my classmates, I realized I was the only wife who wasn't pregnant.

With a stupid look on my face, I sat there. Frozen. My ears bleeding from the news. I carefully faced Dru and whispered, "We need to leave. Now." We stayed through the prayer, but as Dru gripped my hand as our leader prayed "...and bless this new life, Lord...," my body started to shake, violently rejecting the news.

We hauled tail at the sigh of an "Amen." As quickly as we had arrived, we were out of there. Dru started the car angrily, and we began to weave in and out of nearby neighborhoods. He talked incessantly of shrubs and landscaping (it's become his "safe place"), and me?

I yelled.

One by one, I named them--those who had announced a pregnancy or had a baby in the last nine months. The girls at work...our sister-in-law...our Sunday School classmates...this girl from Facebook...that girl from Facebook...those six neighbors of ours...

It added up to more than twenty. Twenty.

When I think about that number, I think my head will explode. Really. If you're scratching your head incredulously at my undying frustration, that's okay. I'm thankful you don't understand. But if you've been where we are--even a little bit--I'll bet you get it.

And as much as I want to be a "good Christian girl" and respond how I know I should, this sucks.

It's overwhelming, and it sucks. And you know what? As we drove around yesterday, I did something I haven't done in a very long time. I questioned everything I believe in.

It is possible that even as a follower of Christ, even though you're searching for His promises, His grace, His mercy, His goodness...you may not feel it. You can find it, but you may not feel it.

I spouted off vile things. That God doesn't see me. That He has forgotten about us. That He must not want us to have a baby. That He just flat out doesn't care because if He did, then it wouldn't hurt this much. I cursed the fact that He was asking this much of me. While so many others have it so easy, He's making it hard for us. Everytime a wave comes, He doesn't let me get my breath before another sends me crashing to the bottom.

Stop it, God. Stop!! Give me a break already. I need a break. If He is so great and good and wonderful, why won't He come save me from this pain? Enough already!

I just couldn't feel Him. And because I couldn't feel Him, because He was letting me drown, I doubted that this whole experience was nothing more than a reason to put us down.

In my heart of hearts, I know this isn't the truth. I know that. But what you feel can make what you know seem like a farce. When they don't seem to match up, emotions can override what you know to be true.

But as I picture how I must have looked to my Father--pitching a fit, screaming at Him, attempting to claw free from His steadfast grip--I imagine that, just like a Daddy does when His daughter falls and hurts herself, He has me sitting on a kitchen counter examining my wounds.

Kindly, He takes my hand. Yeah. They're pretty deep. They're ugly.

And while I wipe my teary eyes, hoping that it will take nothing but a kiss to soothe the pain, He pulls out a cleanser to wash over my wounds.

But it burns. It hurts. It feels awful. Because it hurts, I doubt what He's doing. It must not be working right.

"My child," He says lovingly, "this will help. I know it hurts, but this is going to make you better."

Instead of trusting that He knows what's right, that He knows what I need, I kick and scream and doubt that He who created my inmost being isn't giving me what I need.

He is. It just isn't the way that I want. I want the kiss. I don't want the burn.

Friends, I'm sitting on the counter getting my wounds cleansed tonight. It's terribly unpleasant. I'm kicking, screaming, and crying. And I don't want it to have to be this way. But I ask, I beg, that you pray for me and my ugly, wounded body, and that I'll surrender it to the Healer--the One Who gives me what I need and not what I want.

Yeah, the Doctor is in, and even though He's working on me tonight, He's open to new patients.

Need an appointment? I'm sure He'll see you next...

It Could Have Ended Here

2011-07-21T04:38:00.001-07:00

It could have been the most memorable day of our lives.

Perhaps I would have woken in the middle of the night, much like they do in the movies, to the discomfort of ever-increasing contractions, perhaps my water having broken.

Maybe I would have shaken Dru to wake him, telling him anxiously, "I think it's time."

I'm sure he would have stumbled around nervously for the car keys, our overnight bags, maybe a quick bite of breakfast before loading my very pregnant self into the car. We probably would have run red lights, sped consciously, woven through traffic. He would have asked me constantly how I was feeling, rubbed my belly, told me how much he loved me. That he couldn't wait to be a father.

I could have been settled in a spacious room surrounded by excited family, eager grandparents. Staff might have asked repeatedly, "Is this your first?" followed by congratulatory sentiments and well wishes.

And then, when they would have told me it was time to push, butterflies would have sprung in my gut.

The moment I have been waiting for could have been within reach.

And when they would have told me that she was here--a girl--I would have looked at Dru and wept with an overwhelming sense of joy.

She could have been here.

I could have seen her face. I could have held her. Touched her fingers. Kissed her cheeks.

I like to think that maybe she had her daddy's blonde hair and big, sparkling eyes.

Sarah. It could have fit her. Maybe she would have looked like a Sarah.

My second pregnancy could have ended here. In an overjoyed hospital room. In a healthy newborn. In a happy ending.

But it didn't. It ended months ago in a cold hospital room. In a lost dream. In tears.

Saturday was my second due date, and we are mourning the fact that our sweet Sarah isn't with us. Our memories of her will only ever be limited to a positive pregnancy test and a couple of doctor's visits.

Our arms feel extra empty this week. But praise Jesus, His arms are extra full.

Sweet Sarah, we loved you from the moment we knew you were with us.

Oh, how we loved you. How we love you still.

We miss you, but we trust that there will be a day...oh, that sweet day...when we can see your face. Hold you. Touch your fingers. Kiss your cheeks.

Until then, we'll be waiting...

Love,
Mama and Daddy

Top Ten Reasons It's Okay Not To Be Knocked Up

2011-07-20T19:43:00.001-07:00

Yeah. I pretty much need this list this week. Hope you can find a laugh or two and a reminder that, you know what? It's perfectly okay not to be knocked up... you know, for now.

1. Date night can be any night of the week. Monday night dinner and a movie? Why, of course. Tuesday night sushi and bowling? You betcha! No babysitters, no hassle, no "Ohhhh my gosh I'm so sickkkk and so tired I just wanna go to bed nowwwwwwww" sentiment; just you, your handsome beau, and a whole lot of L-O-V-E. *wink, wink*

2. Hello, forbidden foods. Got a hankering for a glass of wine, a spicy tuna handroll, or some decadent soft cheeses? Eat up, girlfriend. Unless, of course, you're allergic to seafood. Or you're an alcoholic.

3. Rolling in the Benjamins. It's easier to justify a wardrobe splurge (Anthropologie, I love you) when you're not spending every last dime on booties, onesies, and doctor's appointments. Get your hair done. Get your nails done. Go have a spa day. Treat yourself to something fabulous that reminds you just how fabulous you are.

4. The numbers on the scale don't have to go up. They can go down. Or stay the same. And you don't have to worry about looking like you're smuggling a watermelon under your sweater in a matter of months (unless, of course, you go overboard with the soft cheeses).

5. There's no chance of terms like "mucus plug" or "birthing ball" entering your conversations. Frankly, your friends will just like you better because of this.

6. Strangers won't have compulsive urges to rub your belly. At least, I hope not.

7. "I'm going to DisneyWorld!" Live it up at a theme park, waterpark, or some other physically adventurous activity. You won't have to worry about harming an unborn baby. Or you know, exploding an inner tube on the Lazy River.

8. No worry of involuntary flatulence. A girl told me that she could literally propel herself across the room when she was pregnant. Hmmm. Okay. Yeah. I...I don't really know what to say to that.

9. People won't avoid you on account of your, ahem, "hormonal rages." No walking on eggshells around you, missy. You're free to be the life of the party without fear that you'll burst into tears over your swollen ankles or mismatched socks. And, you know, your husband won't be scared of you.

10. You can still see your feet. Yeah. 'Nuff said.

Got a good reason it's okay not to be knocked up? I'd love to hear it!

Walking the Mile...

2011-07-17T18:43:00.001-07:00

"Athletically challenged"--this is the term I devised as a kid to describe my non-sports-playing, last-one-called-for-kickball, slow and sedentary self.

AKA: I'm awful at sports.

If it involves a ball, a puck, a field, a court--pretty much movement in general--you can bet it isn't my strong suit.

Thus, PE was about equal to a death sentence for me when I was in elementary school. The push-ups. The sit-ups. The *gulp* exercising. The horror!

I didn't need to participate in the activities to break a sweat.

But, oh. The mother of all PE activities was dum, dum, dum...running "The Mile."

Yes, a mile. One whole big, fat mile (which I'm pretty sure was actually longer than just a mile. It felt more like a million).

When I was in kindergarten through about second grade, we ran "The Mile" around the front lawn of the school (it was a big lawn). But in later years, the school invested in a high-end, fancy schmancy track. Four laps equaled a mile.

And as if running "The Mile" wasn't bad enough, our teacher handed out popsicle sticks with numbers on them to tell you where you placed time-wise in the class. My popsicle stick was usually somewhere in the 50s.

There were only about 60 or so kids in my class.

I remember that I didn't care that I wasn't first. Or second. Or thirty-fifth.

I just didn't want to be last.

I could usually start the race out fair. I'd jog a little, walk a little (okay, a lot). And one by one, my classmates would start to pass me. Some even lapped me. Soon enough, there I was bringing up the rear with a couple of other athletically challenged classmates (i.e. stragglers [i.e. my friends]).

But one day, my worst nightmare nearly came true. I looked up from my dragging, aching feet to see all of my classmates standing around waiting for me to finish. I begn to panic, searching to my right, to my left for a sign of someone else struggling to finish. I was relieved to discover that I was maybe two feet in front of one other girl, and she was huffing and puffing severely.

Her face was splotched with exhaustion. Her bangs matted to her forehead with intense perspiration. Her feet dragging even more heavily than mine.

A surge of motivation coursed readily through my veins as I saw her gaining on my every step. I kicked my normally immobile feet into high gear, swiftly crossing the finish line.

A twinge of guilt pricked my quickly beating heart as I saw her--slow and steady--finish the race.

In last place.

And there I stood clutching my pride in the form of that next-to-last popsicle stick. Exhausted. And frankly, no better for it.

I don't know about you, but my life sure feels like I'm running "The Mile" sometimes. I didn't expect to be first of my friends to be engaged (I wasn't), get married (again, nope), or get a job (ditto). It was the strangest thing; even when I was engaged to Dru and less than three months out from our wedding, I still felt that sensation of falling behind when I went to friends' weddings.

Even though I could see the finish line, it killed me to see someone else get there first.

And now, our struggle to have a baby is leaving me feeling even further behind. My neighbors are all pregnant (I'm pretty sure that we unwittingly moved into a Duggar commune); my church is rapidly reproducing; family members are adding to the brood of grandchildren.

Some people our age are even "lapping" us, working on their second or third child. Dru and I were recently told by someone to "get cracking" on our baby-making because everyone else was passing us up.

Thank you. That helps a lot.

Honestly, it's just plain unfortunate to bring up the rear. It's lonely to bring up the rear. It's embarrassing to bring up the rear.

People start to wonder what's wrong with you. Why you're taking so long. They think you should hurry up already because they're tired of waiting for you to catch up. All the while, you're trying as hard as you can; huffing and puffing; dragging your feet. You can only make yourself move so fast.

I don't know why my tendency is to make a "race" out of life events.

Races are selfish; you can't cheer for anyone else but yourself, and the success of others can only mean your further defeat.

Races promote pride; letting anyone go ahead of you would be absurd and contrary to the point of the race. Being first implies that you are best and that anything less is not good enough.

Ugh.

So if I hate racing so much, why do I continue to race?

Now that I'm older and no longer succumbed to the wrath of "The Mile," I can see that my teacher's intent was not to make me feel like I wasn't good enough. She probably didn't even care where I placed.

She cared that I did my best and that I finished the race.

God can feel like a mean PE teacher sometimes. It can seem as though He subjects you to unnecessary pain just to put you down. To keep you down.

But I promise, it really isn't the case.

He isn't asking you to go through a disappointing, difficult time to make you feel like you aren't good enough. He doesn't care if you're first. Frankly, no one really cares if you're first.

He cares about how you run the race, not how fast.

I admire the girl who finished last place that day. Yes, it takes a great deal of talent and hard work to be a fast runner. But not only did she give it her all, she finished. She dared to keep going, even though she probably felt the sting of sixty impatient stares with each step she took. She held her head high and endured.

I can't tell you who came in first place that day. In my eyes, she was first because it took more effort to finish last with poise than to come in first with good genetics and a little luck.

Yeah, your mile might feel like a million by the time you see the finish line. You might be wondering how everyone else finished so quickly. Why you're still going. Why it seems to be taking forever.

Stop and walk. Huff and puff. Do whatever you need to do to keep going. I promise you, friend; there is a purpose for this journey. You might not see it yet, but it's there.

Don't pay attention to the popsicle sticks. To the time. Just give it your all.

Whatever your race, run it well.

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us." ~ Hebrews 12:1

It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over

2011-07-12T19:10:00.001-07:00

The first time my parents took me to DisneyWorld, I was four years old. And I thought I had died and gone to Mickey Mouse heaven.

My dad still teases me to this day because of my lack of enthusiasm during the plane ride down there (it was my first time on an airplane). I was convinced we were actually going to land in front of Cinderella's castle in the heart of the Magic Kingdom.

While my dad tried to get me excited about flying--the clouds, the wings, the tiny little specks of people on the ground--I kept huffing, "I'm bored. When are we going to land at DisneyWorld?"

Imagine my disappointment when we landed at a stuffy old airport with not a Disney character in sight.

I don't remember a whole lot about that first trip to Orlando because I was so young. But I do remember going on the most terrifying ride of my life.

Big Thunder Mountain Railroad.

Now, I know some of you are probably laughing at me right now because if you've ever ridden this roller coaster, you know that it's pretty tame.

All right, it's downright dinky.

Well, if you know me, you know I'm definitely not a daredevil. My mother coaxed me into going on this ride with her, promising me that I would be fine, that it would be a quick ride, look at all the other kids doing it, yada, yada, yada.

Well. That sucker took off like a rocket.

I swallowed my tongue (and maybe a bug) as we shifted around tight curves and bumpy hills. I had a white-knuckled grip on the safety bar and a scream stuck at the back of my throat.

It's a wonder I didn't wet my pants.

When I thought I might actually pass out from this trip on the death coaster, the ride suddenly came to a halt.

My poor mom who felt awful at that point for putting me on the ride after seeing how scared I was, reassured me, "It's over. Don't worry. I think it's over."

It wasn't over. Nope. Not even close.

That monster fired right back up to finish my nightmarish adventure. I gave my mom a hard time for years after that for mistakenly telling me that the ride was over.

Have you ever thought that you were coming to the end of a long and difficult ride--only to find that it wasn't over yet?

I will confess that for the last couple of days, I had a feeling that I might be pregnant.

No, we really weren't trying (we're still not), but there was a significant chance that I could have been. I began to sense twinges that were eerily familiar to the initial symptoms I had with my other pregnancies.

I told Dru not to get excited (that didn't work), but that it might happen this month.

And that maybe this was it. Our light at the end of the tunnel. The end of a horrible ride.

I hadn't planned on taking a test on Sunday, but we had just been to a baby shower, and it was certainly at the forefront of my brain. We made a Walgreens pit stop, and with a tried and true Clear Blue Easy digital pregnancy test, I skipped off to the bathroom.

My heart was full of hope, joy, excitement. As I kept peeking at the test to see if my result was ready, I pondered how I might announce to all of the wonderful people who have been praying for us that now we finally have something to celebrate.

And there it was.

Not pregnant.

I couldn't believe it. I really thought I was. I had felt so sure. I thought this was it.

But my roller coaster had begun moving again.

Unfortunately, I've become all too familiar with this kind of disappointment. It stings every time.

I sighed as I looked longingly at the negative result. But before any anger or bitterness could sneak in and steal my heart, I had a thought.

He's just not finished working here yet. There's more for Him to do, more He wants to accomplish through these hurts.

He's still working on us. And I am at peace with that today.

Because of the One who finished it all on the cross, I can trust that my unfinished business will be taken care of. Eventually.

So I'll keep riding. Keep on hanging on.

And who knows? Maybe the daredevil deep inside me will learn to let go of the bar and throw my hands in the air...

And learn to enjoy the ride.

Wait

2011-07-08T19:04:00.001-07:00

I hate to wait. For anything.

I hate waiting in traffic; for a table at a restaurant; to check out at a store.

And don't even get me started on the DMV.

I particularly hate waiting rooms at doctors' offices, especially since last year.

When I suspected something was wrong with my first pregnancy, I was instructed to visit my doctor the following morning for an exam and bloodwork.

The nurse told me to be there at 8:00 am sharp for my appointment with Dr. P.

I tossed and turned the whole night, not sleeping a wink and mourning in anticipation of the news they would give me at the doctor's.

Dru drove me in that morning, and if you know me very well, you know that I got there early. Super early. We entered the office at 7:45, and no one was to be found. Not a receptionist, nurse, or doctor.

So, there we sat. In the waiting room. Waiting for someone to call my name.

Because there were no other patients around, I began crying as I had the night before, loudly and uncontrollably.

Thirty minutes later (and clearly past my appointment time), a lab technician finally entered the office. She noticed how sad I looked and then said, "Are you waiting for Dr. D?"

"No, Dr. P. I have an appointment at 8:00 to see if I'm having a [choking on my last word] miscarriage."

Rudely, she replied, "Dr. P doesn't work on Fridays. You'll just have to wait there until 9:00. No one will be here until then, anyway," before she immediately turned and walked away.

It was horrible waiting to be told that my baby was gone. But little did I know that two and a half months later, I would be in an even more excruciating waiting room.

The waiting room in the ER.

It was the day after Thanksgiving, and again, there I sat with Dru. Waiting. Waiting for my name to be called. My symptoms worsened with each passing half hour, and it was killing me that they hadn't seen me yet.

The lady who recorded my chief complaint, upon hearing that I said I thought I was having a miscarriage, stated gruffly, "So, like, what are you afraid of, other than that it's a miscarriage? I mean, you know there's, like, nothing we can do if that's what it is, right?"

I raised an eyebrow.

Yes, mean lady. Even though I'm a NICU nurse, I expect you to put my six-week-old fetus on a warmer and resuscitate it effectively, after which it will live a normal, happy life.

She sent me back to my seat in the waiting room.

Three pregnant women came and went through the ER while I sat and waited. I remember hearing one of them say that she was 18 weeks along.

18 weeks, I thought. I'll never make it that far.

It was three or four hours before they finally got me to a room, and another two hours or so of bloodwork, a horribly uncomfortable ultrasound, and staring at the walls before, once again, they told me that I wouldn't be a mother this time.

And since has begun the tedious--and perhaps indefinite--wait to see if we'll ever become parents. That involves waiting for test results, "two week waits," and maybe eventually a forty-week wait to meet a baby.

Ugh.

Like I said, I really hate waiting.

Last night, as I thought about the word "wait," for some unknown reason, it was brought to my mind that Dru used to be a waiter when we were in college.

A fine waiter at that. (Am I partial? I think not. But I digress.)

I began to think about the fact that some people actually choose to wait on other people for a living.

Except for one thing: Dru never, ever called himself a waiter.

He always referred to himself as a server.

Think about that for a second. When you go out to a restaurant, what's the difference between a waiter and a server? Many people that Dru worked with were good at what they did. They brought out the correct dishes. The correct drinks.

But that was it. They merely did the bare minimum to get a bare minimum tip.

They were waiters.

You can always tell who the servers are. They are kind. Friendly. Patient. Make sure that all of your needs are met, even if they're unspoken (i.e. an empty glass is a big no-no). They aren't waiting on you just to pass the time.

They're truly serving you.

What are you waiting for in your life right now? A test result (come on, CPA test!)? An engagement ring? A job? A family?

Yeah, I know. It stinks to wait. It's just plain hard.

But as you anticipate what the future will bring, don't waste your energy focused on the seconds that tick by so slowly. Don't just pass the time.

Find somehow, someway, to bow to the One who is asking you to wait...just a little bit longer...

And serve Him while you wait.

"But they that wait upon the Lord will renew their strength." ~Isaiah 40:31a

Testing, Testing, 1,2,3

2011-07-05T07:35:00.001-07:00

Good morning, all.

I hope everyone has had a nice Fourth of July weekend enjoying fireworks, cookouts, and some tasty food.

Just wanted to post and ask for your prayers this morning. Dru is taking the first part of his CPA exam today (there are four parts total). This first test is said by many to be the most difficult part of the exam because of the information it covers.

Bless his heart, he's been studying like a mad man for quite some time now. He even took his laptop and study materials on our vacation with us, studying every morning and afternoon while I was at the pool.

He is very nervous, and we ask that if you think about it today, please say a prayer for him that he has a clear head and good recall of everything that he has studied.

We won't know for a little while if he has passed or not, but I will update you as we get the information.

As always, if there's anyway that we can pray for you, please don't hesitate to shoot me an email at dandcchildress@gmail.com.

Thank you for your prayers. Have a wonderful rest of the day, friends.

Surely

2011-06-27T19:40:00.001-07:00

It was a Friday unlike any other.

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

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

A crucifixion, I muttered.

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

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

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

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

I began to count the lashes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My eyes welled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That must be it. That must be the cross.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exhausted, he spoke once more.

"It is finished."

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

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

Surely, this was the Son of God.

**********

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

But it isn't.

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

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

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

No, he didn't deserve it. I did.

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

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

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

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

Believe.

Surely, this was the Son of God.

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

The Cup

2011-06-27T06:10:00.001-07:00

An age-old question is often used to determine our attitude toward life:

Is the glass half empty or half full?

Now, I don't know about you, but my answer often depends on the day (and the beverage involved), but generally if you see it as half empty, you're a pessimist, and if you see it as half full, you're an optimist.

Admittedly, I've been having a "glass-half-empty" time lately. Yeah, I'm down, a little discouraged. And because this weekend brought a great deal of joy for a number of others in my life, I emptied my glass to help fill theirs.

And now, I'm frustrated.

Why isn't anyone filling my cup?

I'm not asking for a full glass, here. Just a swig. A sip. A sampling of the good stuff.

Their cups are overflowing, I think to myself. Can't they spare a little?

Because our human nature is to be selfish and to think that when we give something, we're due something in return, we often find ourselves feeling a bit bankrupt.

Yes, it's good to encourage one another. To fill each others' cups with love and celebration.

But the stuff we pass out to each other runs dry.

It's not an all-you-can-drink buffet of sorts. We can't give of ourselves when our own glasses are empty.

So, you ask, where can I get an endless supply so I never run out?

In the book of John, Jesus meets with a Samaritan woman at a well. She's minding her own business, drawing her own water, when Jesus asks her for a drink.

Because Samaritans didn't associate with Jews, she responds with something such as, "You talking to me?"

His fervent reply, "Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life" (John 4: 1-26).

It's easy to let our joy and our satisfaction stem from what others give us. But when they inevitably stop giving, we're left pining. Yearning.

Thirsty.

For years, whenever I would begin to feel empty like this, my mother would always ask me if I had been in the Word lately. No, of course I hadn't.

"Then fill your tank," she'd say.

I would often resist, at first. Because I was too "busy" or what not. But as soon as I recharged my life with His Word, I began to care less about what I could scrape up from others. I don't need their water.

I have Living Water. Water that never runs dry.

Are you thirsty? Parched? Waiting for a trickle of someone's happiness to spill into your life?

Don't settle for sips of the good stuff. Fill your tank. Dig deep into His Word and let His marvelous grace pour into your life. Your glass won't just be full.

It'll downright overflow.

The Down Comforter

2011-06-23T15:17:00.001-07:00

Our itty bitty (yet somehow hefty) pup Zoey is quite the character. A troublemaker, really. She may come off as sweet and quiet (and she is most of the time), but too often she poops under the bed, makes off with my socks and underwear, and somehow becomes deaf whenever we go outside.

She's such a stinker. And, I'll admit, spoiled rotten.

Lately, she's developed this interesting new habit. Normally, she likes to snuggle against my back when I'm sleeping at night, but when I woke up one morning and couldn't find her, I began to panic that she had fallen off the bed.

Strangely, I noticed that our down comforter felt extra heavy.

Our little peanut had not just crawled under the covers...

She had buried herself inside the duvet at the foot of the bed. I'm not sure how she managed to get in there in the first place, but I had to unbutton it and literally drag her out of there.

Ever since, when it's time for bed, she dives head first under the covers. It seems to be the only way she can sleep. Of course, I'm afraid she's going to smother and frequently try to coax her back out so she can breathe.

But my efforts are in vain. There she is. Every morning. Still breathing. Buried in the comforter.

Days later, I had called my mother to talk to her on my way home from work, and I laughingly told her about Zoey's new favorite place to sleep (read: snore). She chuckled and then paused.

"That reminds me," she said. "I came across this verse today and I thought of you. It's a psalm that talks about 'singing under the shadow of his wings.'" She went on to explain that as I go through this difficult time in my life, He protects me like a baby bird under His wings. "Just like Zoey feels safe by hiding under the covers," she said, "you can hide yourself in Him."

I thought about that as I got home. And I laughed out loud as I truly made the connection. It makes perfect sense.

Zoey feels safe in the comforter.

Why do we seek comfort on a daily basis? We use medicine to comfort our aches. Comfort food to satisfy our hunger. Hugs to comfort our hurts.

We seek comfort to free ourselves from pain.

The Bible speaks often of the Lord being our Comforter. He can bring us comfort. He can free us from our pain.

And what's more, He can turn that pain into something beautiful.

In the time of David, a horrible plague swept through Israel as a punishment for his wrongdoing. As He saw how Israel hurt, the Lord had mercy on David and his people and removed their pain.

It is believed that Psalm 30 was written by David in response to the Lord's comfort:

1 I will exalt you, LORD,
for you lifted me out of the depths
and did not let my enemies gloat over me.
2 LORD my God, I called to you for help,
and you healed me.
3 You, LORD, brought me up from the realm of the dead;
you spared me from going down to the pit.

4 Sing the praises of the LORD, you his faithful people;
praise his holy name.
5 For his anger lasts only a moment,
but his favor lasts a lifetime;
weeping may stay for the night,
but rejoicing comes in the morning.
6 When I felt secure, I said,
"I will never be shaken."

7 LORD, when you favored me,
you made my royal mountain stand firm;
but when you hid your face,
I was dismayed.
8 To you, LORD, I called;
to the Lord I cried for mercy:
9 "What is gained if I am silenced,
if I go down to the pit?
Will the dust praise you?
Will it proclaim your faithfulness?
10 Hear, LORD, and be merciful to me;
LORD, be my help."

11 You turned my wailing into dancing;
you removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
12 that my heart may sing your praises and not be silent.
LORD my God, I will praise you forever.

Praise God, we don't have to hurt forever. He is good. He is faithful. Not only will He comfort your pain, He will redeem it.

Let Him fashion beauty from your ashes. Let Him turn your mourning into dancing. Your sorrow into joy.

It's been a long trip, my friend. You must be exhausted.

Come and rest.

Like Zoey, hide yourself in The Comforter.

Tin Foil, Peanut Butter, and Really Long Words

2011-06-22T20:49:00.001-07:00

Xanthophobia: fear of the color yellow or the word yellow
Lachanophobia: fear of vegetables
Kathisophobia: fear of sitting down
Psellismophobia: fear of stuttering (I think this one is downright mean)
Ablutophobia: fear of washing or bathing
Bromidrosiphobia: fear of body smells (I'm guessing these guys can't be friends with the ablutophobics...)
Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia: fear of the number 666
Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia: fear of long words (my, my, someone has a sense of humor)
Phobophobia: fear of phobias

I can't make this stuff up. Really.

When I was younger, I was watching an episode of Maury Povich (pretend you didn't hear that), and a woman was being interviewed about her fear of tin foil. Halfway through her talk with Maury, a stagehand ran onstage with a sheet of tin foil and chased her up into the audience. It was the most bizarre thing I have ever seen.

Sure, we can laugh about "silly" fears like those. I'm sure these phobias all stem from some sort of past harrowing situation, but when you take it at face value, you think, "People are really afraid of getting peanut butter stuck to the roofs of their mouths? That's. Messed. Up."

When I was a kid, I was afraid of the normal stuff. Thunderstorms. Snakes. Spiders. The dark. My rocking chair.

What? You mean you weren't scared of your rocking chair?

Okay, okay. I had a nightmare one time that my rocking chair came to life and tried to come and get me. After that, I kept a close eye on it. I was sure it was moving closer and closer every evening.

I swear I was a very normal child.

But let's throw out some other fears here, shall we?

Eremophobia: fear of loneliness.
Carcinophobia: fear of cancer.
Algophobia: fear of pain.
Necrophobia: fear of death.

Not so funny, now. These are pretty common. And you know what? I'll bet most of the phobias out there boil down to a fear of pain or death (although I'm not sure what the color yellow could ever do to you. But I digress...).

We don't see these fears as being abnormal. We should be afraid of these things. They're truly scary.

Right?

I'll admit, right now I'm developing a phobia of the prenatal vitamins in my medicine cabinet. They're there, waiting for me to start taking them again. To provide a daily reminder that it hasn't happened yet. And that there's a chance it never will.

I fear it because I know that another miscarriage is a real possibility for me. And another loss means pain.

And death.

Everybody keeps asking us when we're going to start trying again. Dru and I have decided that we will keep it to ourselves when we do. But frankly, I have no earthly idea because I'm scared out of my mind.

Just like little girls fantasize about their dream weddings, as they get older, they start to think about having the perfect pregnancy: no real "trying," carry to term, cute little baby bump, and a healthy baby to take home.

Sigh. It just doesn't work that way sometimes. And I'll admit that I feel extra discouraged lately because I've had some friends confide in me about their recent struggles to get and/or stay pregnant. Misfortune feels rampant at the moment, just as I was starting to get the slightest spark of excitement at the thought of trying again.

I feel cheated. If we are blessed with another positive pregnancy test, it won't be as happy an experience as it could be. We don't think about saving for cribs or private schools or college. We think about saving for D&Cs, should I need one or two in the future.

I wish I could be ignorant; I wish I could think that two pink lines mean I'm getting a baby.

But as I sit here and put these thoughts into print, I see doubt woven in each sentence. I doubt that we'll get pregnant. I doubt that we'll stay pregnant. I doubt that we'll be parents.

Dare I say, perhaps these doubts reflect a doubt in...God?

Think about it. As I said earlier, most of our fears boil down to a fear of pain or death. If you are a believer, you simply can't fear these things.

Because your God is greater.

He is greater than any pain that can be inflicted on your body. He is greater than the loneliness you feel after a divorce. He is greater than any sickness.

He is greater than death.

He conquered death. It's over. It's finished. We don't have to fear it anymore.

So ask yourself: why do you still fear it?

Do you doubt Him? Do you doubt what He did for you on the cross? Do you doubt that He is King? That He is in control?

Only you can answer that.

Truthfully, friends, the only thing we should be absolutely terrified of is permanent separation from God. If you've given your life to Him, then your fears have no place here.

No place here.

In fact, they're just as ridiculous as being afraid of tin foil or peanut butter.

Suddenly, the prenatal vitamins in my medicine cabinet seem a little less menacing. There may be more losses in store for me. Maybe not. But I can't be afraid to try. I can't be afraid to try.

I can't be afraid.

I won't be afraid.

Sigh.

Bottoms up.

"When I am afraid, I will trust in you." ~Psalm 56:3

Hitting Rock Bottom: When All You Can Do Is Look Up

2011-06-20T17:33:00.001-07:00

Have you ever had a nasty fall? One so painfully embarrassing and so memorable that you actually hope someone else witnessed it? I can recall one summer when I worked as a carhop at Sonic stumbling over my two left feet many a time. One afternoon--during happy hour, when all customers order are drinks--I scanned an order to carry out. I spied the tray and gulped. Eight Route 44 cokes. Yikes. Wobbling across the kitchen, soda octet in hand, I gently pushed the door open with my backside. Then, like a slow motion domino effect, one by one they tipped, sending a wave of carbonation crashing against the floor.

You'd think it couldn't get any worse, right? Yeah...until I forgot to clean up my mess and slipped on the puddle 5 minutes later. I hit the floor, landing solidly on my back. Sopping wet and stinking of cherry limeades, I pinched my eyes shut and thought, "Yep, it doesn't get any worse than this."

Clearly, I was exaggerating. We all experience "low" points in our lifetimes--and of course, I'm not just referring to physical fumbles. Life is a topsy-turvy roller coaster of unexpected ups and downs, and for the most part, the "downs" can be quite manageable.

But have you ever had the feeling that things simply couldn't be any worse? The lowest of lows?

Rock Bottom?

If you haven't yet, you will. And if you have, you probably will again.

I've visited Rock Bottom a few times. But my most recent visit occurred following the loss of Sarah in November.

When you go through back-to-back miscarriages, you don't feel much like exercising or eating right. I can recall getting dressed a few weeks after losing Sarah and having the worst time trying to fit into my jeans. It was a dance, really; the squiggle, the squirm, the jumping up and down. And nope. Those suckers were staying taut around my knees.

Mad and eyes welling with tears, I fell to the floor of the closet.

Yes, I was bigger. But that's not really why I was upset.

My body just couldn't do anything right. It was such a failure. I was such a failure.

I couldn't carry either of my babies. I couldn't support them.

I couldn't even fit into my pants. It was merely the straw that broke the camel's back.

I clawed at my arms, at my legs, at my stomach. I yelled at them, screamed at them for being not good enough.

Why can't my body just do what it's supposed to?

I lay on the floor of the closet, crying; wailing; squeezing my eyes shut and praying that it was all just a dream and that I would wake up soon.

When putting on a pair of pants sends you into a frenzy, you pretty much know you've hit Rock Bottom.

When life doesn't go as we had planned, we may not respond favorably to it. And when the world as we know it comes crashing down, we may land against the stony surfaces of Rock Bottom.

When I was in college, I experienced a dark time, and "running away" from my dorm and into the dark streets surrounding Belmont's campus seemed like a good way to escape my problems (I was aware then and am still aware now that this was the dumbest idea ever). As a personal therapy, I journaled about the experience. Here is an excerpt describing my moment of Rock Bottom, and I feel that it even applies to my situation today.

"10th Avenue and still all alone in the quiet night. My legs were growing ever so tired, and I could hardly breathe. I needed a break so I could sit, but I dare not set foot on any of the lawns surrounding me. Then, as if by some miracle, a church peeked its head from around the corner. Quickening my pace, I hurried down its gravel driveway and hid in its back parking lot.

"I fell on the cool, dewy grass, contorting my body in anguish. But then, as the summer breeze suddenly blanketed my figure, I took a deep, cleansing breath in a brief but truly welcomed respite. Rolling onto my back, I gazed at the September sky and its billions of brilliant stars that smiled at me with sympathy.

"My crying stopped. My body stopped shaking. The pain had subsided to a dull ache. I felt at that moment that Someone bigger had picked me up and cradled me in His arms, the way a loving parent does when a child scrapes her knee. Even though I was all alone in that dark lot, I felt more comfort and more love than I had in my whole life. This was a moment, as the Footprints in the Sand poem so vividly describes, when I wasn't walking with my Savior. There was only one set of prints in the sand. He was carrying me.

"I lay there, peaceful and doused with His mercy, not thinking of the pain that awaited me at home. Right then, my home was in His arms. I felt safe. My lips, cracked and dry, parted, and one of my favorite childhood songs danced its way out...

"'I cast all my cares upon you
"'I lay all of my burdens down at your feet
"'And anytime I don't know what to do
"'I'll just cast all my cares upon you.'"

I don't know what your Rock Bottom looks like. Cancer. Divorce. Infidelity. Abuse. Pain. Criticism. Unkindness. The scenery of Rock Bottom may vary from person to person.

But no matter who you are or where you've been, He sees you. He's not surprised by the circumstances of your Rock Bottom. No matter how great your hardship may be, God is greater. No matter the depth, His love is deeper still. And His children have the wonderful hope of His constant presence.

There is a psalm that speaks of us not being able to escape His presence--from the heights of the heavens to the depths, He is there. And He won't be there if we face trials--He promised He'll be there when we face trials.

You may never feel as close to Him as you do in Rock Bottom. It's just the two of you. Huddled close. He cries with you. He hurts with you.

He is with you. Cling to Him.

So the next time you visit the cold country of Rock Bottom, don't waste your time pressing your nose to the ground. After all, you can't get any lower. Choose to look up into the eyes of the Savior. Let Him take you home.

And let Him leave the footprints in the sand.

"Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there." ~ Psalm 139:7-8

Prayer Needed

2011-06-20T14:27:00.001-07:00

Good afternoon, friends.

This has been weighing heavily on my heart today. I woke up to an email from my mother saying that a sweet couple from their Sunday School class had sent them an urgent prayer request. Their daughter was experiencing problems with her pregnancy (lost all of her amniotic fluid), and the doctors didn't feel like she would be able to continue with the pregnancy. She was far enough along to have to deliver the baby last night.

The baby passed away this morning.

Please be in prayer for grandparents Paul and Bonnie and mom Karyn (I am unsure of dad's name) as they grieve the loss of this little baby. If you are reading this and know the family, please reach out to them in some way when you see them. They are devastated but have peace knowing that the baby is safe in the arms of Jesus.

I also wanted to let you know that if you have any prayer requests at all (not just pregnancy or baby related), you can email them to me at dandcchildress@gmail.com or post them in a comment here, if you feel comfortable doing so. I would love to have the opportunity to pray for whatever is going on in your life.

Hope that you all enjoy the rest of this sunny afternoon.

The Secret Life

2011-06-17T18:24:00.001-07:00

The Secret Life of the American Teenager is a teen show on ABC Family, and its story lines often focus on teen pregnancy and teen motherhood.

I'll admit, when the show first came out, I was pretty much addicted. It was a guilty pleasure because the acting bordered on, well, horrendous most of the time.

But as I surfed through my On Demand yesterday, I came across the season that I hadn't seen yet. I skipped to the season finale because the story was supposed to revolve around teen parents Ben and Adrian and the birth of their baby girl.

As the couple goes into the hospital expecting to deliver their healthy child, you can gather from the looks of the nurse and the OB that something is clearly wrong.

There is. The baby is going to be stillborn.

The acting has never been so right on.

I love that throughout the entire episode, they dance around the idea that the baby isn't going to make it, but no one ever comes out and says it directly until the final scene, when Ben's father is having to tearfully explain to the couple's blissfully ignorant friends that there is no baby to see or hold. It's so appropriate because that's often how it goes in real life; you know what's going on, but actually having to say the words just seems too much to bear.

Kudos to a teen show for choosing to cover such a heavy topic. And they don't just gloss over the experience. The depiction of the pain and the periods of stoicism followed by intense crying is superb.

I have watched the final scene 3 times, and I have literally sobbed out loud each time. I even made Dru sit down and watch it with me last night, and as I looked over at him when it had ended, he had tears streaming down his face (and he absolutely never cries).

I am attaching the YouTube version of the final scene in the episode. It's 9 minutes or so, but I hope you will watch it, especially if you've never had to be there in the fresh aftermath of the death of a child. Hopefully, it will help bring to life the pain that I continue to talk about in my blog here, and help you understand how devastating it is to think everything's fine and that your life is about to change for the better, and suddenly it changes for the worse. No matter if it's a stillbirth or a neonatal death or a miscarriage; no matter if your child is embryonic or full term, it's awful. A child is a child is a child. And it's horrible to lose one.

May this be the only time you ever have to see pain like this.

Hope all of you have a wonderful rest of the night.

A Little Give and Take

2011-06-16T07:34:00.001-07:00

It was a sunny morning at the end of a grueling semester in nursing school. Still wiping the sleep from my eyes, I trudged over to my student mailbox, as I would any other morning.

Smith... Smith... Smith! There I was.

I opened the folder looking for old papers that might have been graded, take home tests, homework.

But...what was this?

A curious packet sat regally amidst my pharmacology essay and my Mental Health assignment.

It was a notice that I had received a scholarship. A big scholarship.

I tried to knock the sleep from my brain as I stared wide-eyed at the acceptance letter. A smile crept across my lips, and I fumbled for my cell phone to let my parents (who were footing the bill for my college education) in on the good news.

"Mom!" I exclaimed. "You're never going to believe this! I got a scholarship! A big one!" She squealed with delight as I dished the details.

"And the funny thing is, I don't even remember applying for it!"

Well, that's because I hadn't.

It had my name on it, all right. But there was another nursing student by the name of Chelsea Smith.

And the scholarship was meant for her.

Yuck.

My spirit crashed as quickly as it had soared when I realized what had happened. I messaged the other Chelsea Smith to give her the good news before sitting down to write a furious email to the people who hadn't bothered to make sure they were giving the scholarship to the right girl. I believe I said something along the lines that the "5 rights" should have been applied in this situation, much as it should in a hospital setting.

But how could I be mad, right? Yes, the scholarship was in my name. And it was in my hands.

But did it ever really belong to me?

Life is full of this sort of stuff. A little give. A little take. It often seems that as soon as a good thing occurs, something terrible is on its heels, and we're left feeling robbed. Neglected. Poor.

Let's journey back to the book of Job for a little more exploration on this subject, shall we? (I told you this would happen :))

As I shared with you last time, Job was a good man, and so God gave. And gave. And gave.

Satan enters with a proposition, and God allows him to take. And take. And take.

Job was literally left with no one. Nothing. Well, excpet for his wife--and she's quite a winner. (I'm wondering if leaving her alive was perhaps the worst torture Satan could afflict on him. Yeesh. But I digress...)

He had, and then he had not.

And again, when his oh-so-wonderful wife tells him to curse God and die, how does he respond?

"The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord! Shall we receive good at the hand of God and not receive evil?"

I don't know about you, but this is hardly how I feel when something I cherish is ripped from my grasp. If it's ever been in my hands, then it's mine. I want it. I need it. And you can't have it back.

I think we can get into an interesting conversation here about whether God actually takes away the good things in our lives. I read a blog recently that said she felt that the notion of "God gives and takes away" is rubbish because "God would never want His children to hurt."

Something needs to be made very clear, though. God is not your magic genie who is only on stand-by to grant you your wishes. He isn't a waiter who brings you items as you please.

He's not concerned with your gratification. He's concerned with your growth.

And He very well will allow a subtraction from our possessions if it means that we will forsake a life of comfort for a deeper connection with Him.

He doesn't remove things to be mean or spiteful. Certainly, there are consequences for poor decisions, but I don't believe God allows miscarriage or cancer or death because He wants to make you upset.

He doesn't want you to hurt, but He wants your heart. And unfortunately, sometimes the hurt is what it takes to get your heart.

He wants you. All of you. He never says that a life with Him will be simple. It's not supposed to be.

But He promises that He'll be with you. That you won't be alone. And He promises that He won't quit until this work in you is finished.

I don't know why God allowed the passing of Maria Chapman or Audrey Caroline Smith. I don't know why He allowed the passing of Eli and Sarah.

But I know that God is good. So good. And I know that He's up to something greater.

So, please. Take a good look around you. Your home. Your spouse. Your family. Your children. Your job.

Everything.

Yes, they may have your name on them. They may be in your hands. But just like that scholarship, they don't really belong to you.

Loosen your grasp and believe.

The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.

Knees

2011-06-15T16:57:00.001-07:00

It was a Saturday. Just a regular old Saturday. April 5, 2008 to be exact. I had just turned the magical age of 21, and my dear boyfriend of five years was taking me out for a ho-hum, run-of-the-mill date night at The Old Spaghetti Factory in Downtown Nashville.

It was only 4:30 in the afternoon.

Normally, he worked until 5, but for some apparent reason, he was in a huge hurry to get me to dinner. Right then. It couldn't wait.

He was so antsy that I thought I was going to have to slip him a Xanax.

So there we sat. A couple of twentysomethings getting the blue-haired special at 4:30 on a Saturday "night."

I curiously watched him as I munched on my salad. Legs shaking under the table. Picking at his food. Constantly looking at those around him (yes, there were actually other people eating at 4:30 besides us).

And as I sat there with a mouthful of lettuce, it happened.

"I can't wait any longer," he declared. With one simple move, he slid out from the booth and onto his knees with a red box in hand. The box opened to reveal a gorgeous diamond and my choice for the future.

"Will you marry me?"

Mouth still brimming with lettuce and eyes watering, I nodded and watched as he adorned my left hand with his undying commitment.

I love marriage proposals. I've been fortunate enough to witness a few of them in my day, including one during a beauty pageant at Samford University and one during the pre-show of the Indiana Jones stunt show at DisneyWorld.

And just like in the movies, before offering himself and his ring to the woman, the man always falls to his knees.

Sure, kneeling is classic stance for proposing, but we kneel for lots of reasons. We kneel to pick things up, to rest, when working. We might even kneel when exercising (hello, yoga).

We kneel in church. Or at least, sometimes we do.

I think kneeling in worship is a lost art. Take a look around on a Sunday (at least at a Baptist church), and you'll rarely see a bent knee. Just standing. Blank stares. Maybe singing.

Kneeling isn't that big of a deal, you might say. There's no reason I have to. It's really not that comfortable. So why on earth should I do it?

These past nine months have kept me looking back to the book of Job. If you haven't read it, and you're currently experiencing a rough time in your life (and even if you aren't), I highly recommend flipping to it. It's one of the most poignant books in the Bible and a favorite of mine, so you might hear me reference it from time to time.

Need a recap?

Job is a fabulous, upright man who avoids all things evil. Because he stands in such favor with the Lord, the Lord blesses him. He gives Job a wife, 10 children, and more animals than he can count. He loves the Lord. And the Lord loves Job.

Enter: the villain. Satan has had his eye on Job, and he goes to speak with God regarding this "perfect, upright" fellow. Satan is itching for Job to curse God and tells God that if Job wasn't quite so blessed, he might just do it.

God grants Satan the permission he asks.

And so, tragedy strikes Job's household. All of his children are killed. All of his livestock, gone. Most of his servants, save a few who are able to report back to Job, also gone. Job is stricken from his head to his feet with boils. Oddly enough, the only person who escapes unscathed is his wife, who tells him to curse God and die.

And so what does he do?

He falls to his knees and worships.

Kneeling is such an intimate way of giving praise to God, isn't it? In biblical times, a person knelt to the Lord when they were in such awe of His glory. His presence. His goodness. It's a way of saying, "I can't even get to my feet, Lord, because I am so struck by Your greatness." It acknowledges Him as King, and you as His faithful servant. It displays how small and unworthy you are and how perfect and sovereign He is.

It's worshipful.

I think it's interesting, though, because when you've been a believer for quite some time, there's a tendency to "get used to" the notion of His holiness. We become numb to it. Yeah, we know. Been there, done that.

But He will always find a way to bring you back.

The question is, what is it going to take?

For some, it may take losing a job. For others, it may take losing their homes. Cancer. Divorce. Death.

It took losing two children to bring me back to my knees. And I hate that. I hate that it took a huge shove of painful reality to bring me back to a place of worship. To a place of recognizing that I'm not in control. To a place of knowing that He is God.

It certainly got my attention. And it's sad that that's what it took.

May it not be that way for you, my friend. May the trials that come your way not be a necessity in bringing you back into His presence. May the storms of your life be merely opportunities to know Him more. To love Him more. To worship Him more.

May we be like eager bridegrooms who can't wait to offer ourselves by falling to our knees.

If you think you won't bow, you are sorely mistaken. The Bible tells us that, one day, every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.

So what's it going to take to bring you to your knees? A nudge and the utterance of His name? Or a shove into the depths of reality?

It's up to you.

Come, friend. Right now. It can't wait.

Bend your knees. And worship.

"Then Job arose, and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground, and worshiped." ~Job 1:20

Showered

2011-06-15T07:41:00.001-07:00

When I was on vacation at the beach a couple of weeks ago--minding my own business and thoroughly relishing my time away from all things pregnancy-related--my Blackberry bing-bonged whilst my toes wiggled in the sand.

An email. Asking me to throw a baby shower. For someone who shares one of my due dates.

Ouch.

Now, this wouldn't be such a big deal, except that the person who sent the message is aware of my situation and how difficult it has been to watch this pregnancy progress.

I had already given this mother-to-be a baby gift a few weeks prior because I knew that going to her shower might be too much to handle.

I think some people don't understand how difficult it is to shop in the baby section for baby clothes when you've recently lost a child. It was my third attempt in 6 months at buying a baby gift for someone, and I finally bit the bullet and carefully chose several outfits for the baby-to-be.

As I sat wrapping each dress for her future daughter, I was overcome with sadness.

I wept over the last one, seemingly unable to finish covering it with the pink tissue paper because it sealed the fate that this wouldn't be for my little girl.

Baby showers are hard for those who have experienced pregnancy loss or infertility. Yes, I know. It's a happy time to love on the mother or parents-to-be and celebrate the new life that they are welcoming.

But you know what that means. Babies are on everyone's minds. There are the baby clothes that you have to oooh and aaah over. Toys. Diapers. Pacifiers. Pregnant belly worshiping. Baby games. Baby cakes. Sometimes even baby food (ew).

Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby.

So yes. Please explain to me how a woman struggling to be a mother avoids thinking about the one thing that makes her burst into tears at a baby shower?

I've been to a few baby showers since we lost our little ones. I probably shouldn't have gone to one of them because not only did the baby's due date coincide with my first one, she named the baby what we named our first. That was surreal. And unbelievably hard. I stayed five minutes at the back of the room before I quietly left.

Another, I had originally planned to skip. The mother-to-be had been so kind to me throughout my miscarriages--she was there with me at work the night I lost our first and constantly checked up on me to see how I was doing--and so I really wanted to get her a baby gift. I told her that I wasn't sure I was going to be able to make it to her shower, and she completely understood, so I gave her the gift beforehand.

But somehow, I got a second wind. And I went to the shower. And I didn't cry or have a terrible time. It was still hard to fully enjoy the experience, but the mother-to-be made it easier by being so understanding about my situation. So it made me want to celebrate with her.

Since people aren't going to stop having babies and baby showers, and since some people are always going to struggle with their fertility, here are some helpful hints when including the reproductively challenged in a baby shower.

1. Do include her. I've done a lot of internet research concerning this subject, and it seems that mothers-to-be tend to be hesitant in inviting an "infertile" woman to her baby shower because she fears it will be too hard for her. If she is your friend, invite her. Don't exclude her because you assume that she won't be able to handle it. You don't know what she is capable of handling. Getting a baby shower invitation may be a hard pill to swallow if there's been a recent pregnancy loss (or perhaps at any time for a woman struggling with infertility), but excluding her would be more hurtful. Don't make the decision for her; let her decide what she wants to do.

2. Do let her know that you understand if she isn't up to attending. This right here is what makes all the difference. If you know she's struggling to become a mother, let her know following the invitation--either by email or phone call or however--that you understand that she's going through a tough time, that you understand if she doesn't feel like she can attend, but that you care about her and wanted to make sure she was included. If she has openly dealt with infertility/pregnancy loss, and you send out a mass email/invitation with no regard for how this might make her feel, she's less likely to attend, and she is likely to feel as though you don't care about her.

3. Do respect whatever decision she makes. If she decides not to attend, be oh so supportive of this. Baby showers can feel like pouring salt in a wound if the timing is just right. She loves you and cares about you, but it just might be too hard right now. Love her no less for this; she probably feels horrible that she can't make herself feel up to going.

4. Do cherish a gift if she sends one. Know that she braved a baby section of a department store to get you that. It was probably more difficult than you'll (hopefully) ever understand.

5. Do reach out to her if she attends. Especially if she doesn't know anyone there. The only way I was able to go to any baby showers at all is because I had a friend who knew my situation go with me. She let me know that the second I needed to go, we would go. You don't have to make this a huge deal, but quietly ask her how she's doing from time to time, and if she leaves early, understand that it probably just got to be too much for her.

And I can't believe this one has to be spelled out...

6. Do NOT ask her to throw the shower. There are some women who are capable of doing this following infertility/pregnancy loss, especially if it's a close friend. But it's completely insensitive to ask. If she wants to, she will offer. Throwing a shower involves lots of energy, time, effort, and money, and grieving the loss of a child along with that may drain her of everything she's got. Include her, but don't make her feel at all obligated to put on the show.

To all of you super fertile Myrtles out there, please love on your fertility-challenged friends. They aren't trying to be selfish and steal your thunder; and they don't think that you should feel bad about having a successful pregnancy.

But this stuff is hard, hard, hard.

Both of you are going through life-changing experiences here. Your pregnancy affects your day-to-day life and your future, and pregnancy loss and infertility does the same for her. Grieve and celebrate together. Lean on each other. Be there for each other.

And shower the people you love with love.

Big Boys Don't Cry: A Tribute to the (Almost) Dad

2011-06-10T18:31:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was tough for me.

I had spent the last two weeks or so on vacation time, and I thoroughly enjoyed being away from the rest of the world.

No pregnancies. No babies. No pain. Just me, Dru, and a million grains of sand. I finally felt good again. I felt like my old self--happy, laughing, enjoying things. A change of scenery did wonders for me.

But reality knocked, and alas, I had to answer.

Yesterday was just one of those days. It was full of a thousand congratulations for the non-reproductively challenged, and I eventually felt my smile betray my crumbling spirit.

The reality of being here, back home, reminded me that I still wouldn't get them back.

My heart was worn by day's end, and as I trekked home, my lead foot smashed angrily against the gas pedal.

I don't cry much anymore. I really don't.

But when it hits, it hits hard.

My throat burned as I choked back the tears.

They're not coming back. They're not coming back. The idea riled my thoughts, laughing at me with each passing moment.

Hot, angry tears singed my cheeks like the fury of a brutal August afternoon sun. The pain became as new as the days I lost them. I quietly told God that it was just too much today. It hurt too much. Please make it stop hurting.

By the time I got home to the company of my sweet husband, my eyebrows were drawn, and my face was stained with anguish. Frankly, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. He probed as to what was wrong.

Unfairly, I lit into him.

I screamed at him about not understanding how I feel. He didn't get it. He never would. I carried them. I was the one hurting. I was the one who--day in and day out--had to see everyone else get a baby, when I just can't have one.

I swallowed hard and erupted into an audible sob. I wailed a cry so loud and from such a deep place that my whole body shook. I cried until I was physically in pain. The tape that I had so carefully used to put my heart back together lay uselessly at my feet.

I forcefully stripped myself of the day's hurt and hid myself in the shower beneath the comforting drops of warm water that beat against my shoulders. I curled up in a ball and let the water augment my heavy sobs.

And despite my claims that I wanted to be left alone, there he was.

A cool breeze stung my cheeks as he opened the door and knelt to wrap his strong arms around me. He lifted me into his lap and rocked me back and forth--as if he would a small child--kissing my forehead and telling me how much he loved me.

He's a good man.

I'm so fortunate to have a husband who knows at a time like that, that I'm not angry with him. It's me. I'm angry with myself. I hate that I'm such a failure at something that should be so simple.

But he knows. And though he should fault me for it, he doesn't. My accusations that he doesn't "get it" are ridiculous.

I didn't make those babies by myself, and I didn't lose them by myself.

And you know what? Almost Daddies hurt, too.

We tend to forget that they do because pregnancy often makes a woman concentrate on herself--it's my body that it's happening to, so I'm the only one who feels anything.

But no, ma'am.

Just as you do, he feels helpless. He's devastated. But because he has to take care of you (and because he's, well, a man), he probably feels like he can't show it.

Dru wants to be a dad so badly that he can't stand it. As we sat and sipped coffee one night on our vacation, he kept his glance focused on a man who was holding his little girl. With a sad smile, he looked at me and said, "I was meant to be a dad."

It kills me that I can't make him one. That I can't give him what he wants.

But he sticks by me. And he loves me.

And he's a good man.

So as we approach Father's Day, all of you Almost Mothers (and you know who you are), please give the Almost Daddy in your life a great big hug and kiss and thank him for being your rock through your tough time.

He'll appreciate the fact that you realize that he lost his child, too.

I know, I know. Big boys don't cry. But you never know; he just might.

Well. Almost.

The Great Big List of What to Do When the Unthinkable Happens

2011-06-08T11:28:00.001-07:00

Misunderstanding after misunderstanding occurs when tragedy strikes; people clam up because they're afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. So they do something worse--they say or do nothing. Whether it's a loss of a family member, a pregnancy, a job, or a dream, here are some guidelines for how to handle responding to the hard stuff.

1. Do make it a point to go up to them the next time you see them. They aren't diseased, they're hurting. You can rationalize that the reason you're "staying away" is to "give them space," but let's be honest--you just don't know what to say, and that makes you uncomfortable. Be a friend and be there physically for them.

2. Don't say something profound. Really. Don't. Because what you think is "profound" is probably nothing but a platitude that they have likely heard 9000 times already. Don't tell them "it was for the best" or "they're in a better place" or "you've still got time" etc. True or not, they aren't helpful, especially if the event has happened recently.

3. Do tell them how sorry you are. Plain and simple. No bells, no whistles. There's nothing you can do or say to make it better, but chances are, this little phrase will be more comforting than the most philosophical thing you can think of.

4. When some time has passed, do check up on them. It's easy for people to be mindful of someone going through a tragedy when it's fresh. It takes a thoughtful person to remember that deep hurts don't pass quickly. Just because a funeral/D&C/etc. is over doesn't mean that they are "over" it. They may be putting on a pretty face, but that's because they don't want to be a "downer." If you're really friends with them, let them know that you're there for them no matter how much they may still be hurting and no matter how long it takes for them to starting feeling some semblance of "normalcy" again.

5. Do be sensitive if you gain something that they have lost. For instance, if someone loses a job, and then you get a promotion at work, don't brag about it in front of them. Don't expect a woman who has experienced infertility or miscarriage to plan (attend even?) your baby shower. Be respectful if they don't respond how you think they should, especially if you've never been in their position.

6. If a baby was lost, don't repeatedly ask if they're trying for another. Chances are, any future pregnancies are going to be kept strictly under wraps until the couple feels comfortable enough to share it with others. Assume that if nothing's been said, there's nothing to tell.

7. Do listen. And listen well. Let the person vent if he or she wants because sometimes, that is the best therapy. But don't let their words fall on deaf ears; concentrate. Focus on what they are saying.

8. Don't try to "fix" it. Often, there's nothing you can do to "fix" it. Don't formulate all sorts of plans for them to put into action. It's admirable that you want to help, but ask them for specific ways that you can be of support. This may include bringing a meal, helping to babysit children if a parent needs to go out on an interview, or simply providing them with an afternoon of company.

9. Don't talk about them behind their backs. This should not provide an opportunity to gossip. Talk to them, not about them.

10. Do recognize that certain dates will be difficult if a family member or child was lost. These can include Mother's Day/Father's Day, birthdays, anniversaries, death dates, Christmas, etc. And then some days will be difficult for no reason at all. If you sense they are having a difficult time, give them a hug or a sweet message. If you would like to do something to honor the deceased person, that is always appropriate and would likely be cherished.

11. Do be a trustworthy friend. Grief can bring to light ugly thoughts and feelings and those are to remain private. It's not your position to share that information with anyone else. Realize that you are protecting fragile emotions.

12. Don't think that if you haven't been in their shoes that you can't provide comfort and support. You don't need to have all the answers. Learn with them how to cope with the situation, and who knows? You might be unwittingly preparing yourself for a future hardship.

13. Don't support numbing the pain with alcohol, partying, or reckless behavior. This only delays dealing with the issue at hand and prolongs the person's grief process.

14. Do recognize that every person grieves at his or her own pace. Two people can go through similar losses, and one may move on much more quickly than the other, but it doesn't mean one is more "normal" than the other. Don't be alarmed by this; be patient.

15. Don't assume that their loss is the only thing that they want to discuss. Sometimes, the person may need a break from all things sad and heavy. Go with where the personal leads conversationally, and don't be afraid to outright ask if they want to talk about it. Most people will appreciate this.

16. Don't assume that they are depressed because you feel that they are taking too long to grieve. Sad does not necessarily equal depressed.

17. Don't tell someone who has miscarried to "relax" or "adopt first" or "quit trying so hard" so that a successful pregnancy will magically manifest. You are not a doctor, and those reasons are not only incorrect, they're just plain ridiculous.

18. Do let them cry. It may make you uncomfortable, but it is a great release when going through a tough time. Encourage it, don't stifle it. And please, please, please don't tell a person how ugly she looks because she has mascara running down her cheeks. That's just mean.

19. Do be the kind of friend that you would want during a difficult time. They are likely to pay you back in full when you inevitably face a tragedy.

20. Don't tell them that you "know how they feel." You may have experienced something similar, but you don't truly know how they feel. This can invalidate a person's feelings.

21. Don't use a person's tragedy as a springboard to talk about yourself. Frankly, it's not comforting when people want to go on and on about how the same thing happened to them. It makes you seem selfish; the person is hurting and needs your focus. If they are aware that you have been through a similar situation, they will come to you for your advice when they are ready.

22. Do help them remember how to have fun. Go out for lunch dates, go shopping, take them to a ballgame--whatever is enjoyable for them. Make it a time where you only talk about positive things. Make them laugh! It helps remind them that things won't be terrible forever.

23. If a baby was lost, do refer to the child by his or her name, if the parents named the baby. Constantly referring to it as a "miscarriage" or "stillbirth"skirts the issue that a person passed away. Let the parents know that you recognize that they lost a child, not that they suffered a medical abnormality.

24. Do continue to be a presence in their lives, even when the grieving process seems to have come to an end.

25. Do pray for them, especially if you tell them that you will.

This list is not exhaustive, but it's definitely a start. I know that being a friend to someone going through a tragedy can leave you feeling helpless. It's hard to see someone you love hurting that much. But if you provide them with love, support, and plenty of time, your friend will hopefully regain his or her spirit.

Until next time...

When Cliques Attack

2011-06-07T13:17:00.001-07:00

Were you one of those semi-awkward people in high school? I know I was.

Okay, if I'm being honest, I was totally awkward.

No, I wasn't one of the stereotypical "geeky" characters as seen on TV--glasses, snorty laugh, and a persistent need to wear highwaters--but I certainly wasn't "popular." I was lucky enough to have a small group of great gal pals, so I was never without a lunch buddy.

But sometimes, I would find myself in a classroom sans my best buds. I would be stuck with...them. You know. The popular kids. The cheerleaders. The jocks. And those who somehow feel the need to wear a North Face jacket no matter the climate because, well, they can. They had their group, and while I was never blatantly ostracized, I was always aware when I wasn't "in."

Inside jokes. Sitting together. Dressing alike. Talking alike. Inseparable.

The Clique.

It's painfully uncomfortable to feel like the odd man out. Much like you have a disease that no one wants to catch. It's not that you're awful. It's just that, well, you're not part of the group.

Moving on from high school, I hoped that I would never have to feel like an outsider again. College, of course, had its own versions of the cliques (girls'-jeans-wearing emo guys, sorority girls, the music education crowd), and often summer jobs I had would bear sprinklings of cliques.

But one place you never expect to find The Clique is in church. Unfortunately, the one place you will always find The Clique is in church.

Now, I grew up in church. I became a Christian when I was six years old, and I love the Lord with all my heart. I love going to church. Every church I've ever been a member of has brought precious people into my life (including my husband), and I'm grateful that I had parents who made sure church was a significant part of my life. Since I was in the womb, Sundays and Wednesdays were church days. And other days allotted for VBS, concerts, programs, service projects, etc. were often included.

But because I've been in church my whole life, I've learned a thing or two about how things "work." Bear with me; I would like to clear my parents' names and say that they did not teach me these, nor would they see these "rules" as appropriate for how a church should function. These are merely observations I have made of the churches I have attended.

(1) You always put a smile on your face. No matter if you've just fought with your brother or sister or parents in the car ride over, and no matter if you've just lost your dog or run over a cat in the driveway, as soon as your sweetly sandaled foot hits the pavement, those pearly whites had better be showing. Churchgoers are happy people. And they ought to look so.

(2) When someone asks how you are, you say, "Fine." People ask to be polite. Not because they really care to know. Again, no matter what is going on in your life, your response must indicate contentedness and peace. Turmoil isn't supposed to get us Christians down. An optional tag to your one-word reply is "Very good Lord's Day to you." Please use sparingly.

(3) Speak to the new people--a good hand shake is always appropriate--but don't sit with them. We "regulars" have to stick together, don't you know.

(4) When something bad happens, bake a casserole--but don't stay to listen to the person vent or grieve. You did your duty with the food thing. Your work is done. After all, if the grieving person is playing by the rules, all they will say is, "Fine" (see #2).

(5) Juicy gossip can always be shared in the form of a "prayer request." Why, it's not that you're wanting to blab the news; you just want to make sure it's covered in prayer (and that you're the first one to "request" it).

(6) When the pastor's voice gets really loud during the sermon, feel free to insert a hearty "Amen." It never
hurts. And then you can go back to doodling on your bulletin.

Sigh. I know, I know. Not all churches are like this. And that's a good thing! But unfortunately, I see a lot of this "expected behavior" far too often in the church. There's a routine. Unspoken but understood rules. Things you have to do to keep up an "appearance" and a "reputation" within the church.

And one of the biggest routines is that of the Church Clique.

The Church Clique is often comprised of a group of "regulars"--perhaps 4 to 6 members (usually couples)--who will smile and nod and follow all of the rules but will only connect with other members of the clique. They will speak to you and may even ask for updates on your prayer requests. But they will never invite you to go to lunch with them. They won't invite you to their parties or Friday night get-togethers. You won't ever give a knowing chuckle when one of their inside jokes is recalled.

Yup. You can sit in the same row, the same pew, the same classroom with these people, and they will never get to know you because, well, you aren't familiar to them.

Perhaps they relished their popularity as teens and now, as adults, find it hard to break away from a caste system of sorts. Perhaps they feel that being a "regular" or being a Christian for an extended period of time somehow entitles you to be in a group that is "far above" the rest. Perhaps they are just as insecure as you are about meeting new people, but they hide it in a different manner. Perhaps they're just flat out stinking unaware of it (which I'm sure is rarely the case).

I don't know. But what I do know is how destructive the Church Clique can be. You see, the Church Clique is worse than any other because it can divide the body of Christ instead of bringing it together.

I read a blog recently that commented how interesting it was that we, as churchgoers and Christians, will often put up with a lot of things at a church, but as soon as we feel isolated or disconnected from our peers, it sends us straight out the door looking for somewhere else to worship. In the same way, frivolity and fluff may be overlooked by a churchgoer because of relationships formed within the church family. Neither situation is sound. But it does bring to light how significantly the Church Clique can affect the church body.

It can keep people in a church or prompt them to leave.

Cliques are cancerous. They eat away at a group of peers and do a disservice to both sides. Neither the outsiders nor the insiders will ever really get to know each other. And there's a good chance that both sides are missing out. It's especially pertinent when "newer" Christians are thrown into the mix because the "regulars"--who often possess more wisdom and biblical knowledge than others--might be missing out on an opportunity to mentor the newbies.

And when an outsider goes through something difficult, they often don't get the adequate support they need from those involved in the Church Clique.

Why do we feel the need to separate? Why do we feel that certain people can only befriend each other? The Lord tells us to love our neighbors as ourselves--but how can we do that if we won't give our neighbor a passing thought?

It's time we bend the rules and the routines. Branch out. Befriend someone new. Take off your mask and be real. Get the heck out of that stupid clique.

Oh. And a very good Lord's Day to you.

"Behold! How good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!" ~Psalm 133:1

Dancing with the Green-Eyed Monster

2011-06-07T07:46:00.001-07:00

Waaah, Waaah. Look at you. If Charlie Brown had a twin, it would be you, wouldn't it? A sad sack with a black raincloud that follows you step by step. Things just can't go right. And that darn football keeps moving right before you can kick it.
And, of course, you're the only one who ever has bad things happen. Bad things never happen to other people. Just you.

Yep. Because you're still single.

Or unemployed.

Or stuck in an apartment.

Or childless.

All of the above, perhaps?

And while the thick drops of rain muss your hair with hurricane-like gales, you see that the sun has chosen to peek through--not at you--but on the opposite grassy green side of the fence.

Yes, you can see it clearly now. The brilliant sunshine radiates its comforting warmth on your neighbor. They're practically glowing.

And...what is that? Is that a halo glistening in the light atop her angelic head?

"GIVE ME A BREAK," you wail. "I want what she has. I'm. So. Jealous."

Completely, unabashedly jealous. In fact, the Green-Eyed Monster has gripped your back with its greedy claws and joyfully rides piggyback wherever you go. It's stuck to you. You can't rid yourself of it.

Jealousy is one of the easiest evils to latch onto. What makes it so easy? Why, because we're constantly trying to make each other jealous.

Oh, come on. I know you've done it. Brag about your fabulously extravagant vacation in Europe. Boast about your fantastic wedding that cost way more than everyone else's. Go on and on about how you didn't even try and--WHOOPS!--pregnant with a perfect 40-week pregnancy and a healthy newborn to boot. You flash your clothes or your cars or your homes or your relationships.

We do it because it makes us feel better. And because it makes everyone else feel lousy.

It's terrible, but we do it anyway--although we'd never actually cop to doing all of this bragging on purpose. Because that would be wrong.

*insert dramatic eye roll and heavy sigh*

I don't know about you, but jealousy can be a real struggle for me. But what's so wrong with wanting what other people have? It's not like I'm going to go to drastic lengths or steal someone's stuff because they have something that I don't. I'm not going to ruin someone's life over my jealousy.

Hmm. Maybe not. But you'll ruin yours.

I'll give you an example. As I've mentioned many times, one of the hardest things for me since losing Eli and Sarah has been merely having to be in the same room as someone who is pregnant, especially if her due date was near either of mine. One girl in particular was announcing her pregnancy just as we had lost Sarah; it was her first pregnancy--a successful one, at that--with little-to-no trying. Week after week, I have had to sit and watch her grow, knowing that I would have been a mere 10 days ahead of her. My heart brims with sadness, anger, but perhaps most of all, jealousy. I don't know why her pregnancy worked and mine didn't. I don't know why hers was so easy and my attempts at having a child have been so hard. Because I feel it's unfair, I resent her for experiencing this happy time.

But, that's not right. The Bible doesn't say, "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's things...unless it's something you really, really want." And it doesn't say, "Love thy neighbor as thyself...unless the neighbor keeps getting everything you want." Nope. We are supposed to do the right thing, no matter how we feel.

But why?! Why do I have to do the right thing when I simply don't feel like it?

Jealousy attacks you more than anyone else. It consumes your thoughts. It can drive you to stop at nothing until your life or your possessions are somehow "equal" to your neighbor's. It makes you ugly. It makes you vicious. It makes you, well, a monster.

You learn to scowl. To frown. To accuse. To want and want and want until you can't want anymore. You forget to see others because somehow, the world has become a mirror that only reflects you and your desires.

When I have to sit and stare at a pregnant belly, I can feel the envy swallowing my body whole. I'm not proud of it. But when I am not actively surrendering those thoughts and feelings to the Lord, Satan uses them as a launching pad to distract me from all of the positive things I could be learning through this difficult time. God can't be glorified if I'm too busy dancing with the Green-Eyed Monster at my pity party.

Yes, I know. It's hard. It's so hard not to be jealous when it's something you desire or have worked toward wholeheartedly.

But instead of thinking about what you don't have, think about what you do. Because I'll bet the latter has more substance than the former.

Okay, here goes. I have a wonderful, loving, Christian husband, a great job that I love, a home, a family that cares about me, two dogs that light up my life, two working arms and two working legs, lungs that breathe, a heart that beats....

And you know what? If nothing comes to mind, be thankful for this: Jesus gave his life because of the stupid things you do. So that you could live. He gave it all. Everything. Nothing was withheld.

Think about it. Does he really owe you anything?

But good grief, Charlie Brown wannabe! Make a wallflower out of the Green-Eyed Monster. Quit dancing with him and let Jesus take the lead. From here on out, tell that monster that you're not interested anymore.

And let him know that your dance card is full.

"Make me to know your ways, O Lord; teach me your paths. Lead me in your truth and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; for you I wait all the day long." ~Psalm 25:4-5

An (Almost) Mother's Day

2011-06-06T21:40:00.001-07:00

I find it ironic that on the same week as Mother's Day this year, my first due date approaches.

Yep. That's right. I woud have been...could have been...should have been? 40 big fat weeks pregnant on Thursday May 12.

But.

Instead of packing for the hospital, I'm packing for the beach.

I'm going to baby showers, not getting them.

Our "nursery" is nothing but extra storage.

We have no "Baby on Board" sticker, no car seat, no crib.

Just empty arms and broken hearts.

This would have been my first bona fide Mother's Day. When they would have recognized the mothers in church on Sunday, I would have stood, too. Fat, nauseous, and swollen, but I would have stood. And I would have been proud.

But it's different for an "almost" mother.

Almost Mothers don't get cards or breakfast in bed. They don't get corsages or hugs from little arms. It's just another day to be reminded of the life that never was.

Almost Mothers are almost like you. But things went differently. Sure, the test was positive...at one point. But while your belly grows, hers doesn't. You heard the heartbeat, but hers doesn't have one. You swell with pride. She shrinks in shame.

You have a baby. So did she. And because things took a turn, you are a mother, and she isn't.

So, on this Mother's Day, if you are a true mother, give thanks that your motherhood didn't take a turn for the worse. Give thanks that your cradle or your arms or your womb isn't empty.
Give thanks that it wasn't "almost." Give thanks that it was.

And if you think about it, show some love to an Almost Mother. There are more than you think. On a day where she's reminded of what she doesn't have, remind her of what she does--your love, care, and support.

You never know. It just might make her day.

Well. Almost.

Christmas in July and Diabetic Desserts

2011-06-06T21:38:00.001-07:00

Dementia sucks. No, really, it does.

When I was in nursing school, I spent a summer working with the elderly in an assisted living facility, and many of the residents I cared for suffered from this disease. While it is a tragic thing to watch a loved one succumb to dementia, it did bring me the occasional giggle at what some of them would tend to forget.

Okay, I'll be honest. These people had me so tickled, I spent most of my shifts in stitches.

One resident was distressed that she had waited so long to put up her Christmas decorations (it was July).
They couldn't understand how I could help them finish telling a story when I had "never heard it before."
They didn't know who I was day after day or why I barged into their rooms to help them to the toilet, when they were perfectly capable of doing it themselves, thankyouverymuch.

They couldn't remember what they ordered for dinner or where their rooms were.

And the certainly didn't remember they were diabetic when the dessert tray came around.

Ahhh, memories.

I have a soft spot for people with dementia, but it wasn't always so. If you had told me years ago that I would volunteer to push wheelchairs or remove TED hose or escort old ladies to the bathroom, I would have thought you were crazy. I would have fallen on the floor laughing if you told me that I would enjoy it. But all that disappeared when one precious little woman forever changed the face of dementia for me.
That woman was my Nanny.

She was a spritely woman who was completely independent well into her 80s. But when several small strokes hit, her sharp mind and bubbly spirit began to fade. We knew things "weren't right" when she put her clocks ahead 2 hours for Daylight Saving Time, adamantly stating that "the people on the TV told her to." No matter how many watches or clocks we showed her, she was convinced she was right.

She had begun to develop vascular dementia, and soon she was so confused by the world around her, she resembled a small child who needed to be instructed on how to do everything. I had to help feed her, dress her, and I even had to physically show her how to get into the bathtub. It broke my heart to see this strong woman become so feeble.

Occasionally, we would relish in glimpses of her old self--her gentle laugh, her sweet smile, her telling a nurse that she was a "foxy redhead" when she was younger.

Yep. That's my Nanny.

But there is one memory I have of her that I will treasure for the rest of my days.

When she got sicker, she had to participate in a Mini Mental Status Exam. This routine test helps to determine a person's awareness of their surroundings, how well they can recall facts, and how well they can communicate. One portion requires the patient to write down two sentences. Any two sentences.
My sweet grandmother who couldn't bathe or dress herself at the time, pen in hand, scribbled this:

Jesus loves me. Jesus loves you.

Nothing else was worth remembering to her. At a time when she was scared and lost, she didn't feel compelled to figure out "what" or "why."

"Who" was all that mattered.

Perhaps the hardest thing about dementia is "losing" your loved one before you actually lose them. Seeing them forget who you are, who they are.

There are times when I feel like that; when something hard comes along--the "small strokes" of life that act like a powerful current, pulling me under--and I feel lost. I don't understand. I can get so bogged down with anger and disappointment that I forget how to function in the world around me. I forget who I am. I resemble a little child who has to be instructed on how to do everything.

Do you ever feel that way? Has something hurt you so deeply that it robs you of what makes you you?
If you haven't, you likely will.

And when it does, what are you going to be concerned with? If it's July and your Christmas decorations aren't up yet? If the dessert tray is inexplicably passing you by?

Or will you be concerned with what's greater, what's eternal?

Will you be concerned with "Whom?"

In case you didn't get it earlier, I'll say it again: Jesus loves you.

When it doesn't feel like it--Jesus loves you.

When it doesn't make sense--Jesus loves you.

When it hurts so badly you can hardly breathe--Jesus loves you.

If you say it enough, it just might stick with you. Don't let what hurts you rob you of the joy that His unconditional love brings. He is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. He is constant. He is Savior. Messiah. Blessed Redeemer.

And He loves you.

And that, my friend, is all you need to remember.

Broken Legs, Healing Heart

2011-06-06T21:36:00.002-07:00

I have felt like an utter mess the last couple of weeks.

Maybe it's because I would have been halfway to term if my first pregnancy had lasted.

Maybe it's because I would have been at the magical 12-week mark (after which no wrong can occur in a pregnancy *cue rolling eyes from those who have lost babies at 13 + weeks*) if my second pregnancy had lasted.

Maybe it's because I've been bombarded with at least one pregnancy announcement a week for the last month.

Sigh. It's extremely difficult to maintain excitement for others when it magnifies something you've lost or can't have. On the heels of yet another "Hooray! We're pregnant, and we weren't even trying," I was told that I was expected to find some sense of joy in this news.

Yuck. I need to be real for a moment.

I think those of us who are believers are expected to wrap up their problems in a pretty little bow, feigning that everything's okay and finding "joy" in everybody else's wonderful circumstances. Let me say that while that may be something that can be achieved, it may not come immediately.

Sometimes, it's good to think about the way that you should feel.

Sometimes, it's good to just feel how you feel. And it may not be pretty. It may be wretched and ugly. And you may feel horrible for feeling it.

But numbness is not always better than pain. It's a lukewarm sensation that just postpones your anger and causes it to fester, making you nothing but bitter.

So go ahead and feel it. Don't hurt anybody in the process ("in your anger, do not sin"), and don't get stuck in your anger. But let yourself temporarily do what it needs to do. Mourn. Break. Grieve.

Unfortunately, for me, that means that right now, I'm just not finding myself fully capable of sharing in the excitement of the expectant mothers around me. If you are one of them and are reading this, I apologize. It is nothing you did. But know that if my joy for you seems to be diminished, this is why: I'm finding it hard to marry my need to mourn for me and my need to be happy for you. I will rejoice with you at some point, but at the moment, it's just a little too raw. I'll get there. I promise.

I just need some time.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have felt unquenchable anger this time around.

I'm angry at my doctor. Myself.

God.

I've fought it for weeks now. I hate to admit it, but I am.

I'm furious that His plan necessitates this emptiness.

I hate that He has allowed it to hurt this much.

I'm devastated that He has chosen to bless so many others with healthy pregnancies so soon after my loss. I haven't had time to think. To process. To breathe.

I'm angry that God seems to remember everyone else and seems to have forgotten me. All of these women around me are getting exactly what I want and have prayed for, and He doesn't seem to remember that I want it, too.

In my quest to quench my anger, I have looked to the parable of the lost sheep. In the story, a shepherd tends to his flock of 100 sheep. Stupidly, one wanders off. The shepherd, though he still has 99 others, frets over this one lost sheep and searches day and night, far and wide until he rescues his long lost little lamb. Rejoicing, the shepherd carries his lamb home on his shoulders, telling all who will hear about the one sheep that was lost and has been found.

I am that stupid, stupid sheep. I have wandered away because it seems the 99 are more important to the Shepherd. He couldn't possibly see me. He couldn't care. I'm just one little lamb.

But He noticed that I wandered. He sees me. And He cared enough to come get me.

He left the 99 to find me.

He didn't forget. He still hasn't. Even among the crowd, He knows me and comes to me when I need Him. That doesn't mean that He isn't taking me kicking and screaming. It isn't easy to follow a Shepherd into unsafe pastures, unsafe valleys--the Valley of the Shadow of Death, even.

It has been long believed that when a sheep wandered off in biblical times, the shepherd would break the legs of the sheep so that it wouldn't stray again. In the time the lamb spent healing from its broken bones, it remained at the side of the shepherd, learning to trust him.

As it healed, the shepherd carried it.

Well. He has searched long enough for me. And yes, He has broken me.

But He is carrying me.

And now, all I can do is sit atop His glorious shoulders--battered and broken--listening to His beautiful voice rejoice as He takes me back home.

If you had one hundred sheep and one of them strayed away and was lost in the wilderness, wouldn't you leave the ninety-nine others to go and search for the lost until you found it? And then you would joyfully carry it home on your shoulders. ~Luke 15:4-5

<Photo 1>

An Arrow in the Making

2011-06-06T21:35:00.001-07:00

I once learned how to make an arrow from scratch. One of the most important steps after selecting a piece of wood is to strip the wood of any extraneous limbs. This can be a daunting process--especially if the wood is covered in them.
But if they aren't removed, the arrow can't fly straight. It can't soar.

The weight of the limbs will cause the arrow to falter, to fall...to fail. It can't be effective unless it's stripped of its hindrances.

A common theme I have noted in responses to my story is that Dru and I will be parents when the time is right.
And you might be correct. I certainly hope you are--at least that is a major hope for me at the moment.
But it is not a guarantee. Many have alluded to the fact that since being a mother is my desire right now, the Lord will honor that--in His timing, of course. But does God really promise that He will give us what we desire?
In Psalm 37:4, we are told that the Lord will "give you the desires of your heart." So, since I desire to be a mother, then the Lord will give me a child, right?

Maybe.

Obviously, some of you are thinking, "Well, of course God doesn't mean if you desire someone else's spouse or car or house that He's going to give it to you. Those are selfish desires. Those are impure desires. He means He'll give you the good desires. The ones that don't hurt other people." So, since having a child is a "good desire," He's going to give it to me. Right?

Maybe.

But in this thinking, we're really missing the point. We've missed the first part of the verse. The full reading of Psalm 37:4 is as follows: "Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart." Hmm. That changes things a little bit.

A lot, actually.

When we delight ourselves in the Lord--that is, to find our satisfaction and our joy in Him--then our desires may become different desires. You will find that the expensive cars, the fancy clothes, the money--all the riches of the world!--won't satisfy you. Only He can. When He sits on the throne of your desires, your desires will look much different.

I don't always let Him sit on the throne of my desires. I don't always look to Him for my joy. But I should.

And I want to. And I'm working on it.

And as I begin to desire Him first, I may find that my desire to be a mother may wane. Maybe I'll be a mother in a different way than I had ever imagined; being a mother doesn't mean I have to be pregnant. I can adopt. I can be a foster parent. I can keep loving on my NICU babies and their families. Who knows what He'll give me a desire for in the future!

But I can't fly straight until I've been stripped of my hindrances.

These losses have been like the stripping of an arrow. Oh, it hurts. It's so painful. It's not pleasant. But it's helping to remove some of the "limbs" in my life: my failure to put the Lord first; my failure to delight in Him; my tendency to only come to Him when I need something; my near-sighted vision concering His plan for my life...

The list goes on and on. But painful as it is, He's shaping my arrow.

And I can't wait to soar for Him.

P.S.: I love the image at the top of my blog because it demonstrates an arrow still holding onto its branches. It's a beautiful depiction of what a rough draft we are.

But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. ~ Isaiah 40:31

Still

2011-06-06T21:33:00.002-07:00

It's funny how grief works. In the first few weeks following my first miscarriage, I really didn't cry. I thought about it, and would talk about it with Dru from time to time, but I mostly felt very little. I was pregnant, and then I wasn't. I was moving on.

But unexpected moments would break me...

Recording my new work schedule in my day planner...and seeing where I had frivolously scribbled a week-to-week progression of my pregnancy...

The opened box of pregnancy tests on our kitchen table...

The big bottle of ginger ale in the fridge, which Dru had gotten me for the nausea...

But I especially fell apart on the morning of my would-have-been 8-week appointment. It became so real to me at that moment. That I would have heard the heartbeat for the first time. Seen him or her for the first time. Really "felt" pregnant for the first time.

I have felt a similar numbness in the early moments following miscarriage #2. Even the sight of full-term, waddling pregnant women as I make my way into work has nary left me feeling like a boo-hoo mess of a woman.

Ahh, but a moment found me quite recently...

Hearing the announcement of another woman's pregnancy.

And hearing that her due date is two weeks shy of what mine would have been.

It caught me by surprise, really, that I would feel so taken aback, so upset, so hurt by the joyous news of another woman's pregnancy. She did nothing wrong. And yet, I felt as though she had cracked a whip across my back.

That was supposed to be me making that announcement. That was supposed to be me getting congratulatory hugs. That was supposed to be me glowing. But it isn't this time. This is her time. And I am hating myself for how jealous I feel. For how angry I feel.

Angry. That's what I feel. I feel angry. I feel angry when I see families out having dinner--and they have 4 or 5 small children. How come they can have so many and I can't even have one?
I feel angry when I see parents passing around pictures of their children, telling me of all of the "cute" things their children have done. Why can't I have a picture to pass around or a story to tell?
I feel angry when I look at my body and think of how it has failed me. Twice. Why can't I hold onto my children?

It's so unfair. It's so unfair.

As Dru and I had dinner the other night, we talked repeatedly about the unfairness of it all. We never got to see our children. We never got to feel them move or hear them cry. To others, our babies were more like mere thoughts or figments of our imaginations. They weren't real to anybody else.

But they were real to us. And so, we did the only thing that we could do.

We named them. And we gave them each a "birthday," on which we will remember them every year. I realize that some may find this ridiculous. After all, they were with us such a short time--we didn't even know if they were boys or girls. But we don't care. This is the only way to make them more real to us--and more real to others.

Elijah Childress only made it to be the size of a poppy seed. He made his presence known on September 5, 2010 and went to be with Jesus on September 9. Sarah Childress only made it to be the size of a sesame seed. She made her presence known on November 18, 2010 and was released to the arms of Jesus on November 26.

We miss them very much.

Recently, I was directed to the story of Audrey Caroline Smith. She was the daughter of Christian singer Todd (from the group Selah) and Angie Smith. When Angie was about 18 weeks pregnant with Audrey in January of 2008, she and Todd were told by their doctor that Audrey would not live once she was born. But they decided to carry her anyway. Angie, Todd, and their 3 other daughters embraced Audrey throughout the remainder of the pregnancy. She only made it to 33 weeks. Audrey was born on April 7, 2008 and lived for only 2 and 1/2 hours. But they photographed their few joyous moments with this beautiful little girl and spent them not crying, but loving on her as best they could. They have used Audrey's story to touch the lives of other women who have lost their children and to tell others about the Lord. I hope you will watch the video of Audrey Caroline on my wall to the tune of "I Will Carry You"--a song written for Audrey by her parents.

Angie's story has helped me feel like I'm not alone. And I hope my story can help other women feel like they're not alone. You aren't.

I'm still grieving. Still sad. Still angry.

I'm just...still.

And I'm still waiting to see where the Lord will direct the journey that Dru and I are on. I'm not sure what His plan is.

But I can bet you it's perfect.

Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations; I will be exalted in the earth. ~ Psalm 46:10

Mis-Carried Home: A Tale of Two Babies

2011-06-06T21:31:00.001-07:00

It begins with anxious hope. Wonder. A simple question: Am...I...pregnant?
It's almost comical the things that enter the mind of a woman who is trying to conceive. Every twinge, every slight wave of nausea, everyTHING becomes a possible symptom--an indication, perhaps?--that your life is about to change forever.

And then, the day comes. The day where you travel over to the aisle in the grocery store where you normally dare not turn your gaze. Your mind races as you peruse the labels and determine whether to shell out the pennies for a "know 5 days sooner!" pack or settle for a less sensitive but more economically sound one. Do I get digital? Do I want it to say "YES or NO" or "Pregnant or Not Pregnant"? Or do I want do it the old-fashioned way and attempt to decipher some pink lines? Eventually, you find some middle ground on price and quality, speed through the checkout line, and hit the road.
The drive home and the race to the bathroom send your heart pumping. You fumble through the directions, make your "deposit," and begin the longest 3-minute wait of your life. You stay at a distance from the test but keep an eye on it because it's like the scene of a horrendous car wreck--you just can't quite look away when you know you should. Your thoughts roller coaster through waves of elation and sheer terror, and you've probably worked yourself up into whining, "How are we going to pay for college?" followed by a shrill, "I'm never going to have a baby!"

And ding! Time's up. Moment of truth. Nervously peering through squinted peepers, you brace yourself for reality: You. Are. Pregnant.

There's no feeling quite like it. Indescribable. Suddenly, you become aware that you aren't the only one in that bathroom. There's a tiny, precious nugget tucked quietly inside you. It's probably been nestled there for weeks. Growing. Thriving. Waiting to be loved--and has no idea that it is loved immediately. Sure, you may begin to think of names or muse about the sex or entertain plans for this child's future, but the love--ohh, the love--that you feel for this small baby is simply miraculous.

The first time I got my first (and second and third) positive pregnancy test(s) was Sunday, September 5, 2010, when I was just a little more than 4 weeks along. Our intense excitement caused us to open our notoriously big mouths and spread the news with several who were close to us. The following day was Labor Day, and Dru and I
had such fun explaining to my parents, "It's funny that today is Labor Day...because I'll be going into labor in 9 months!!" I spread the news to my fellow nurses atwork over the next two days. Googling baby names became my new hobby. I was beaming with barely controlled glee.

And yet, the title gives me away, doesn't it? That this story doesn't quite end the way that I had hoped or planned.

It was Thursday, September 9. I had worked the night before, and, thus, had slept all day in preparation for my shift that night. I awoke refreshed and headed for my obligatory trip to the bathroom. Nothing felt strange. Nothing felt wrong.

But something was wrong. Blood. Lots of blood. My hands began to shake and, though stunned and unsure of what was happening, I began to cry. Falling to the bathroom floor, I grabbed for my phone and hysterically dialed my mother, telling her between sobs that I thought I was having a miscarriage. She told me to call my doctor while she made her way over to my apartment to be with me. The call to my doctor only made me more apprehensive. I explained that I was having lots of bleeding--which I was told could be "normal"; the only thing that bought me an early morning doctor's appointment for Friday were my uncontrolled cries and the thick worry in my voice. Even as a new and first-time pregnant woman, I knew this couldn't be normal.

Needless to say, I was graciously given the night off from work. I spent the next twelve hours in bed. Tossing. Turning. Weeping. And afraid to go to the bathroom for fear of losing more and more of my baby with each trip.

After visiting with my doctor, he suggested blood work be done to determine the status of my pregnancy. He said he couldn't be sure it was a miscarriage yet, but on his way out, he muttered to me that he wished he could stop it. A phone call later that day informed me that my levels of pregnancy hormone were low enough at that point to classify me as no longer pregnant. He couldn't give me any sort of explanation as to what happened, but he assured me (after telling me to stop crying) that it wasn't a baby that I lost, but a bunch of "cells" that were beginning to form a baby and had simply been unstable enough to continue. I realize that my doctor meant well. But the medical jargon and his "professional perspective" came across as cold and flippant. I don't really care what the technical term was for what was living inside of me. The only way I know how to look at it is that I lost a baby. It was a baby to me. And a mere
acknowledgement of that would have done wonders for my aching heart.

The aftermath was brutal. The emotional bruising broke me with every breath. The "untelling" of people that I had told scraped anew the wounds that were trying to heal. My body felt empty and broken. Everywhere I seemed to look, a friend or family member was experiencing a healthy pregnancy, which made me want to scream, "Can't you see the big red 'M' on my forehead?? Can't you see that I'm hurting? Can't you just hide your burgeoning bellies and babbling babies for one second so I can get myself together?" And the ever-present complaints of backaches and nausea and sleepless nights from the pregnant "folk" stung me like a hornet. All I could ever think was, "I would gladly take your aches and pains and sleeplessness if it meant I could have a healthy child. Don't you know how lucky you are?"

As the weeks passed, the hurt lessened, my resentment lessened. I began to hope that it was only a fluke, and that it would have no implications for my future as a mother.

And well, well, well. If the tables didn't turn my way two months later...

It was Thursday, November 18, 2010, the morning Dru and I were closing on our very first house. I had just arisen from a sleepless night to secretly take a pregnancy test. Once again, joy washed over me as a positive result smiled back at me. Quietly, I woke Dru with the happy news, and we marveled at how quickly we had been given a second chance. Immediately after we finished closing on our house, I was on the phone with my doctor to get an appointment for a blood test to confirm the news.

That afternoon, I received a call from the nurse that, yes I was pregnant, but that my levels of pregnancy hormone were quite low. My doctor suggested I come in on Monday for a follow-up blood test to see if my levels were rising. I began to worry, but the nurse reassured me that the low levels were likely due to how early I was
in my pregnancy. The Monday blood test saw an increase in my levels, though they were still a bit lower than normal, but the nurse indicated that it was probably fine and to come in the following Monday for another blood test. I didn't make it to Monday.

On Thanksgiving Day, I noticed a bit of spotting. It wasn't anywhere near what I had experienced in September, so I tried to reassure myself that it was probably normal, and that if it didn't go away, I would call the doctor. It faded and was gone by the evening.

Black Friday came. And what a black Friday it was. I noticed more spotting, but this time, it was bright red blood. I began to panic. After speaking with the doctor on-call, I made the decision to go to the Emergency Room, just to make sure that everything was okay. During the two-and-a-half-hour wait for a room at the ER, I was running back and forth from the bathroom with increased cramping and bleeding. Finally, I was given a room, asked to change into a gown, and told that the doctor would be in to see me shortly.

It's funny. I always pictured that when I would finally be a patient in a hospital, it would be because I was pregnant. 40 weeks pregnant. Not 6 weeks pregnant. But there I lay--holding my small, mostly nonexistent baby bump in agony, scared and unsure of what was about to happen. They drew my blood for what seemed like the millionth time in the last few months, and sent me upstairs for an ultrasound. Again, I always anticipated that my first ultrasound would be a happy one. The tech was silent throughout the entire ultrasound. I was hoping for an exclamation like, "Oh, there! I see it! And I can see a flicker of a heartbeat!" But nothing. No words. As she wheeled me back downstairs, she continued to be silent. I dare not ask her what she thought. She obviously didn't want to tell me.

I waited. And waited. Five hours from the time I had arrived in the ER, and still no one had come to tell me anything. All I kept thinking was, "Someone please come talk to me! Just tell me already! I can pretty much diagnose myself, but I'd really like for someone to just come talk to me!"

Ask and you shall receive. Moments later, the doctor arrived. She sat next to me with a stack of papers and stated matter-of-factly, "Well, I don't have good news." Through tears and sobs, I heard portions of her speech about how I had had a missed abortion (abortion is the medical term for a miscarriage; please understand that I
did not voluntarily end this pregnancy), wait a few more months, it doesn't mean I can't get pregnant again, blah blah blah. Drained from all of my energy, I got dressed and wept as I walked to the car.

You know, as I've gone through these miscarriages, I've realized just how many other women have had them as well. Time after time I'll hear, "Oh, I've been there," or "I've had a few myself." And it's people that you would never guess who have had them. It has made me see how secretive women tend to be when they miscarry. I was
much more secretive with my first one, and I found that, while it may have helped me "save face" and protect my "reputation" (whatever that means), it was really lonely. The second time around, I've found that sharing my burden with those who love me has considerably helped me in coping.

When you miscarry, the people that are aware of it want to help. A lot. For the first few days, they'll say all of the wrong things that you really don't want to hear. Things that were unwarranted, and yet they felt compelled to say. Things like, "Oh, you're young. You can still have children!" or "There was something wrong with the baby. It's better this way." Even comments about it being all part of God's plan sent anger coursing through my veins. I mean
really, even if all of these things are true, how on earth are they supposed to make me feel better when I am aching from the loss of the baby that shared my body, even if only for a few precious days or weeks? I've found the only thing to be helpful during the "acute phase" of a miscarriage is prayer and silence. Nothing else is helpful for me. Nothing else mattered to me. I needed others' presence, not words.

And now, as I stand in the aftermath of my second loss, I feel a more intense devastation wash over me. The reality becomes that I may never give birth to a child of my own. I've conceived two children, and yet, I've never been able to see what they look like, or know their sex, or listen to their heartbeats. I don't have anything to remember them by. But our family has two holes in it. Those holes will always exist. They can't be filled by other children or hobbies or by buying
pretty things. Though the hurt may lessen, the loss will persist.

But thankfully, the pain and sorrow will not last forever. It's okay to feel sad when sad things happen. It's normal. It's natural. And it's part of healing. You can't heal from a wound if you don't acknowledge that it exists. But as a believer, I have hope that ALL things work together for the good of those who love the Lord. As I suffer, I can rejoice. I can praise Him. That doesn't mean that I say, "Lord, I am so happy that I miscarried twice," but it means arriving at a
place where I can say, "You are so much bigger than me, Lord. Your ways are higher than mine. This isn't the way I wanted things to be, but I know You have a plan for me. You could have kept this pain away from me, and You didn't. But You didn't for a reason. And I'm hoping to discover that reason some day."

It would be really easy for me to turn any anger I have toward God. But even as my heart breaks over the fresh loss of this second baby, I just couldn't imagine being angry with Him. He is showering me with more love than I could ever imagine through friends and family. I see His hand at work, even though I can't quite determine what the masterpiece will be. It doesn't matter if I ever know the reason for these losses. I will praise Him. I will love Him because He first loved me. I may have miscarried my babies, but they have been carried home to be with their Heavenly Father.

I began with hope, and I will go forward with hope. There will be a day with no more tears and no more pain. Just you wait and see...