Better Than A Hallelujah

That Doesn't Make It Easy

2012-02-14T18:11:00.000-05:00

For the past few weeks, our pastor has been preaching about loving well and what it means to be true community to each other. Two weeks ago he preached about "loving stupid people" and talked about how each of us is "stupid" from time to time. We're stupid when we fall into the same sinful traps over and over again. We're stupid when we are rude and short tempered. We're stupid when we ignore the presence of God in our lives and instead focus on all that we don't have and our discontent. We're stupid when the choices we make destroy ourselves or our relationships. We're all stupid from time to time.

In order to love stupid people (and hopefully be loved in return when we're stupid), we may need to speak the truth to them. We may need to call them on their stupidity. Or, we may just need to take the time to ask them how they are and really listen. Maybe there's something more to their stupidity. Maybe they are pessimistic because they can't allow themselves to believe that they deserve good things. Maybe they drink too much or don't smile enough or are critical and grumpy because of a deep hurt they've endured. And maybe if we take a minute to ask and to truly listen, we just might find a way to gently restore them into optimism or even joy.

I've had a rough couple of weeks on a lot of levels, and there is someone in my life who is especially hard to love right now. This person is (dare I say it out loud) stupid. I think that in the past several weeks, I believe I have specifically referred to this person as an idiot, crazy, incapable, and a host of other lovely and Christian things. (Yeah, right.) God brought all of this to mind as I sat cringing my way through the sermon. And He told me that I don't get to speak harshly about this person or be impatient in our dealings or be proud about how I have it all together and this person doesn't. It totally sucked. But I prayed, and I began my dealings with this person with this new and humble heart. I thought that maybe if I approached our dealings with love and humility, then maybe I would have the opportunity to ask--and really mean--"Are you okay? Because there seems to be a lot going on with you."

I wish I could say I've been perfect at it. I haven't. I'm truly a work in progress. The occasions I had to talk with this person over the past week have been markedly different--in my mind and attitude at least. I don't know if this person felt any different about me or my attitude, but I certainly did. ~~I forced myself~~ God gave me the ability to see this person through His eyes and as someone that He created in His own image and died for.

But boy, it was not easy.

I was reminded that just because it's right does not make it easy. Just because I decided to change my attitude and approach doesn't mean anyone else around me did. And it didn't make the person less "stupid." Recently a friend of mine and I had a conversation about another friend we needed to "confront" with humble and loving truth. We needed to do it, because we were the only people who could, and it had to be done. So I gave an early morning pep talk and then made my friend do it--while I stayed behind praying, of course. She did it, and it was received well, and our friendship--our community--has been honored. But that didn't make it easy.

Maybe that's what tough love, loving stupid people even when they don't change, and speaking the truth in love is all about. It's not easy. It's not easy for the person who is hearing it, nor is it easy for the person who is doing it. But it's still the right thing to do.

The Seventh Sabbath

2012-02-13T07:08:00.000-05:00

Would you be free from the burden of sin?
There's power in the blood, power in the blood;
Would you o'er evil a victory win?
There's wonderful power in the blood.

There is power, power, wonder-working power
In the blood of the Lamb.
There is power, power, wonder-working power
In the precious blood of the Lamb.

Would you be free from your passion and pride?
There's power in the blood, power in the blood;
Come for a cleansing to Calvary's tide;
There's wonderful power in the blood.

There is power, power, wonder-working power
In the blood of the Lamb.
There is power, power, wonder-working power
In the precious blood of the Lamb.

Would you be whiter, much whiter than snow?
There's power in the blood, power in the blood;
Sin stains are lost in its life-giving flow.
There's wonderful power in the blood.

There is power, power, wonder-working power
In the blood of the Lamb.
There is power, power, wonder-working power
In the precious blood of the Lamb.

Would you do service for Jesus your King?
There's power in the blood, power in the blood;
Would you live daily His praises to sing?
There's wonderful power in the blood.

There is power, power, wonder-working power
In the blood of the Lamb.
There is power, power, wonder-working power
In the blood of the Lamb.

"There is Power in the Blood," Lewis E. Jones

Giving Them Back

2012-02-08T07:11:00.000-05:00

This morning I started the book of I Samuel. As a mother, I am always moved to read of Hannah's longing for a child. She is picked on, mocked, and driven to great depression over her barrenness. She begs, pleads, and cries out to God. Her agony in the temple was so intense that the priest even believes she must be drunk--nobody sober would act like that before God.

God hears her, and he grants her deepest desire. He gives her not only a child but a son. The part I so often miss in the story is that she said to God, "[Give me a son, and] I'll give him completely, unreservedly to you." And then she does just that. This woman who, more than anything in the world, wanted a child, gets one, and then leaves him in the temple to grow up.

As a mother, it's hard to imagine. As a Christian who struggles on my sojourn, it's even harder to comprehend. First of all, she makes a promise to God--and then she keeps it. Even when it must have destroyed part of her to do so. How often do I want something badly, and I say to God, "If you just give me this, then I'll X"? Whether the "X" is be happy, tell everyone what you did, never ask for anything more, not screw it up . . . whatever it is, how often do I really do it? I can answer that for you: almost never.

But as a mother . . . as a mother who has never had trouble conceiving, as a mother who conceived twins only to have one die, as a mother who is often overwhelmed by my three living children, as a mother who still grieves the (now) two-year-old baby I long to hold in my arms . . . how do you long for a child, have it long enough to wean it, and then drop it off at the temple to live?

Now, this isn't like it would be for us. We go to church at the end of our road. There are plenty of days that I think it might be nice to drop by kids off at Pastor Tim and "Miss Ruth's" house for a while. Shoot, there are days that I do that (and thanks for generously taking them Ruthie!)--for a few hours at least. But I can always go pick them up, and the trip takes me only about 1 minute. Five if I walk. For Hannah it's a long journey that she takes once a year. Huh? How do you do that? How do you long for something to the point of your heart breaking and then turn it completely over to God?

But then how do you not?

I remember once in college when I was going off with my Christian fellowship group to do some evangelism thing that made my dad pretty nervous. He sent me a letter after we discussed it on the phone, and his letter is something that I'll keep forever. In it he wrote, "We have always known that you aren't our child. You are God's. And we knew the time would come when He took you places that we didn't understand and didn't like. But you are His. You were never ours to keep."

As a mom I'm grateful that I get to see my children nearly every day. I'm grateful that I don't have to send them miles and miles away and see them only once a year for them to truly be God's. But I also know that just as my sweet Baby Zion is sitting on God's lap and belongs solely to Him, Ellie Grace, Meggity Leigh, and DeeDee also belong solely to God. They may not be literally sitting on His lap, but they are held in the palm of His hand. They are no less His than Zion is, than I am. While they may live in my house for a time and in my heart forever, they have never really been mine.

So, yes. I have longed for them to the point of my heart breaking. I have watched out for them and cared for them and loved them to the point of my heart breaking. But I have also--and need to continue to--given them completely over to God. Today may I care for them as children that God has entrusted to me, and women who will change this world forever because of their Father, and sisters who will sojourn Home alongside me and the rest of our brothers and sisters. Today may I see them as they are: dedicated to God for life.

The Sixth Sabbath

2012-02-05T12:53:00.000-05:00

The love of God is greater far
Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star,
And reaches to the lowest hell;
The guilty pair, bowed down with care,
God gave His Son to win;
His erring child He reconciled,
And pardoned from his sin.

Oh, love of God, how rich and pure!
How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure—
The saints’ and angels’ song.

When years of time shall pass away,
And earthly thrones and kingdoms fall,
When men who here refuse to pray,
On rocks and hills and mountains call,
God’s love so sure, shall still endure,
All measureless and strong;
Redeeming grace to Adam’s race—
The saints’ and angels’ song.

Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade;
To write the love of God above
Would drain the ocean dry;
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.

"The Love of God," Frederick Martin Lehman

Book Three

2012-02-05T07:06:00.001-05:00

The Meaning of Matthew: My Son's Murder in Laramie, and a World Transformed
Judy Shepard

Every once in a while, a film will come along that sticks with me. It settles into my brain and sort of just grabs hold in a way that I know I'll never be the same. I've been changed by what I've seen. "Martha Marcy Mae Marlene" comes to mind as the most recent. There's also "Who is Julia?," "Doubt," and "In the Mouth of Madness," to name a few.

More rarely, a book will have that same power. I immediately think of Nobody's Fault by Patricia Hermes, Before I Fall by Lauren Oliver, and Columbine by Dave Cullen. When I first read them, and still now years after, I feel haunted by them. The Meaning of Matthew is one of those books. I remember so vividly the day in October 1998 when I first heard that Matthew had been attacked and tied to a fence and left to die. I remember feeling personally violated at the thought that people could be so heartless and hateful. It made no sense to me. To be honest, it still doesn't.

Judy Shepard, Matt's mom, wrote this book ten years after the murder of her son, and it still makes no sense--to anyone. But, like so many people caught in tragic situations, she has decided to make the world different, make sense of the world, instead of the tragedy. The honesty with which Judy writes is moving. She doesn't paint Matt with an angelic brush and even calls out the media and others who have.

This book is important for everyone to read--whether you think you've made up your mind about homosexuality, whether you are facing it yourself or struggling with a family member who is, or whether you think none of it will ever affect you. It will. It does, in ways that may surprise you. Take a minute to learn what you can about yourself, about the people you know, and about the world in which we live. It's never okay to hate. It's not enough to tolerate. As Dennis, Matthew's father, stated in his victim impact statement at the sentencing of one of the murderers, "Love, respect, and compassion for everyone is why we are here today...loving one another doesn't mean that we have to compromise our beliefs; it simply means that we choose to be compassionate and respectful of others."

Sticks, Stones, and Words

2012-02-02T12:37:00.000-05:00

I sing on the worship team at my church. Since I love to worship and sing worship songs, and I'm generally a confident singer (as long as I have a group to sing with), it's something that I truly enjoy. We always have practice on the Wednesday before our assigned week and then get together at 8:00 on Sunday morning for a final practice.

Last week at Wednesday's practice, we had an unexpected visitor. There is a man in our neighborhood who is an alcoholic. When I say that he is a falling-down drunk, that's actually an exact representation of what he appears to be. Often a walk through the neighborhood--or simply a glance out the window--will find him stumbling down the street or through the church parking lot. He's even been known to lie down--or fall and not get up--alongside the road.

To say that's all John is, though, is a gross understatement. John is a man, a son, a brother, a friend. He knows more about the Bible than several years through it will get me, and he's a gifted song writer. He can commit Scripture to memory, turn it into song, and sing it in his Bob Dylan-esque voice with ease and style. He can elicit tears with his songs. And he has taught me so much about grace and about who I am. He is a man who struggles in a prison that refuses to turn him loose.

When he's drinking, he also has no filter.

Wednesday night at practice, we were running through "Amazing Grace (My Chains are Gone)." Because we were going to be singing it while the elders were passing the bread during Communion, we were praticing it in a contemplative fashion. That's how we ran through it the first time. Then John came in. Then we ran through the song again. I couldn't help myself. I thought about the message of the song, about chains being gone, about God calling us and then being forever ours, about John. I sang it out. I worshipped God, and I interceded for John.

When we were done, John said, "You? Becky, is it? You should be less shrill next time. Sing some harmonies or something, but you need to be less shrill." There's humility for you.

Julie, the worship leader and a close friend of mine, immediately came to my defense. She said, "Beka, you aren't shrill. You were just singing it out. And besides, I haven't adjusted the levels. You sounded great. Don't worry about it."

My immediate thought was, "The guy's drunk. Like I'm going to let someone who is drunk steal my joy." And I truly wasn't worried about it or impacted by what he said. I mean, surely I know who I am and that God has gifted me. I'm secure enough in the role I play.

Afterwards, when Julie and I talked about it, she told me that she had so quickly jumped with affirmation because she remembered some of the things I have shared with her in the past about what people have said about my singing. I'm too loud. I'm too sharp. I'm too flat. I'm unable to hold a key. I don't have a solo voice. I should practice more or stick to just passing out the song books. When she was growing up, she also heard that she couldn't hold a key, and our combined "inabilities" made us nervous about the acapella verse we sang Sunday morning. Maybe it was Ruth and Bob, or maybe it was just the Holy Spirit, or maybe we've learned how to hold a key, but we did well on that verse. It didn't stop me from being VERY CAREFUL through that whole verse, though. Because the truth is that I can't hold a key, right? That I'm shrill.

As young children we used to sing, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." Who were we kidding? Were we trying to convince ourselves not to care so much? Because that little line couldn't be further from the truth. The wounds from sticks and stones fade with time. Broken bones heal. But words? They stick with you. They make you very careful. They make you cry, even 25 years later. They make you scared.

Think about that today. What words are you saying today that are reinforcing what someone already "knows" about themselves? What words are you saying that confirm their weaknesses--or at least the weaknesses others have assigned to them? What words are you saying that are instilling fear or creating pain? Let's use our words to extend grace and healing and peace. To remove fear. To encourage. To affirm. Maybe those words will last, too.

I Want to Be One of Them

2012-02-01T07:04:00.000-05:00

As I've been delving into Scripture more over the past month, the KINGDOM reading plan has be spending a good amount of time in the Old Testament. Like most 21st century Christians, I typically make most of my personal focus on the New Testament, so this has been a good shift for me.

The stories of Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Samson, Joshua, and Ruth are so familiar to me--they're the stories I grew up listening to in Sunday School. Because I know them so well, when my almost-four-year-old comes home from Sunday School and tells me in her scattered way about a few highlights (and some random facts) that she learned at church that morning, I can usually guess the person if not the story as well. It's good to have that familiarity. But, like one of the boys in the Sunday School class I teach has said, it can also be bad. It loses something.

By spending every morning with this familiar friends over the past 26 days, I have been reminded of something. They're family. It's really like reading the Christmas letters I so enjoy every year. This is their year--their life--in review. Whether it's the highlights, like God saving Noah's family in the ark or Samson beating up on the Philistines so many times or Ruth's devotion to Naomi, or the lowlights, like Jacob stealing Esau's birthright and blessing or Lot's wife turning into a pillar of salt or the many times the Israelites worshipped idols, it's them. It's truth. And it's family.

I listened to some great Christian music (rare for me) on the way home from Muskegon last night. One of the songs that came on was "When the Saints" by Sara Groves. It's such an amazing song, because it highlights people from the Bible and the saints of our times--Jim Elliot, Mother Theresa--and then she says, "When the saints go marching in, I want to be one of them."

I do. Whether it's the highlights of my life or the lowlights, I want to see what God has done in my life and is doing in my life, and I want to walk with Him. I want to walk with them into His kingdom. I want to arrive Home and greet my Father and our family including myself among my brothers and sisters throughout the ages. It's an amazing thought to consider. I'm not walking this alone. God walked here before me in the flesh of Jesus. But there was also David and Jacob and Joseph and Paul and Silas and Jim and Theresa and so many others. We'll make it, because they did.

Reviewing Month One

2012-01-31T07:17:00.000-05:00

Looking back, this month has gone quite quickly. I want to take a few minutes to review month one, make any adjustments that I need to, and move forward into February. Overall, I feel good about how January ended, and I certainly see places where I can improve.

* Physically:
Goal - I want to lose 60 pounds by December 31. This comes out to about five pounds a month, and as of last Saturday, I have lost 4 pounds. These are 4 pounds that I've lost and gained several times over the past several months, but this time they're gone for good. (Positive self talk works, right?)

Plan - I have not been exercising at least 45 minutes each work day. I have come close--averaging about five days a week. I have done well at controlling my portions, and I've mostly stopped eating when I was full. At the beginning of the month I did a better job delaying my cravings and choosing not to give in. Over the last two weeks I've done less well with that. So this month I need to work out more and win the craving battles.

* Spiritually:
Goal - I want to read through the Bible this year and live a more grateful life. This morning I started reading the February readings, so I'm doing very well with my reading.

Plan - Nearly every morning I have started with my Bible, even if I haven't first worked out. The days when I've chosen to sleep in, I have done so intending to still wake up by 6:30 so I can spend time reading and praying. I'm not current in my prayer book, but I've tried to be more conscious about living a prayerful day. I've also done a terrible job keeping current in my blessings calendar. That's my biggest area for improvement this month. If I'm grateful, I can write it down. If I'm not writing it down, I feel like I'm saying that I'm not grateful.

* Mentally:
Goal - I want to blog at least 25 days a month, and I want to read at least 24 books this year. This is post number 25 for January, so that's exciting. I have also completed two books and am a good chunk of the way through my third. There's also a fourth in progress on my Kindle, but that's a Stephen King, so I'm going to need a while.

Plan - One of the books I read in January was our book club book, and one was a book that has been on my book list for about six months. This third one I'm reading has also been on my list for a long time. I don't really have a lot of need for improvement in this area, though I'd like to read my book club books with less procrastination from now on. My February nights are quite busy at the beginning of the month--co-chairing the Scholastic Book Fair at Ellie's school--so it will be a feat to get both books done. It will definitely take some self discipline. :)

A Battle Within

2012-01-30T21:29:00.000-05:00

The last couple of days I've really noticed a battle in my mind. There's been the "that will taste good, you should eat it" and the "this tastes so good I definitely want some more" and the "you have no real reason to get up this early to work out."

Perhaps the battle has always been there, but I've certainly rarely fought it before. In the past it's always been more of a giving in to whatever whim I may have had. I'd find myself in the middle of eating something or waking up at the last minute and having to rush through the morning or gaining and losing the same five pounds. I would hate where I was and wonder how I got there. But I never really battled with the cravings.

Since 2012 began, though, and I've started claiming the spirit of self discipline that God has given me, it's been different. I've dragged myself out of bed at 5:00 a.m. day after day, in the freezing cold. I've frozen 90% of a cheesecake and put back a piece I'd taken out to eat simply because I found I was satisfied with what I'd already eaten. I've frozen leftover brownies and thrown out part of a piece of zucchini bread when I realized I was full. I've read two days' worth of Bible readings to catch up. I've also slept in, eaten even though I was full, and chosen to veg on the sofa instead of reading my Bible. You win some, you lose some.

Maybe all that living a self-controlled life involves is fighting these battles. Maybe it's recognizing the fight, listening to the voice, and making the wise choice. I wonder if there will come a point when it's just natural and easy to choose less or working out or self denial. Maybe not. Maybe the only difference between the way I was living and athletes winning gold medals is simply that they chose wisely more often than they don't.

Until I get to that point, I hope that I keep seeing both choices. I hope that I keep resisting my natural desires and choosing to be where God wants me to be. And I hope that when I mess up, I recognize the amazing grace that God pours down on me and extend a little bit of it to myself. I hope that I see what's in front of me; hear God say, "Rise up, Mighty Warrior"; and choose to fight with all I have.

The Fifth Sabbath

2012-01-29T20:16:00.002-05:00

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now I'm found
Was blind, but now I see

'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear
And grace my fears relieved
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed

My chains are gone, I've been set free
My God, my Savior, has ransomed me
And like a flood His mercy rains
Unending love, amazing grace

The Lord has promised good to me
His word my hope secures
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures

My chains are gone, I've been set free
My God, my Savior, has ransomed me
And like a flood His mercy rains
Unending love, amazing grace

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow
The sun forbear to shine
But God who called me here below
Will be forever mine
Will be forever mine
You are forever mine

"Amazing Grace (My Chains Are Gone)", Chris Tomlin

Micah 6:8

2012-01-27T07:43:00.001-05:00

Like most Christian Reformed girls of a certain age, I grew up attending Calvinettes. Today it is called GEMS, and it's really like a Calvinist Girl Scouts. Every meeting began with us singing songs, including our theme song "Jesus is All the World to Me," and reciting our verse. The leader would say, "Calvinettes, what does the Lord require of you?" We would respond, in unison, "To do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with our God. Micah 6 verse 8." Ask almost anyone my age who grew up in the CRC, and they can sing you a verse and recite Micah 6:8.

I wonder when the reality of that verse started sinking in for me, though. At what point did I understand that "doing justice" wasn't just about deciding who was right or wrong, that "loving kindness" isn't just about good manners and being nice, and that "walking humbly with God" means more than not bragging. I wonder sometimes if it has yet sunk in.

A week or so ago in my prayer book, Everyday Prayers, author Scotty Smith (thanks, Writer Friend!) wrote about how our groanings and longings for eternity should cause us to show up rather than check out. He said that instead of numbing ourselves to the needs of the world as we wait, that longing for Christ to return and God to set things right for eternity should prompt us to work toward bringing that about now. He asked God, "What will it mean to love mercy, do justice, and walk humbly with you in the broken places of your world?"

Indeed. What will it mean? What will it mean for me to be more than one who seeks the difference between right and wrong, more than one who is nice to other people, more than one who doesn't brag about my walk with God? What will it mean, with the unique way that God has gifted me, the unique personality that I have, the unique place He has put me in His world? How should I seek to DO justice, to LOVE kindness, and to WALK HUMBLY with my God in His broken world? And not just in the future or in my profession or in my parenting.

In my friendships. In my right now. In this neighborhood.

In this day.

A Psalm

2012-01-26T07:02:00.000-05:00

Every day in my readings I read at least one Psalm, sometimes two. Today it struck me that the Psalms (blogs, really) remind me a lot of the way that I tend to blog and why I've often struggled with it. It feels like when I sit down with my fingers on the keys what flows out of me is often downtrodden or slightly defeated. I always come around in the end, recognizing the gifts that I have, but at the beginning it feels like the same old same old things. As I was reading today, I realized that the Psalmist often does the same thing. Maybe that's part of life. So, I thought I would attempt an actual psalm with all that's in my mind right now.

Oh, God. You are my rock.
Your shelter and protection cannot be denied.
My enemies may not be coming at me with swords or rocks,
But this life is hard nonetheless.
Talk of war and division fill our news,
Even in Christian circles, people lament our future,
Our world.
Even in Christian circles, our families fall apart,
Division reigns.

Where is our hope?

Our hope is in You, maker of heaven and earth.
Creator of all things.
Author and perfector of our salvation.

You do not fail. You cannot fail.

Thank you for your healing power. This week alone you
Have shrunk tumors doctors believed were unshrinkable.
You have replaced cancerous bones
With the bones of life stolen too soon.
Be the God-who-heals for everyone who suffers.

Thank you for being the God who seeks and finds.
Thank you for our Navy SEALS and their dedication
To a calling higher than them.
Be the God-who-finds for all those who are lost,
Spiritually or physically. Restore them to those who long for them.

And, God, for the hurts that somehow go deeper--
For the mothers and fathers hanging on for dear life as they parent their children,
For the men and women caught in the prison of addiction,
For the husbands and wives dreaming of a way to be free of unhappy marriages,
For the children whose innocence is stolen,
For the depressed and the lonely and the widows and those struggling with who they are--
Be the Rock. Be the God. Be the Shepherd. Be the Deliverer. Be the Sustainer.
Be the God-who-brings-Life.

Tie a Yellow Ribbon

2012-01-25T07:02:00.000-05:00

This morning at the gym I wore my Team Mitchell t-shirt from last summer's Miles for Hope. I ~~ran~~ walked for Mitchell, the son of high school friend's. While Miles for Hope is about funds to research a cure for brain tumors, our t-shirts, designed by Mitchell's mom, incorporated the colors for brain tumor awareness and pediatric brain tumor awareness.

As I was walking from the treadmill to the weights, a woman stopped me, gestured to my shirt, and said, "I'm trying to figure out what the cure is for." When I told her, she said, "That's very cool."

Today is also the day that Beau's cousin Chelsea was told to wear blue to school in order to stop bullying. Because she's a snarky teenager, she announced that on Facebook and then wrote, "Is that because bullies are afraid of the color blue?" I laughed out loud.

Those two questions--what's that for, and are they afraid of that color--sent me thinking. Pink = October, which is breast cancer awareness month. Red = HIV/AIDS awareness. Blue = Child Abuse Awareness Month (April). Yellow = Brain Tumor Awareness and, because of a song years ago, signifies that you are waiting for a loved one to return home. The puzzle piece ribbon = Autism Awareness. I'm sure that all of these colors also mean something different, as I remember tying a blue ribbon on my antenna in honor of the horrors at Columbine and Chelsea is supposed to wear blue to stop bullying.

So what do these colors mean? Are they just the trendy way to pretend to stand for something? I'm confident that the bullies aren't afraid of the color blue, but I wonder if they came to school and saw everyone wearing blue if they would change the way that they treat other people. Because they'd see the solidarity. And I wonder if the woman I saw today thinks about brain tumors differently because she saw my shirt.

Mostly I wonder if more people are aware of anything because of all the ribbons we wear or if people are just confused by the colors. When people first started wearing red ribbons, it was a statement. It was a statement of support and solidarity and commitment that on my watch something was going to change. I wasn't going to be silent about a disease that shouldn't be destroying our families. But now, when you see a ribbon, do you even wonder what it's for? When you put on a ribbon, or a color, do you even remember what it's for?

There are a million causes in the world, and I'm quite certain that many of them have a color to go with them. The question I need to ask myself is which one is mine? And am I doing more than wearing a ribbon?

"At a certain point, I just felt, you know, God is not looking for alms, God is looking for action." Bono

Things I Think I Think #1-17

2012-01-24T17:30:00.000-05:00

Several random thoughts on my mind today, so I thought I'd share them all. Because I'm crazy like that.

*EDIT: part way through my list I decided to number these. Maybe when I have too many random thoughts and nothing concrete enough to create a real post I can add on to my list. Then, by the end of the year, maybe we'll end up with 100 random things I think. Won't that be fun?

1. One of my favorite quotes from the Bible is when the angel of the Lord finds Gideon hiding in the threshing room and says, "Rise up, Mighty Warrior." I've felt like that.

2. I cannot wait to start reading the next book on my list: The Meaning of Matthew, by Judy Shepard. It's the story of Matthew Shepard. I wish we were further along in his fight than we are.

3. There is no way I'd work out at 5:15 a.m. every morning if my friend, Leah, wasn't either picking me up or expecting me to pick her up.

4. It shouldn't be so hard for me to remember to write down a Kairos or a grateful moment every day, but I'm always behind on my list.

5. One of today's Kairos moments is happening right now: my three girls are playing me and some of my friends/family members. I love it when the one playing Julie calls me, "Beck."

6. I don't like making dinner for my family each night. That's probably one of the reasons I often suggest that we eat out. Since that isn't so helpful to my budget or my waistline, I should scale back on it. But the chicken pot pie on the menu tonight just is not calling my name.

7. I love, love, love politics, but I hate how politicky it gets. Maybe it would be better to say I love government and hate politics.

8. So far this year I have scored a free Kindle 3G and a free iPhone 3GS (on its way to me today). That's the mark of some pretty good friends and family.

9. It makes me smile to chat with my friends on Twitter when we could just text, email, or Facebook message. Ah, technology. (Welcome to Twitter, Jillian!) If you're there, you should follow me. Then we can chat there instead of in person, too.

10. While we're on the subject, it also makes me smile to read what celebrities write on Twitter and pretend that Adam Levine, Peter Alexander, Alison Sweeney, and Jason Segel really are talking to me. But it makes me sad to see how desperately other people seem to wish they were talking to them.

11. When I don't start my morning out reading the Bible, I'm a bitch. There, I said it. 'Cause it's true.

12. I would watch episodes of Hawaii Five-0 over and over again. No matter how many times I've seen them. The same is not true for Dora the Explorer.

13. I really should get up and finish that chicken pot pie. And fold the laundry. Probably not at the same time.

14. I'm hoping the pain currently shooting through my left hand is simply a result of holding it wrong while I worked out this morning and not indicative of something more serious. Like carpal tunnel. Unless that means I can't make dinner anymore.

15. One of my favorite things to do is add books to my Goodreads list. I love it. It's like window shopping. There is so much possibility in all the books on my shelves. Even though I'm sure I'll need the first half of eternity to read them all.

16. I would happily pay $10 to sit through 90 minutes of previews at Celebration Cinema. (See the Goodreads list for my thoughts on possibilities.)

17. For the life of me I cannot understand why a presidential election is the only time we would consider hiring someone over 65 for a job. Seriously. Retire. Don't go for a new career--especially one that's going to age you several years. Unless you have a really great VP candidate that we maybe wouldn't elect on our own.

Book Two

2012-01-22T19:43:00.000-05:00

Bossypants
Tina Fey

Hooray, Tina Fey! She seems to write everything she thinks, which is also how I write. Except then I delete most of it. I appreciate that Tina leaves it all in--her random thoughts, her tangents, her unnecessary explanations. It all makes it into Bossypants, and that's what makes it hilarious.

While the structure of the book is seemingly nonexistent, it almost doesn't matter. Fey covers a wide range of her life, from her childhood to her early career to her current work at 30 Rock and as a mother, with a stop with Sarah Palin in between. It all feels equally important to who she is now. If you're looking for a chronological autobiography, this is not your book. If, however, you are looking for candid and random facts from one of the funnier women in America--quit reading this review and pick up Bossypants!

The Fourth Sabbath

2012-01-22T14:14:00.000-05:00

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free
'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.
When true simplicity is gain'd,
To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,
To turn, turn will be our delight,
Till by turning, turning we come 'round right.

"Simple Gifts," by Elder Joseph Brackett, 1848 (Traditional Shaker hymn and dance song. Because at the end of the day, shouldn't they really be one and the same?)

Book One

2012-01-21T20:15:00.001-05:00

A Discovery of Witches
Deborah Harkness

Let me start by saying that I can't recall what I knew about this book going in, but I know that I wasn't aware of much when I opened the cover. Obviously I knew there were witches and that it was set in the present day. There was a discovery in that the protagonist discovered she was a witch. Or so I thought. Hopefully this isn't too much of a SPOILER to say that I was surprised (and disappointed) to discovery it was also about vampires and daemons and romance. Typically none of those things get me excited about a book, and I almost closed it and sent it right back to the library. I'm so glad I didn't.

If I'd read the Goodreads review, I would have known about the vampires and the romance, but I heard about this book in a four-sentence blurb in Entertainment Weekly. I am a lover of history and find the Salem witch trials an intriguing part of our history. So it's easy to suck me into a book that references that time. Diana Bishop is a descendent of the Bishop clan--one of the first witches tried in Salem. For personal reasons, however, she has stopped using her magic. As the reasons are revealed, I found myself more deeply enthralled with the story and with the family history. I also found myself caught up in the romance between Diana and Matthew, a vampire geneticist. Harkness weaves a tale of romance in the middle of a tale of history and the supernatural and the academic world. Her tale is gripping and hypnotizing. Much like after my reading of Rowling's Harry Potter series I was left wishing I knew how to conjur the spells for cleaning my house and could certainly stand to be living in a house that adds extra rooms to accommodate its residents. I hope knowing about the vampires and the daemons--and the romance--don't turn anyone away from this book. It's referred to in some places as a grown-up Twilight--don't let that stop you either.

This book is the first in a series, and I'm glad I waited until now to read the first book. That means my wait for book two is only a few months long!

Kairos Moments

2012-01-20T07:04:00.000-05:00

I discovered another blog yesterday, via a Huffington Post article that a mom I know posted. "Don't Carpe Diem" it said. Don't carpe diem? This is for moms? So don't carpe diem a parenting moment? I have several I'd like to not sieze. There are many I'd like to brush under the rug or into a corner in the closet so that no one ever finds out about them. Maybe those are the skeletons in my closet, since I've lived a fairly mundane and safe life. Look into the darkest recesses of my life, and you'll find all the parenting moments I chose to pretend never existed. Like, oh say the last six years.

Kidding.

It hasn't been that bad. There have surely been good moments. But, for the most part, if I'm being honest, if I'm telling my deep secrets, if you promise not to call Children's Protective Services on me (I work with some of them, and they're on my speed dial, so just try it), if we're going to shed light in the corners of my closets and lift up all the rugs in my house, if you promise not to tell anyone . . .

I really don't like parenting toddlers. Or first graders, apparently.

Back when I was simply babysitting, I discovered that I really don't like 4 year olds. I thought it would change when I actually had a real attachment to the child, but then my nieces hit four. Didn't like them either. Well, maybe it will change when they were birthed by me and call me mom. Nope. Even worse. Now that my youngest has been wholly consumed by the terrible twos, I've discovered that the truth is all these 2-6 years are something I could do without.

I don't like cutting up food. I don't like getting up from my computer or my book or my moment to breathe or my moment to sit on the toilet peeing allbymyselfforjustasecondplease in order to get a snack or find a toy or stop another fight or get a drink or get another snack or put the skirt on your mini Cinderella or find your Littlest Pet Shop purse. (Could toys possibly be bigger, please? Maybe all toys could be like those magical Snap 'N' Style dolls that even my two year old can maneuver.) I don't like wiping butts either. And I don't like all that whining. I don't mind zipping up coats and tying shoes, but I'll be honest and say that it gets a bit annoying when they're dancing around like a pretty, pretty princess fairies while I'm doing it.

But I'll also be honest about something else. They really are a pretty, pretty princess fairies. They are my joy. They are my hope that there are bright spots in the future. They are my I love you. Because, even in the middle of my wishing for a second to myself prior to passing out to the world at 10:30 p.m. (hopefully in my bed and not my onesecondtomyselfonthetoilet), even in the middle of my fear that I won't actually like any stage of parenting and my kids will grow up to hate me for it, I have another secret:

I love parenting toddlers. And I love parenting first graders, apparently.

It's hard, hard work. I know that middle schoolers and tweens and teens will also be hard, hard work. Or a challenge. But I'm excited to get there. So I hope that my kids forgive me for speeding us through a few of the rough patches, for losing my temper when my second in the bathroom is interrupted by a third little voice whining "Can you get me a piece of candy?" (Really? From the bathroom? Let me know how that goes.), for listening to Maroon 5 in the van when all they want is "Silly Songs!!!!!" (For. The. Fifteenth. Time...Today.). I hope that we share a mutual respect and love and admiration when they grow up and move out and I realize that these years went too fast and wish I had less time to myself and wonder why the juice boxes and Fruit Nuggets start lasting longer than two days. I hope I don't screw them up too much. And I hope, that like Glennon says, I don't forget to notice the Kairos Moments. I can seize those.

Yesterday's moments:
* Reading "Little House in the Big Woods" with Ellie
* Addie walking around the kitchen with her baby on her shoulders while I was making dinner
* Ellie's stunningly gorgeous face after she's been outside playing in the cold
* Megan's big blue eyes peeking at me from under a blanket
* Addie asking where the seat is at the table for her baby and then remembering that she only drinks milk
* Megan exclaming, "Oh my chinny-chin-chins!" when all the marbles from the marble run fell off the table in the dining room

It was such a good day.

Learning from Job and Tripp

2012-01-18T13:07:00.000-05:00

I love the book of Job. It ends with the most beautiful images of creation. It includes sassy responses from God. It shows a strong man standing up to his friends. And it provides a stunning glimpse of joy in the midst of suffering.

Late last week, the book of Job was brought to mind again as I was introduced to Tripp Roth. A friend on Facebook posted the link to Courtney Roth's blog about being a mommy to her son, Tripp. This is a young woman in the prime of her life--enjoying being a wife and excited about the arrival of her son. I encourage you to check out her blog, starting with Tripp's Story. Within hours of his birth, Courtney and her husband, Randy, were told that he suffered from Epidermolysis Bullosa. Basically his skin was so thin that any contact with it would result in painful blisters to form. After discussing his case with various doctors and running numerous tests--all of which caused Tripp's skin to blister and tear--it became apparent that Tripp had a fatal case of EB and would be lucky to reach his 2nd birthday.

Tripp died on January 14, at 2 years and 8 months old. A recent visit to an expert revealed that with less care than his mother had given him, he would likely have died around his first birthday. He should have died then. Instead, his mother, who had never held her son skin to skin in her arms, never crushed him into her hug, never played tickle games, never smothered his face in kisses, committed her life to caring for her son. Her marriage to Tripp's father suffered and ended. She moved in with her parents, where her mother could help her with full time care. She spent 2 years and 8 months wrapping her son in a blanket, coaxing him to eat, sedating him to give him baths because the pain was so intense, watching her son's eyes fuse shut. She spent 2 years and 8 months knowing her son was in constant pain and knowing there was nothing she could do to stop it. And she spent 2 years and 8 months thanking God for every breath her son took, every drum beat she listened to him play, every smile he offered.

Her blog and Facebook page have allowed us a glimpse into her pain and inspiration from the care that she took of a little boy medical professionals and others told her she would be justified to leave in a hospital bed where she would visit from time to time. Or nurses could have bathed him in her home. She could have saved her marriage--after all, she knew her son's condition was fatal. Instead, she stayed by his side. Why? Because he was her son. She was his mother. He was her gift from God.

By the time that I discovered her blog and met Tripp, Courtney knew that his short life was ending. She rejoiced that he would soon be pain free, that his first skin to skin contact would be with Jesus Christ, God made flesh. God with torn flesh. And she asked that the ending would be peaceful--for Tripp, for her, and for her family. That's what we prayed for.

On Saturday, shortly after her only son took his final breaths wrapped snugly in a blanket in her arms, she wrote that heaven had a new drummer boy. She wrote of her broken heart and her grief. And then she wrote, "Please don't forget to thank God for the PEACE we prayed to him for."

Who does that? So few of us even remember to thank God for answered prayer in the best of times. Yet, here was a grieving mother, reminding us to thank God for answering our prayers. Courtney understood--and shared in her 2011 Christmas card to all of her blog followers--what Job knew. I can only pray that I know it, too. Especially when it matters most.

"Should we indeed accept good from God and not accept adversity?" Job 2:10

A Hiccup

2012-01-17T18:38:00.000-05:00

While I won't do this every week (never fear; I'll be certain to bore you in other ways!), I think it's helpful for me to look back over the hiccup that was last week. In every way that week one was a great success, week two was a terrific challenge.

* Physically - I snacked a bit and gave into some cravings, but for the most part I'm doing okay on my eating. It hasn't exactly been a "food is fuel" reminder, but my snacks were (mostly) healthier than the norm for me. That said, I barely worked out last week. I didn't work out Monday morning because Leah (my workout buddy) wasn't feeling the greatest and didn't want to push it since we were both looking forward to Pilates at night. We did go to Pilates, and it hurt worse than almost anything I've ever done. It certainly hurt longer. And I was amazed to find out that 90% of my weight is apparently in my legs. Or at least it was by the 85th time the instructor made me lift them. That soreness meant I didn't work out Tuesday morning. Then Wednesday I had a thing with my toe (trust me, too gross for such a public forum!!). We worked out Thursday morning, but then there was a blizzard on Friday. We planned to work out Saturday, but our cram-too-many-things-into-one-day schedule didn't allow for that. I did sleep more, but mostly only because I didn't get my lazy butt out of bed in the morning. Somehow in the middle of all of that, I hit my goal and have lost 2.8 pounds since 2012 began.

* Spiritually - Because I didn't get out of bed to work out or even in time to sit down and read my daily Bible and prayer readings, I fell behind. I hated that feeling and have now caught up (reading five days' worth Sunday, yesterday, and today, splitting up the four sections each day). In a way it was helpful to have skipped the readings, because it allowed me to see how different my attitude is when I read my Bible in the morning versus when I don't. My oldest is NOT a morning person, so the morning routine can get a bit tense at our house as I need to remind her several times to get her shoes on, finish her milk, brush her teeth, find her coat, and go back in the house to get her bag. Last week my temper flared, and I was short with her almost every morning. There was a lot of yelling on Friday, too, as she was home for the snow day and less than enthused about spending the day here instead of with her friends. Then, this morning, her routine was no different. There were still countless reminders, but I just had so much more peace. There's a lesson in that as I reflect on all that starting my day in the Word brings to my life. I stink at writing down my daily "thankful" notes, so my focus really needs to be on that in order to make it a habit.

* Creatively - I still haven't written my review for my first book of the year, and I'll be finishing book number two either today or tomorrow. So, maybe you'll get lucky and receive TWO book reviews in one week. I know you can't wait. The late start to my days has also made blogging tricky, so I'm behind in that. It's interesting that I've begun thinking in "blog" as I confront my day looking for what I want to make a subject or where my muses lie. I've missed thinking that way and enjoy the feeling of being a writer that it gives me.

I had a conversation today with my Writer Friend as we discussed my full DVR. She said that maybe there would come a point soon that I say "If I haven't watched it in X weeks, then I need to just delete it" or that I consider the fact that there are X number of episodes stored there and I'm losing interest in catching up . . . for some reason I don't like that idea. It seems so strange that I should care so much, but there's something about me that is clinging to the fact that I'm missing out. On what, I'm not really sure. Many of the shows I don't even miss. "Hawaii Five-O" is the only show that I will actually stay up late to watch, and there are only a few that I wish I had time to sit down and enjoy. But deleting those others--the ones I have three or four episodes stored--just feels so final. Like I'm acknowledging that self discipline sometimes means giving up vegging on the sofa wasting time over the latest hilarity to hit Marshall and Lily or what havoc Jack (& the Beanstalk) is creating for everyone's favorite Grimm and what songs Blaine and Curt are mashing together at McKinley. I know I don't care about it, but I think I care about not just lying around every day and actually getting several things accomplished--by 8:30 a.m.
For the mean time, I have this blog entry completed, Peter Alexander is filling me in on the latest campaign news on the Nightly News, Bossypants is waiting for me to finish it before tomorrow night's book club, and my wonderful husband is finishing up his dinner date with our three beautiful daughters. A hiccup is a just a hiccup, and this week is back on track.

The Third Sabbath

2012-01-15T21:37:00.000-05:00

When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died
My richest gain I count but loss
And pour contempt on all my pride

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast
Save in the death of Christ, my God
All the vain things that charm me most
I sacrifice them to His blood

See, from His head, His hands, His feet
Sorrow and love flow mingled down
Did e'er such love and sorrow meet
Or thorns compose so rich a crown

Were the whole realm of nature mine
That were an offering far too small
Love so amazing, so divine
Demands my soul, my life, my all

"When I Survey the Wondrous Cross," Isaac Watts

Like a Kid Again

2012-01-13T05:44:00.000-05:00

It's 5:30 a.m., and I'm awake and watching the news. I may put it on mute, because I find their reports a bit alarmist. Still, I keep watching the school closing reports and the "Instant Alerts," hoping I find my daughter's school scroll across. As each school close to us or even in our county is added, my heart soars a bit. As each minute ticks along without it, my heart sinks a bit.

I hate driving in this crap. I hate shoveling it off my car. I hate being cold like snow makes me cold. I hate having to bundle the girls into snow pants just to drive to school simply because an almost 4 year old and a 2 year old can't be expected to stay on their booted feet for a quick walk out to the car.

We've been so spoiled this year with winter not really beginning until January 12. I get that. But I just don't think the snow is going to melt in a week this time. That's probably why I told Beau he was welcome to look at job transfer opportunities in Hawaii. "Just for a couple of years."

Here I sit. Wondering if I'm going to be able to leave my car covered with snow, whether I can climb back in bed to start my day later, whether I should turn off my daughter's alarm clock, whether I'm going to regret all this hoping as I'm refereeing fights in a couple of hours, whether my two year old will be willing to play outside at some point--

What? Instant alert showing her school? Was that really our county? Yes! Yes! A confirming text alert. SNOW DAY!!

One Week

2012-01-10T07:10:00.000-05:00

So it's been one week since we started 2012. That's an appropriate time for an assessment of how I'm doing meeting my goals so I know if I need to kick it in gear or revise anything that might be a bit over the top.

* Physically - I have been doing much better with my food. There have been many days when I have not eaten what I was craving, because I put it off long enough that I forgot about it. I did have a hamburger on Sunday, but it was only after choosing salads and healthier foods for four days instead of the burger I wanted. Also, I worked out at 5:15 a.m. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday; took the girls for a (brief) walk on Saturday; and walked 1.8 miles to a friend's house on Sunday. Not 45 minutes a day, but definitely far better than I had been. I've been averaging 6-7 hours of sleep a night, so I need to kick that in gear.

* Spiritually - I have read the Bible every day but one and am on track with my KINGDOM Reading Plan. I've also been praying more regularly (led by Everyday Prayers by Scotty Smith) and have kept (mostly) current on my blessings list.

* Creatively - I finished my first book of the year, The Discovery of Witches, by Deborah Harkness (review to come tomorrow or later today). I have also blogged every day but one. I couldn't blog that day, though, because the internet was down.

All in all, I'd say this is going quite well. As I was getting into bed last night, I thought about how I've "magically" had enough time to do things that I haven't been able to do before. I thought about my fairly clean house--not even a goal, though it should have been (should probably add doing laundry into the goal list!--the organized playroom, the dishes done, and our morning routine organized. And then I wondered how I possibly had time to do all of this when I didn't actually gain anything more than one hour in my morning.

Then I thought about how full my DVR is. Oh. So that's where I got those extra hours each day . . .

Let me never, never outlive my love for Thee

2012-01-09T20:30:00.000-05:00

Years and years ago, I came across a book written by Steven Curtis Chapman and his pastor, Scotty Smith. It is called Speechless, and I highly recommend it. Knowing my appreciation for Scotty's writing, my writer/editor friend gave me a copy of his new book Everyday Prayers. I've been using it along with the KINGDOM Reading Plan to guide my daily devotional time.

Today I was struck by something that Scotty wrote. I was struck by it because of all that is packed into the simple paragraph, as well as everything that is left out. There is no condemnation, there is no guilt. It's very matter of fact. At the same time, it recognizes the free gift of salvation and that nothing more is required of us for our eternity to be secured. And yet, when nothing more is given, something is definitely missing.

One of my favorite hymns is "My Jesus, I Love Thee," by William R. Featherston:

I'll love Thee in life, I will love Thee in death
And praise Thee as long as Thou lendest me breath
And say when the death dew lies cold on my brow,
"If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus 'tis now"

As Scotty wrote:

May I never stop singing the last line in the hymn "O Sacred Head Now Wounded": "Should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never outlive my love for thee." That's my earnest, impassioned prayer, Jesus. I don't fear losing my salvation. I will stand firm to the end because of my standing in grace. But what could be worse than for my love for you to cool down, degree by degree, as I get older? Don't let that happen to me, Jesus. Don't let that happen. What could be worse than to finish the race with an ingrown, icy heart? (January 9)

I want my love for Jesus to radiate out of me. I want it to be something that cannot be contained on my face and cannot be stopped by anything I endure. I want to lie on my deathbed and say, "Wow. I thought I loved you before. But if I've ever loved you, I know it's now."

The Second Sabbath

2012-01-08T20:55:00.001-05:00

Arise, my soul, arise; shake off your guilty fears
The bleeding sacrifice in my behalf appears
Before the throne my surety stands
Before the throne my surety stands
My name is written on His hands

He ever lives above, for me to intercede
His all-redeeming love, His precious blood to plead
His blood atoned for every race
His blood atoned for every race
And sprinkles now the throne of grace

Five bleeding wounds He bears; received on Calvary
They pour effectual prayers, they strongly plead for me
"Forgive him, O forgive," they cry
"Forgive him, O forgive," they cry
"Nor let that ransomed sinner die!"

My God is reconciled; His pardoning voice I hear
He owns me for His child, I can no longer fear
With confidence I now draw nigh
With confidence I now draw nigh
And "Father, Abba Father," cry!

Arise, arise, arise, my soul, arise
Arise, arise, arise, my soul, arise
Shake off your guilty fear and rise!

Words by Charles Wesley, Music by Kevin Twit

Let It Be Said of Me

2012-01-07T13:41:00.000-05:00

Recently, my sister (I think) commented on a blog entry I wrote in October 2010. She said that one of the lines from a song I quoted is one that she hopes is considered for her gravestone. It reads, "...the night of weeping shall be the morn of song." Then she wrote that she wanted the song from which it's taken, "The Church's One Foundation," to be played at her funeral. Almost as an afterthought, she included another line, "The praises won't end; I won't be silenced by the grave!" That's fitting for her. She plays the piano beautifully and she sings with perfect pitch and she loves to praise God.

My writer friend and I had a conversation years ago about what we wanted played at our funerals or written on our gravestones. She said that if she lived a short life she wanted her gravestone to say something about being Home at last, as if to say even this short time on Earth is a long sojourn Home. I've always wanted 2 Timothy 2:7 on my gravestone: "I have fought the fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith." I also like, from Job 42:5, "My ears had heard of you, but now my eyes have seen you." And if we had placed a gravestone for Baby Zion, I would have inscribed: "Fly to Jesus . . . and live."

Morbid conversation? Perhaps. But, at the end of the day, we're all going to leave a legacy. There will be something about us, good or bad, that will be left behind. They'll say things at our funerals about how we lived and what they'll miss about us. It could be that we were generous. It could be that we were faithful friends. It could be that we made a lot of money, wrote a lot of books, painted a lot of pictures. Or, it could be hard to find nice things to say about us. Any way you look at it, though, there will be something.

I hope that when I'm gone people will remember me as someone who loved well. I like to laugh and make people laugh, so I'd like them to say that I was funny and a good writer and someone who loves to worship. I hope that they can truly say--that I can say and believe--that I have fought the fight, finished the race, and kept the faith. I want people to remember the words I've written and the way they made them feel or what they made them learn. I want people to believe that this world is better because I was here and they were here with me. I want people to say that no matter what happened to me I stood in the power of Christ.

Perhaps that's what this sojourn is about: the legacy we'll leave. What we'll have done that matters long beyond our time here. It's true that the night of weeping will be the morn of song. It's true that the grave can't silence my praises. It's true that even a few short years on Earth are a long sojourn back Home. And it's true that when I go, I will fly to Jesus and live. And when I do, this is what I hope to leave behind: "Let it be said of me, my source of strength, my source of hope is Christ alone."

Growing Up

2012-01-06T20:37:00.000-05:00

When you read about lifestyle changes, you generally read that you should start small. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. So you aren't supposed to try to do everything at once, but you should break it down into more manageable goals.

I didn't do that this year.

The other day as I was working out, my workout buddy and I were chatting about our common goal to get healthier this year. I explained to her that I felt like I needed to do it all at once because I've tried it piece by piece before, and I never make it. I don't know if I get bored or feel like it's not making a difference or if I just get distracted. Whatever it is, it never works. So this year I decided to go for broke. Put all my proverbial eggs in one basket. Go big or go home. Go all in. (I have more cliches if you need them.)

Some mornings it feels crazy, but at the end of the day it always feels accomplished. As I was reading my Bible this morning, it felt like something more. It felt like growing up.

In a word, what I'm saying is Grow up. You're kingdom subjects. Now live like it. Live out your God-created identity. Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you. Matthew 5:48, The Message

So, yeah. I'm trying to eat the whole elephant in one bite. I know that some morning it's going to feel more than crazy. It's going to feel overwhelming. But I also know that it's time I grow up. God gave me the spirit of self-discipline. Now I just need to live like it. Live my God-created identity. Be who I am. So let's get to it.

You Are Blessed

2012-01-05T09:46:00.000-05:00

Today's readings came from Genesis, Joshua, Psalms, and Matthew. I'm pleased to be reading in The Message, because Peterson's phrasing brings ancient words to life in ways that make me feel I'm reading them for the first time. Some of these passages are otherwise so familiar that I don't even actually absorb the words I'm reading. His phrasing in two of today's passages have really given me something to chew on today. First, from Psalm 4:6-8:

Why is everyone hungry for more? "More, more," they say.
"More, more."
I have God's more-than-enough,
More joy in one ordinary day

Than they get in all their shopping sprees.
At day's end I'm ready for sound sleep,
For you, God, have put my life back together.

And, from Matthew 5, the Sermon on the Mount:

You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule.
You're blessed when you feel you've lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.
You're blessed when you're content with just who you are--no more, no less. That's the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can't be bought.
You're blessed when you've worked up a good appetite for God. He's food and drink in the best meal you'll ever eat.
You're blessed when you care. At the moment of being 'care-full,' you find yourselves cared for.
You're blessed when you get your inside world--your mind and heart--put right. Then you can see God in the outside world.
You're blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That's when you discover who you really are, and your place in God's family.
You're blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God's kingdom.

I have friends who are fighting a fight that I've never fought and hope I never have to. Just over one year ago, their lives were flipped upside down--they'd lost what was most dear to them: the security of health for one of their children. Through this year, as they've fought beside their nine-year-old son as he fights the negative effects of the chemo and radiation that are needed to fight his brain tumor, I've been encouraged and inspired.

After high school ended, I went to a college outside of West Michigan and away from nearly everyone with whom I'd attended high school. Through our different circumstances, the miles, and my inability to keep in touch, all of those friendships that had carried me through high school ended. Including friendships with my closest friends. I suppose this is normal, and something that happens to many of those relationships. With the advent of Facebook, I've been able to at least get back in touch, if not rekindle old friendships, with many of those important people. With Mitchell's family, that has come through their battle with cancer.

I don't know why that little boy, and that family. I don't know why any family, really. But I do know that I'm blessed to have known Mitchell's parents when I was younger (couldn't have made it through middle school and paper routes without his mom and dad!), and I'm blessed to walk alongside them now, even at a distance. Because I have never known a family that is more blessed.

Surely this has been a hard year for them. Surely this has been a year from hell for them. Surely there have been tears and yelling at God and wanting to give up and being afraid to not fight and being afraid to fight. Surely there has been more than they can imagine. But, Mitchell is almost done with his treatments now. He's on his last cycle and scheduled to be done on Februrary 15. They can see the finish line, and by God's hand, they are in the lead. Mitchell's mom shared all of this with us in her most recent Carepages post. And then she talked about all they've gained. She talked about how they've changed. She quoted Laura Story's song, "Blessing":

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise

And then she reminded all of us that when we give our whole selves to Him--when we have nothing left to give, when He has broken our hearts--He gives His whole self back to us. He puts our lives back together again. We're changed, but we're blessed.

I'll Get By With a Little Help From My Friends

2012-01-03T20:18:00.000-05:00

Oh, Tuesday morning, 5:15 came far too early. Monday nights are always a late night for me, because I can't resist staying up late to get my ~~Scott Caan~~ Hawaii Five-0 fix. Last night meeting my 2012 goals meant a bit of a late start for my television viewing, and I kept forgetting to fast forward through the commercials. That all led to me not getting into bed until about 11:30 p.m. I knew that 5:00 alarm was going to feel like only minutes after my head hit the pillow.

It did.

Thankfully I had a hot date at the gym this morning, and she was picking me up at 5:15 a.m. I'm grateful that I didn't have a choice to sleep in and just "go later" (ie. not at all) because Leah was going to be waiting in front of my house. I didn't want her to start honking or anything and waking up the rest of the neighborhood so everyone would know that I slacked off! And then there was the mutual fear we shared that our friend Eric would show up at the gym at 6:00 a.m. and report to all he knew that we were missing. (Let me note publicly that we were there, and he was not.)

Chatty Leah and Chatty Beka probably annoyed most of the rest of the gym goers, but it surely made my 35 minutes on the treadmill feel about as short as my night of sleep felt. And, I have to say, I was actually pretty excited about going to the gym this morning.

After the gym, I made some tea and did my reading for today and spent some time in prayer. Three days down. How many more to make this a habit? Grateful to have some friends to help me make it there.

Raising My Ebenezer

2012-01-02T22:13:00.001-05:00

In my Bible reading for today, God led the Israelites through yet another river on dry ground. This time they're heading in to claim victory and settle in The Promised Land, and they need to cross the Jordan River to get there. {There are also a number of other things they need to do, such as allow God to completely "dispossess" the land from all the people settling it. If we watch the news today, we can clearly see how well it worked out for them when they decided to live "peacefully" with all these people instead.} In Joshua 3: 9-13 in The Message, after Joshua has told the priests to begin crossing the Jordan with the Ark of the Covenant and instructs the Israelites to watch and pay attention to what God is saying, he says, "Look at what's before you: the Chest of the Covenant. Think of it--the Master of the entire earth is crossing the Jordan as you watch."

Once they are safely across--with "not one wet foot"--Joshua instructs a man from each of the 12 tribes of Israel to take a stone from the middle of the Jordan River and build a monument on the banks to remember the day that God led them through on dry land. This raising of the Ebenezer is a common thing in the Old Testament. It's a reminder of God's presence. His intervention. His grace. His plan.

This morning I was reminded of an Ebenezer that I could raise alongside US-131 heading south from Cadillac. Last year we were driving our full van of sleeping beauties home from Beau's parents' house, and the roads were bad. We should have stayed in Cadillac, but we weren't prepared for that, so we ventured home. At one point, as we were driving across a bridge spanning a fairly deep ravine, we hit black ice. Beau completely lost control of the car, and we were sliding toward the bridge railing and the edge of the ravine. For 20 long seconds we slid, within feet of striking a railing that likely wouldn't have held us at our speed. As we slid, I said, over and over again, "It's okay. It's okay. It's okay."

Beau reminded me of that this morning as we drove the roads of the first day of real winter to hit West Michigan this year. He said, "You kept saying it was okay, but it wasn't okay. I didn't have control, and I didn't think I'd get it back. I figured we were going over."

With tears in my eyes, I recalled my feelings at that moment. And I replied, "I wasn't telling you that you were in control or that we'd be fine because you'd get control back. I was telling you that it was okay if we hit. It was okay if we went over. It was okay if we were injured or even if we died. To be honest, I'm quite pleased that was my first response. Because it really would have been okay. We know where we're going, and we know Who holds us."

And it really would have been okay. Because we could look at Who was before us on that bridge. The Master of the entire earth was crossing ahead of us and behind us and next to us. He had us in his hands. He was in control, even if we weren't. Think of it!

The First Sabbath

2012-01-01T20:57:00.001-05:00

Another year is dawning, dear Father, let it be
In working or in waiting, another year with Thee.
Another year of progress, another year of praise,
Another year of proving Thy presence all the days.

Another year of mercies, of faithfulness and grace,
Another year of gladness in the shining of Thy face;
Another year of leaning upon Thy loving breast;
Another year of trusting, of quiet, happy rest.

Another year of service, of witness for Thy love,
Another year of training for holier work above.
Another year is dawning, dear Father, let it be
On earth, or else in Heaven, another year for Thee.

--"Another Year is Dawning," Frances Havergal

New Beginnings

2012-01-01T20:53:00.000-05:00

It's the day of resolutions. The new beginning to becoming all that I really am. As I face 2012, I find myself wondering if I'll make it, or if I'll be sitting here one year from today, writing the same thing. I don't want my resolutions to be just dreams, I want them to be something that can really come true. Something that I can really make happen.

Armed with my already well-worn copy of Reshaping It All by Candace Cameron Bure (yeah, I was skeptical too), I'm confident that I will fail miserably at keeping any of these resolutions. But I know who won't. And so, here I go, reshaping it all, with my eyes on the One who makes all things possible.

Resolved, to live according to the truth found in 1 Timothy 2:17, recognizing that God has given me the spirit of self discipline, so I don't need to search it out anywhere else, and He has given me the spirit of love, so I can be found faithful.

Accordingly, I will strive to live out self discipline and faithful love in the following ways:
* Physically: Food is fuel. God intended it to taste good and be enjoyable, but "it is only a cookie--it cannot help." Exercise is an essential part of honoring God physically. So is sleep.
    Goal - I want to lose 60 pounds by December 31.
    Plan - I will learn to control my portions, stop eating when I am full, wait 15 minutes before giving in to a craving, get 7 hours of sleep each night, and exercise at least 45 minutes each week day.

* Spiritually: God is my life. Without Him I am nothing, and I have nothing. I need to center my day on Him.
    Goal - I want to read through the Bible this year and live a more grateful life.
    Plan - I will spend 30 minutes praying and reading the Bible each morning, using the KINGDOM Bible Reading Plan. I will also write down a blessing each day using the year calendar from A Holy Experience.

* Mentally: I have spent the last year feeling dry and like I'm barely holding on. I ended the year getting organized with colored Sharpies and a giant calendar on the wall. But I still owe myself--and God, who created me with this mind and these passions and talents--more than organized chaos. I need to challenge and express myself.
    Goal - I want to blog at least 25 days a month, and I want to read at least 24 books this year.
    Plan - I'll read all of our book club books (have the list and can start reading ahead), and I will also try to tackle at least one additional book from my bookshelf each month. I'm also going to "steal" 15 minutes each day for myself where I can explore my thoughts on my blog.

On the 24th of each month I'm going to reflect on the previous month so I can measure my progress and make any adjustments I need to. So, that's it. Above all, I want to honor Him with each of these areas of my life. I know that tapping in to the power that He has given me and making Him the focus of it all, I'll make it. When 2013 dawns, I hope to look just a bit more like who I was created to be and a much greater reflection of the Father who made me that way.

Behold, your King

2010-12-20T08:34:00.000-05:00

I sang on the worship team at my church yesterday morning for our Christmas service. It's such a fun service to be part of, but yesterday was especially meaningful for me. We sang "O Holy Night," which has always been one of my favorite Christmas songs. The worship team struggled through our practices of it as we "Christian Reformed kids" weren't familiar with the "Reformed" version we were singing. The words were a bit different, and the tune hit the words that were familiar in just a little bit different way. And that second verse! What was with that second verse?!

We struggled.

Then it came time for the service. We sang. We managed to overcome what we thought we knew about the song and actually just sing what was on the page. And the second verse really hit me.

Led by the light of faith serenely beaming,
With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand.
So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming,
Here come the wise men from Orient land.
The King of kings lay thus in lowly manger;
In all our trials born to be our friend.
He knows our need, to our weakness is no stranger,
Behold, your King! Before him lowly bend!
Behold, your King! Before him lowly bend!

That really is Christmas, after all. "The King of kings lay thus in lowly manger." What a ridiculous notion, this King in a manger. When we got home from church, I said to Ellie, "Who ever heard of a king born in a stable?" She shouted, "Me! I have! Jesus!" It's still a ridiculous idea, this King in a manger. But He was born to be our friend. He knows our need, He is no stranger to our weakness, and He came to make us whole. To bring us peace. And, as Pastor Tim pointed out yesterday, that peace isn't the peace I ask for from my girls or from our world governments. It isn't an absence of conflict. It is a deep-rooted, inside-out wholeness. It is life. It is joy. It is shalom. So when you look at that manger, when you approach this week, this season, remember.

Behold, your King! He's that baby there. That God, become flesh. That Emmanuel. He came to be your friend in the middle of wherever you are. Behold, your King!

We're not home yet.

2010-10-31T22:38:00.000-04:00

So we have some friends whose marriage appears to be over. We have prayed with them and prayed for them. We have counseled them. We have cried with them. We have hoped for them. And now we are surprised by whom they are turning out to be. All of it serves to remind me that we just aren't home yet. God, I wish we were back.

Still, it's Reformation Day. It's the day that we remember that the Word of God is for all of us. It's also the day (thanks, Dad) that we remember that the Word of God is life transforming and should never be taken lightly. And it's the day that I am reminded that the Church's one foundation, and MY one foundation, is Jesus Christ. No matter what.

Though with a scornful wonder
we see her sore oppressed,
by schisms rent asunder,
by heresies distressed,
yet saints their watch are keeping;
their cry goes up, "How long?"
And soon the night of weeping
shall be the morn of song.

Mid toil and tribulation,
and tumult of her war,
she waits the consummation
of peace forevermore;
'til, with the vision glorious,
her longing eyes are blest,
and the great church victorious
shall be the church at rest.
(The Church's One Foundation, Samuel Stone)

We sang these words in church this morning, and it made me weep with the beauty and the promise of it all. We aren't home yet, but we will be one day soon. And in that day where there is no more night and no more pain and no more divorce, we, the church victorious, shall finally be the church at rest.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus.

Where I Stand

2010-10-18T07:14:00.000-04:00

A friend who has known me since college recently expressed surprise at learning some of my “social” (political) leanings. It was over Facebook, so I sat down to write a quick message back to her.

It happened to be right around National Coming Out Day, and it struck me that this was, for me, a bit of a coming out. I can’t possibly liken it completely to the coming out of our dear LGBTQ members of society, but it was still quite scary. I know that some in my circle wouldn’t look at me the same to know what really goes on in my head and why I struggle so much on the 1st Tuesday after the 1st Monday in November. I never know how to vote, because I never fit into one party. And I can hear the hateful talk from some people that I consider friends or at least close acquaintances. But I don’t think fear should keep anyone in the closet. Not the straight allies or the teenagers who realize they are gay or the politically moderate or the thoughtful followers of Christ. And I also think for me and the LGBTQ teens who are scared out of their minds about what will happen to them that there are more people than I think--and some of them will surprise me--who will fully support me and be proud of my courage. I also know that it really does get better.

So {breathes deeply}, here goes.

I have ALWAYS been a straight ally. :) I've just been closeted most of my life, because I get so sad when the debate comes into the church and the church is too often hateful. My cousin and one of my close friends (okay a couple) are gay, and I could be nothing but loving and supportive of them.

Beyond that, I would be a democrat if they believed in actually holding people accountable instead of just handing things out. I vote the issues, not the party. I didn't vote for Obama, but only because Beau and his gift of discernment didn't trust him. Now I'm glad I didn't. I'll be voting against Obama in 2012 (unless it's Sarah Palin, then I'm writing someone in), and I'll be voting mostly Republican in November, but not because they're Republicans. I'm an independent and would register that way if MI did that. I'm prolife, but pro all life in that I'm anti capital punishment and pro AIDS money and pro stem cell research. If I had to pick a hot-button issue, it's definitely not voting anti abortion, because I feel like we still don't offer enough support for young mothers and I believe that if you are going to vote against abortion then you damn well better be willing to love your daughter through her teen pregnancy or take in a child whose parents have decided to turn her out. And then, perhaps you should be willing to take on responsibility for that baby, too, so that the state doesn't have to. I don't think you can legislate morality. I think that parents who have extra embryos should be given the option to say they want them used for stem cell research instead of being "forced" to keep them frozen or adopt them out. And I'm pro civil union and same sex partner benefits. I think that there is no reason that uniting with a partner for life should be prohibited for those who are LGBTQ through no choice of their own. And, as someone once said, why should the heterosexuals have the market on getting divorced? Being gay isn't leading to the downfall of our society, but being stupid and ignorant and a workaholic and hateful and abusing your kids is. Legislate hate if you really want to make a difference. I don't think that if you hand out condoms in schools or offer a needle exchange program you are giving your blessing to premarital sex and IV drug use; I just think you're saving someone's life. And, at the end of the day, that's what I want to do. I'm sure that I'm "wrong" on some of this and that I don't understand fully what the Bible is saying. But if I'm going to err, which I am, because I'm human, then I'd rather err on the side of compassion. That's what Jesus did. And I'm an independent follower of Jesus. I was Conservative growing up, and then I became Liberal for a while. I've probably moved a bit more Conservative, but mostly I've become more gray. More gray for everyone else and more black and white for me. I was watching an old episode of The West Wing (best show ever) recently, and Bartlet says to Toby, "It's MY Catholicism." As in, the standards that God has for me are my standards to keep, not my standards to make sure everyone else keeps.

Whew. Feels good. Come what may.

From the Mouths of Babes

2010-09-10T08:27:00.000-04:00

Two conversations recently overheard:

Ellie: Meg, I'm going to teach you how to be a safe driver, because I want all my kids to be safe drivers.
Meg: Okay.
E: When you are driving, if you see a car in front of you, go around it. Because if you don't, you can get in an accident. And if you get in an accident, you can die. Do you want to die, Meg?
M: Um, no . . .
E: Well, in a few years, when you're older, you're gonna die.

Ellie (to Meg, playing the role of Grandma): Grandma, why do we need sunscreen to go in the hot tub?
Meg: Because it's hot.

Signs Fall is Approaching

2010-08-16T10:40:00.000-04:00

* Pinky-orange leaves on the big maple tree on the way back from the cottage

* Orange leaves caught on the wind

* Two weeks of football covers on Sports Illustrated

* Sneezing and itchy eyes

Overheard Sunday at Church*

2010-07-12T11:24:00.000-04:00

Ah, what random questions parents must field on Communion Sunday when there is no Children's Worship.

"What? Jesus died? Did God die, too?"

"Is the blood of Christ really juice?"

"That's the body of Christ?"
"No honey, it's just bread."
"Oh, can I touch it?"

"Is that blood?!"
"No. It's juice."
"Well it looks like blood. I think it's blood."

"You aren't going to heaven any time soon, are you?!"

"What's an orgy?"

* Names withheld to protect the curious children and frustrated (or alarmed) parents.

What Do I Know Of Holy

2010-06-16T21:55:00.000-04:00

I made You promises a thousand times,
I tried to hear from Heaven, but I talked the whole time.
I think I made You too small. I never feared You at all. No.
If You touched my face, would I know You?
Looked into my eyes, could I behold You?

What do I know of You
who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood
but the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire?
Are You fury?
Are You sacred?
Are you beautiful?
What do I know?
What do I know of Holy?

I guess I thought that I had figured You out.
I knew all the stories and I learned to talk about
How You were might to save.
But those were only empty words on a page.
Then I caught a glimpse of who You might be.
The slightest hint of You brought me down to my knees.

What do I know of You
who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood
but the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire?
Are You fury?
Are You sacred?
Are you beautiful?
What do I know?
What do I know of Holy?

What do I know of Holy?
What do I know of wounds that will heal my shame?
And a God who gave life its name?
What do I know of Holy?
Of the One who the angels praise?
All creation knows Your name
on earth and heaven above
what do I know of this Love?

What do I know of You
who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood
but the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire?
Are You fury?
Are You sacred?
Are you beautiful?
What do I know?
What do I know of Holy?

--Addison Road, "What Do I Know of Holy," Addison Road

My daughter couldn't have a more beautiful name. And my children couldn't have a more beautiful Hope.

Three Months?!

2010-04-19T08:59:00.000-04:00

My blog is the first of three home pages that greet me every time I open my web browser. Every day I think, "You should post something today. People are counting on you. You have something to say." While it may be untrue that people are counting on me, I should post "today," and I do have something to say. But every day life takes more time than the sun and moon are willing to allot. So every day I say nothing.

The other day, though, I looked at FunnyWriterMommy when I opened my web browser, and I thought three months?! THREE MONTHS?! Seriously? Something must be done. Three months is a very long time.

That was one week ago.

I didn't know when I began that day what the day would bring, had already brought. And, reflecting on the past three months, I didn't think about what that amount of time really meant.

Three months is, indeed, a long time. But, somehow, by the end of last week Monday, it seemed like a very short time. Three months ago, we baptized Addison, giving her to God, acknowledging that she had always been His, and thanking Him for the short life of Baby Zion. Then, we got back to living our lives. Since then, Addie has learned to eat "real" food. She has learned to roll over from her front to her back and back over again. She babbles now, and she giggles. Megan speaks much more clearly now and is learning to potty on the toilet, and Ellie has really learned to read. For us, it has been a long time.

But for one family, the time was too short.

Three months ago, Vaughn Arthur Barckholtz wasn't sick. He was just a healthy, four-year-old boy learning to enjoy books and loving his mom, his dad, his cousins, his flashlight, and his every day. He was full of life. Then he started to get bruises. He started to have pain where he didn't before. He started to get sick.

Less than three months ago, he was diagnosed with ALL Leukemia, and he was sent to the University of Michigan Hospital in Ann Arbor. In March, he beat his leukemia. But then he got RSV and pneumonia. He beat the RSV, though his lungs were severely damaged, but he couldn't beat the pneumonia. It was diagnosed as MRSA. Then, by a miracle, he beat that, too. Machines were keeping him alive as treatments tried to fix his lungs. But he was alive. And he was free of all those letters that had tried to take him from his family.

Then, on a Saturday, he started bleeding. Doctors couldn't understand where the bleeding was coming from, or why. Two days later, one week ago today, his heart rate skyrocketed while his blood pressure plummeted. His family gathered, and they told him they loved him. Because they did. The last three months hadn't changed that. But it wasn't enough. For reasons we won't understand until they cease to matter as we stand at the feet of our Savior, God called him home. Just a couple of days shy of 4 and a 1/2 years after God delivered him into the arms of his parents, God called him home. That wasn't long enough, God. It just wasn't. How can three months seem like such a long time while 4 1/2 years isn't long enough? And how can three months be a long time for some but be far too sudden for a little boy to go from healthy to gone from this world?

I don't know. But I know that Beau's cousin Chad and his wife Sarahbeth will never fully recover from this three months.

O God, whose beloved Son took children into his arms and blessed them: Give us grace to entrust Vaughn to your never-failing care and love, and bring us all to your heavenly kingdom; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

Most merciful God, whose wisdom is beyond our understanding: Deal graciously with Chad and Sarahbeth in their grief. Surround them with your love, that they may not be overwhelmed by their loss, but have confidence in your goodness, and strength to meet the days to come; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Taken from The Book of Common Prayer, The Burial of the Dead: Rite Two, "At the Burial of a Child"

Four Small Roses

2010-01-15T17:11:00.002-05:00

Sunday, January 10, 2010. Baptism Day.

It was a special day on its own. The day that we would present our newest daughter to God, acknowledging that we are sinners, vowing that it is only Jesus' blood that makes us clean, and committing ourselves to raise our little one in that Truth. A day when we are reminded that God chooses us, not for anything that we can offer, but simply because we are His. It would have been a beautiful day any way you looked at it.

It became much more than that.

Since I learned that I would deliver two children, one living and one truly alive, I have wondered what baptism would bring. And I wanted it to be about three children--the one who is living, the one who is truly alive, and the One who is the Life. I wanted to celebrate Addie Maye and her place in His world, in His heart. I wanted to celebrate Zion and that baby's place in our eternal Home. And I wanted to celebrate Jesus, His birth, His death, and His life, as the hope that we can give Addie that she will one day know her beautiful twin again. I talked a bit about it, but I never mentioned "memorial service." That's what I wanted, though.

And, because God knows my desires and can do all things, that's exactly what I got.

We placed a single pink rose, in a vase bought just for the occasion, on the organ. It stood in front of the screen displaying the words to "Precious Lord, Take My Hand" (on my "play at my funeral" list) and "In Christ Alone." We saw it as we beseeched God to help us stand in His power from life's first cry to final breath when He takes our hands and leads us Home. That was Zion's rose, and it is Addie's vase. It will hold a rose on every birthday and all of Addie's special days, and it will remind us of what we have lost and also what lies ahead for us.

I also asked our pastor to say a simple prayer for Zion when he prayed for Addie after my dad finished baptizing her. His words brought tears to our eyes. As he said, "We also think of Zion, this silent twin who is anything but silent in Your presence," Meggie saw my tears and climbed into my arms to dry them. Seeing that she couldn't, she nestled in to my neck to hold me. Precious one.

That was what we planned, though both meant more than we could have dreamed. What we didn't plan was even more beautiful in a way. And it came in two parts.

The bulletin had a note about the rose, which I requested. But it went on from there:

We give thanks to God for his grace as we celebrate this opportunity to baptize Addison Maye. The rose on the organ is in memory of Addison's twin, Zion, who passed away in utero. The sprinkled water of baptism is God's prescribed visible expression of his assurance that we are cleansed through the scandalous wounds, shed blood, and death of Jesus on the cross. God knows and chooses us long before we are coneceived. He told Jeremiah, 'Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart.' Scripture makes it clear that God delights in children, especially pre-born children. Could there be special grace for those who are taken home to their heavenly Father before they are born? John Newton, an eighteenth-century Anglican and the author of hymns such as 'Amazing Grace,' wrote, 'I cannot be sorry for the death of infants. How many storms do they escape! Nor can I doubt, in my private judgment, that they can be included in the election of grace. Perhaps those who die in infancy are the exceeding great multitude of all people, nations, and languages mentioned [in Revelation 7:9] in distinction from the visible body of professing believers who were marked on their foreheads and openly known to be the Lord's.' The gospel, made visible through the sacraments and heard through preaching, is God's gracious provision for the storms that Beau, Beka, and every one of us will not escape.

Then there was Tuesday. We came home from a long day of work to flowers on our front porch. There were from someone in our church, someone we know but don't really know well. And they were a beautiful gift from the Body of Christ, which grieves when we grieve and rejoices when we rejoice. The card said it so simply and so profoundly at the same time:

Four small roses in your hearts: three will bloom here, and one will bloom in Heaven.

Indeed. And amen.

June-December 2009 -- According to me

2009-12-21T08:45:00.004-05:00

I should have written my Christmas letter this way. Somehow it says so much:

Rebekah

* wants to eat pie and drink Coke.
* can dodge a wrench, so she must be able to dodge a ball.
* enjoyed a very productive day. LOVE this weather.
* is once again enjoying a cold breakfast, which would be fine were it Raisin Bran. Eggs not so much.
* is pretty sure Addie wishes Meggie loves her just a little bit less.
* simply cannot stand Chutes & Ladders.
* has a mouse in her house. Again. So begins winter.
* could stand to be back on a routine.
* just thought Addison was choking. Turns out it was Ellie spitting. In my living room. Who needs a son?
* is very proud of her husband.
* can't wait for Addie to smile and quit looking quite so bored with me.
* needs to get the house cleaned up. Again. Happens every day.
* would like some abs to replace the jello middle.
* and Ellie feel like they're fallin' for fall.
* is one happy mama . . .
* is feeling run over--physically and emotionally.
* wishes some things lasted forever . . . like Pull 'N' Peel licorice.
* is trying to explain the difference between football and baseball to a four year old who is cheering for the Tigers while watching the Jets.
* just put in the order for my new dishwasher. WOO-HOO!
* feels a bit like summer came at an annoying time.
* just found out that I can also play fantasy COLLEGE football. That's probably a bit more than I need.
* just got tutored by Ellie in how you properly drink in Spanish. Um.
* is off to clean toilet paper out of the bathtub . . . too bad Meggie can reach the roll from her bath.
* has a friend having a baby right now.
* is the wife of the newest Foremost employee . . . pending the drug test, I suppose.
* finally finished cleaning her room . . . only four weeks after she started.
* just overheard Ellie telling Moose A. Moose, "No, we didn't see any of those at the zoo, but we did see X-rays."
* does not have to buy new baby clothes and is accepting donations for the weddings fund.
* thinks it probably doesn't matter if it is Christian rap. It's still a bit loud, neighbor boy.
* finds it comical that Meggie has taken to toting a bag of potatoes around the house.
* is not sure how to react to the fact that Megan earned her "crying badge" but is pretty sure Ellie shouldn't reinforce her whining by presenting her with a necklace.
* always worries about the children . . . even a wacky (though talented) dad is better than being fought over for money.
* is listening to Ellie tell Josh that he can't go upstairs without an adult, a princess, or a king.

{taken from my Facebook statuses from today looking back to June}

Parenting

2009-12-16T21:34:00.003-05:00

When I entered the title of this entry, it looked more like "pARenTing." That's been my reality lately.

I'm writing with a Boppy pillow (how do you parent without one?!) on my lap and a baby (how do you parent without one?!) on top of that. The baby is sleeping--thankfully--with her fist clenched around my necklace--a wedding present from my husband--and her face tucked into the inside of my left elbow.

The pillow is on my lap so the baby can be on my lap while allowing me to continue working on the computer. The baby is on my lap so she will sleep. Again allowing me to continue working on the computer. I'm mostly successful, though I don't have full mobility of my left hand. Hence the extra capitalization, and my inability to easily stretch for the keys outside of "Home" for that hand. It's the best I can do when she won't sleep anywhere else.

I certainly wouldn't be naive enough to state that Sweet Baby has colic. I wouldn't want to belittle the pain of parents who have really had to endure that nightmare. I hear they walk for hours snuggling their young ones to no avail. We get the break. Sweet Baby sleeps from time to time and when she hasn't given way to precious rest she is mostly just fussy, whimpering and occasionally crying out in her kitty cat voice. We just have to hold her to get her there.

And that means we do what can be done with a Boppy pillow and a baby on our laps. Reading. Watching TV. Vegging out. Cleaning is impossible. Folding laundry is buried somewhere underneath the piles of clothes that get washed in the morning before the gassy nights begin. Computer time is designated for work because typing is a challenge at best.

It hurts to see and hear her discomfort and pain. I wonder if we will give unwrapped gifts for Christmas this year. I imagine Ruth will bang on my door soon for my Fourth Focus article. And I'm pretty sure the hearing damage caused by pain too severe to sleep or "Meow" through is permanent.

But it is worth it all, Sweet Baby. Unspeakably worth it.

Danger, Will Robinson

2009-12-07T08:13:00.003-05:00

Addie would not fall back asleep last night. She slept 6 hours after her bottle, so I did get to sleep until around 4:00 this morning. But then she wouldn't go back to sleep. Normally this would be okay--I'd just sit up with her--but today we're headed out after school. That means the girls will nap in the car, and I should probably NOT nap when they do.

So I sat up for a bit with her. While I was rocking her, I read. I'm greatly enjoying On Writing. Today, for really the first (and only?) time, Stephen King gave a writing assignment. He delivered a situation, and then he instructed us to sit and write it down without plotting it. As Addie was falling asleep, I was thinking. Characters were coming alive. Without me plotting it (which is the way I prefer to write anyway), a story was being born.

She fell asleep, but she didn't stay that way. Dear Husband ended up sleeping in the chair and holding her for the rest of the night. He's better at that than I am. They both slept. I slept, too. But then, during my shower, the characters came back. It turns out that the husband (not mine) is not such a great guy after all, and it may not be entirely her (not me or Addie) fault.

The danger is this:

We have a busy, busy day today. How am I to write down what's in my head with no time before bed to sit and do it? How can I keep the characters from moving on without me? How can I be certain that when I do sit down, I'm still as surprised by whom the characters are rather than forcing them to be whom I think they should be?

Of course, I could have started now, but I knew I could blog about it in the five minutes I have before feeding Addie, taking Meg to the sitter, bringing Ellie to school, and rushing to the doctor's office. A story . . . well, I could get lost in that for hours.

So, thanks a lot, Steve. And thanks a lot, Muse. Could you and Addie maybe sleep a bit longer--or pick a less busy day to strike?

Let It Snow!

2009-12-05T21:56:00.002-05:00

For the third year in a row, I have decided to undertake the Kent District Library's "Let It Snow!" winter reading program for adults. It's a bingo board of different genres of books, plus some random things like "Read a book or author starting with the letters 'K,' 'D,' or 'L'." The first year I got about two books read. Last year I completed two full bingos. This year I'm gonna make it!

I've been spending some of my nursing time reading On Writing by Stephen King. It's a humorous take on the craft of writing, and it keeps me up during Addie's 3 a.m. snack time. I'm enjoying it. One of the tools King says every writer must have in her toolbox is a library (at home or at the actual library) full of read books. He says we learn much from "bad" books, perhaps more than we learn from "good" books. So this year I'm gonna make it through all my bingos, even the genres I don't like.

I just finished the second book--my "Award Winner or New York Times Bestseller"--Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy by Gary D. Schmidt (who lives in Alto. What the . . . huh?!). It turns out that I am the last in my immediate family to have read the book, which I borrowed from my parents who, as it also turns out, happen to own a library full of read books. Including, I believe, every book Stephen King has ever written.

When I set out with Lizzie, I wasn't much of a fan. "The Buckminster Boy" happens to be the son of a preacher who happens to be a bigot. Or so I thought. It turns out instead that he is just a scared man who wants, at all costs, to keep the proverbial boat from rocking. Most of the other characters in the book truly seem to be actual bigots . . . except for Turner (The Buckminster Boy), Turner's mom (one may wonder why she married "Buckminster" in the first place), Mrs. Hurd (who paints her shutters and her doors a nonChristian color), and Mrs. Cobb (who reminds me of my grandmother). I hated that preacher even more than I hated his church and town full of bigots. I hated him because he didn't have an excuse. And then I declared that the book wasn't very good and I would finish it only for my bingo.

Then I paused to think about it.

An author, and subsequently a book, has to be at least halfway decent to make me so strongly dislike someone by the third page of the book. And it has to be even better than halfway decent to make me so strongly like him by the end. And besides, maybe the reason I hated him so much was that he was maybe just a bit too much of me.

As it turns out, this Gary D. Schmidt from Alto, MI, can write a book that made me love and hate characters who, in the end, are far too human. And this Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy was a good book after all.

Who knows what other treasures I'll uncover between now and March 31. Two down. Fourteen to go.

Giving Thanks

2009-12-03T08:06:00.002-05:00

I was preparing to write our annual Christmas letter when I came across last year's letter. I closed it with words my dad wrote for a Thanksgiving litany some years ago at the church he pastors. The fact that it is December instead of the fourth Thursday in November should not prevent us from giving thanks for this year that was up as much as it was down.

For all the times we laughed until our sides ached; for all the times we were troubled and friends we didn't even know we had sprang up from nowhere and cared for us; for all the times we could have chosen evil over good but didn't; for all the times we could have been hurt but weren't; for all the times we could have died suddenly and unprepared but didn't; and for what would have awaited us even if we had--O Lord, we thank you!
. . . For all persons who love us unconditionally and in whose presence we can drop all pretense and still be accepted; for the one who calls us long distance and the one who calls us "Darling"; for the one who calls us "Mom" or "Dad"; and for the one who will one day call us into eternity--O Lord, we thank you!

Surreal Wednesday

2009-12-02T12:37:00.001-05:00

What the . . . huh?!

World AIDS Day

2009-12-01T09:10:00.005-05:00

Far from here, though not as far as some may want to believe, a child sits alone. Crying. Longing for a mother, a father, anyone to pick him up and comfort him. But he lives in a family alone. More than 15 million children worldwide face this reality every day. Most of these children live on the continent of Africa, but that has no less impact on us.

Today, may God bless those who have stepped in and adopted one of those blessed children. And may He continue to hold those little ones who wait.

Just down the road and in cities across this country and villages around the world, a woman lies alone. Dying. Longing for a hand to hold, longing for hope. But she has been abandoned. AIDS is the number one cause of death for women worldwide.

Today, may God bless those who have stepped in and held the hand of one of those blessed women. And may He continue to hold those beautiful ones who wait.

Across the world millions will, in some way, mark this day. Living. Remembering. Holding hands and standing together. Gaining knowledge. Getting tested. Will you?

Today, may God bless those who get a positive test result and those whose test is negative. May He bless those who are abandoned by the ones they love and those who are embraced. And may this day be the day that even one person gets informed and stays safe and another person finds a cure.

In 1990, Ryan White was dying, and I was a 7th grader following his story on the front page of every newspaper I delivered. The day he died, I cried. The next year I gave an oral report on AIDS in my English class. My class laughed at me. It didn't matter.

Today is the least that we can do for him . . . and them.

Sites to learn more or get involved:
Product (Red)
CRWRC Embrace AIDS
AIDS Information
What's Going On video
AmFAR

First Birthday

2009-11-30T16:10:00.003-05:00

Today I started (and brought up to date) Addie's first year calendar. I'm late on it because my mom bought it for her "for Christmas" (even the newborns are not exempt from calendar gifts!), and she gave it to me on Thanksgiving. So today I dated the undated pages, placed stickers to mark each month's aging and first holidays, and wrote all that we have accomplished in just under six weeks.

Six weeks is surprising to me. I feel like she's always been here. I also feel like I've been on maternity leave for months and months, rather than just six weeks. In fact, six weeks from tomorrow I was busily finishing our website edits thinking I still had another week. Funny how one day can change everything.

For now her only calendar notes are growth and new visitors. Her "firsts" consist of bottles, babysitters, and church services.

Oh, how that will change in the months to come. I have stickers to mark her first time rolling over, her first attempts at food (which will mostly result in her 80th-100th baths), her first waves, her first words, and her first steps. Oh, the changes between now and her first birthday.

As I filled in the dates and noted the holidays and family birthdays, I found myself longing for a place to note Baby Zion. To prove that the baby existed for more than just those first few weeks with Addison. But there isn't room on the calendar. We received a beautifully hand-decorated photo album for Addie, and the woman who made it thoughtfully left space for the few pictures we have to show that there were twins. There is room in the album. But the days and weeks and holidays and firsts aren't there. No stickers are needed to detail fourteen and a half weeks of existence, despite the lifetime of missing they created.

Oh, the changes between now and Addison's first birthday, which is also the first birthday of the day that we really had to say goodbye to Baby Zion. God willing, there will be many birthdays for Dear Addison. She'll count them down on a calendar and celebrate them all with pictures that she can put in an album filled with her memories. And somewhere, tucked away in our hearts, there will still be room for Baby Zion.

A Fine Line

2009-11-29T22:26:00.003-05:00

Ellie has been talking to herself lately. A lot. The really crazy part is that she is arguing with herself. It's interesting to eavesdrop on those interactions.

Beau asked me if it was normal or if we should be concerned. I told him that imaginary conversations like that are a mark of creativity. He said they are also a mark of schizophrenia. This is true, I said. There is a fine, fine line between creative genius and lunacy.

And there is. John Nash is a perfect example. Albert Einstein once said, "A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?" Many authors and artists have stepped over the line into lunacy, and their art had a price to pay.

I have obsessive compulsive tendencies. I count stairs, and I obsess over things. Fixate on them. I also have sensory defensiveness, which is a sensory-integration disorder on the autism spectrum. I talk to myself regularly, and there is always some sort of imaginary world in my mind. I blame it on being a lover of words.

So what of my children? I'm not saying anything either way about them, but the older two are proving creative beyond imagining. We prayed that they would be. Each of them exhibit some form of sensory defensiveness, though (thankfully) it seems to be much less broad spectrum or severe than mine. What of the OCD and whatever else lunacy may lurk in their brains? And what of the fact that it just may be that all of us are a few hormones shy of being committed?

Who knows. All I can see is that they are creative. And I must note that there is a fine line between genius and lunacy. I'll walk it. But I'll always wonder if I'll be the one to cross it. And I'll always pray that my art--and theirs--doesn't ever pay the price.

May my dear children always be lovers of words and taking pen (or colored pencil) to paper. May they always be creative beyond imagining. And may their grip on reality always be tenuous enough for their art to be genius but strong enough to keep them sane.

'Tis THE Gift to Be Simple

2009-11-27T22:14:00.003-05:00

I have been thinking lately about being "simple" or "living simply."

I'm not certain if the reason for this is that I'm completing Christmas wish lists and contemplating all of the new toys and pieces of furniture that are about to move into my already cluttered and messy house. It might be that the reason is that another person has moved into our house, and I am again lamenting the loss of space my husband and I have endured as a result of the first two little people who moved into our house. They take up a lot of room, and they carry a lot of baggage. (Or maybe that's me.) It could be that I'm sensing a lot of emotional lessening that I need to do, and that is carrying over into my physical life. Or it could just be that I watched just five minutes of Hoarders the other day. That freaked me out.

All I know is that I want to simplify. I go through this phase from time to time, and my husband hates it. I always fill up the garbage or the basement "garage sale" pile or bags (and our living room!) with items that I continue to forget to drop off at Goodwill. I just want less. Less stuff. Less needs. Less stress. Less debt. Less. Less.

But how do I get there? And then how do I stay there. Because inevitably I purge and then I binge. There's always more that I want just as there is much I long to lose.

I have long sung an old Shaker dance hymn, though I discovered today that I have sung it wrong. I sing it more as a reminder to myself or in an effort to convince myself that it really is true. Every time I have sung it, I have replaced the essential word with a word that changes the meaning completely. I am not alone in this, but I still lose what Brackett intended. It just doesn't work to say, "It is A gift to be simple." As if to say, "There are many gifts, and today I choose another." Brackett wrote, " 'Tis THE gift to be simple." The only one there is. Everything else flows from this gift to be simple, this gift to be free. This gift to come down where we ought to be.

Dear Lord, grant that I may somehow find a way to simplify. In this world that pulls at my heart and creates longings I do not want for things I do not need, help me to live simply. Open my eyes to see that all I need to live is already mine. Amen.

A Life of Gratitude

2009-11-26T23:32:00.003-05:00

Today I am thankful for second chances. And for family. And for friends and good movies and turkey and football. And for my mom's apple pie.

Forever I am thankful that God has set eternity on the hearts of men. And that Home is where Jesus and Baby Zion wait for me.

Surreal Wednesday

2009-11-25T13:31:00.001-05:00

Ellie announced that she wants me to get a Smooth Away.

Victim of advertising or embarassed by her lazy mom?

It's not me, it's my Coulrophobia.

2009-11-24T16:15:00.006-05:00

It's official, and it's real. I like validation. Thanks to Criminal Minds, I actually have it. The validation. We're not sure where it actually came from.

For some people it is the result of a bad personal experience. Unless I've blocked it out, I can't say that I've had that. For others it stems from a sinister portrayal in the media. I know I've had that (thanks a ton, Stephen King), but this came much earlier than that. Wikipedia informs me that it is more common in children, but sometimes it occurs in adulthood. It does in this adult.

Now that we have it named, I have a complaint to lodge. Obviously I'm not the only one with this debilitating (I'm not exaggerating) condition. One in seven of us (and the rest of you are nuts!) have it. So can I call Johnny Depp and P. Diddy to help me form some sort of class action suit against the Garmin people? Their new commercial leaves me paralyzed in my chair. Oh, and now I can't even watch How I Met Your Mother without seeing it. And it isn't the friendly one that certainly appears harmless, though we aren't sure what's hiding under that big, red nose. Both Garmin and HIMYM have identified it by its name: Scary Clown.

And yet . . .

They keep. On. Showing. It.

I need a drink. Or some kind soul to ban it from my television. Please. For the love of all that's holy. I am begging.

While we're at it, I understand that it will soon be Bowl season. I very much like to watch college football. For those of us whose phobias extend beyond those with painted faces and into the masked devils, can we please discuss a ban on mascots? Take a tip from the University of Notre Dame. That little leprechaun is cute. And also my Masklophobia will thank you.

"Everything happens for a reason . . . except for clowns. I mean, seriously, what the hell?!"
--Anonymous flair on Facebook

Willing to Relocate

2009-11-23T17:13:00.005-05:00

Beau had a meeting with his supervisor last week, and they did some goal setting and talking about Beau's future in Corporate America. Now, let it be said that we really like Corporate America so far. Coming from Nonprofit World it isn't hard to be enthralled with the beauty of Corporate America. Especially when they reward hard work.

Beau came home from said meeting and told me, "I said I'd be willing to relocate." I thought, yeah. I've been telling God that for ten years. Obviously I was pleased that Beau said that. There have been times that I've wondered the same thing about him.

Then he asked me where I want to relocate to, if we had our choice.

Where wouldn't I go would be an easier question. Florida. Down south. I don't like humidity, and I really have no desire to move to Texas, Oklahoma, or Arizona. Nevada either. Most of those southern states hold little appeal for me. I think I would also decline the midwest. Why leave Michigan to go somewhere else exactly like it?

My quick answer to Beau was New England. He claims the winters are bad, worse than here, but I love the history. I've never gotten into Michigan history. We moved from here in 3rd grade, just as they were starting to teach it. And we moved back here in 7th grade, just after it was all over. So I know nothing. I can count the number of times I've even seen the Mackinac Bridge, and I once cut a college class to go to the Michigan Capitol Building in Lansing. It was the only time I've been there.

Michigan isn't "home" for me. When people ask me where "home" is, I tell them it's somewhere on the road between California and Michigan. The truth is that there have been three times I have felt "home" when arriving in a specific location. The first was when my mom took me to Oxnard, CA, in between my freshman and sophomore years of college. I was born there, and I think I'd like to die there, too. The second was when I crossed the bridge in between Washington and Astoria, OR. My dreams were born there during endless watching of The Goonies, and I nearly did die there. (Okay, a bit dramatic, but the story is a good one.) The third was when I visited the TeKrony farm outside of Castlewood, SD, for the 4th of July. Sometimes it's people that feel like home.

So I'd pick New England every time, because I love American history. And it's so rich there. Or maybe I'd pick Colorado. Ooh, or Utah. The mountains, snow . . . but I hear I'd need a big dog to keep away the rattlesnakes when I'm hiking. The Pacific Northwest is a gimme. I'd move there in a second. I also hear San Diego is lovely this time of year. Every time of year.

Now I'm restless again. Longing to relocate. Beau could have told them that, and I wouldn't have minded. "My wife is longing to relocate." Especially if Corporate America is willing to pay for it AND sell my house. Sign me up. But I'm not really looking for home. My parents taught me how to make it wherever I am. With my husband and my kids. With my pictures and my books and my dreams. With whatever friends I am lucky enough to have. Because there have been three times in my life when I felt "home." But none of them were really Home. I'll get there one day . . . and, yes, God. I'm willing to relocate.

The Church

2009-11-22T15:03:00.003-05:00

I've been thinking lately about the Church and what we're made of. Christ calls us His bride, which is a lovely analogy. I think there are places when it falls short, though. On my wedding day, I worked hard to be certain that I wore a beautiful dress and my hair and makeup were lovely. My bridesmaids, my mother, and Mom's Mary Kay lady worked for hours to get my eyebrows, bangs, cheeks, ear lobes, and lips exactly right. This was after we worked to decorate the church and order the best food for the reception and perform any number of other tasks to be sure the day was perfect.

On most wedding days, the bride wouldn't dream of being 100% real and authentic. I'm a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl--give me a hoodie sweatshirt, and I'm a happy girl. I didn't walk down the aisle in my Notre Dame football hoodie, though. Weddings reflect different parts of different women's personalities, but I challenge you to find me a single bride who marched into her "happily ever after" with all of her flaws exposed.

Yet with God, with Christ, they are all laid out. Bare. It's rather like the nightmare I had shortly before our wedding day . . . I stood in front of the congregation--in front of our friends and family--naked. Exposed. Visible. Vulnerable. There. With nothing to protect me from being seen by everyone for exactly who I was, including my love of food and distaste for exercise.

In my church there are divorced men and women. There is a couple--both parties divorced--who have married each other and blended five children into one family. There are several couples married for fewer years than their oldest children have been alive. We have at least three alcoholics, one of whom is in the hospital suffering from the effects of his most recent detox. We have men who verbally abuse their wives, women who suffer from eating disorders, and couples married but living separate lives. We are a mess. And it's so, so lovely.

Nowhere in the world can I be completely myself and know that I will be embraced, save for in the arms of my Beloved. How sad, then, that we march into church each Sunday pretending that we are beautiful and perfect. We do it because we feel like we need to, like we need to put on our best for a God who couldn't possibly accept us in our weakness. Or maybe we feel we need to put on our best for a family who couldn't possibly accept us in our weakness. In doing that, we likely sell each other short and put endless pressure on those who share our pews so that they march on in the endless pursuit of perfection. In doing that, we certainly sell our God short. He doesn't expect perfection from us, He expects brokenness. And He makes that beautiful.

Something for me.

2009-11-21T22:08:00.002-05:00

A number of years ago I made a weekly drive to Lansing, driving just over one hour to be somewhere for just over two hours only to drive just over one hour back home. I did it because it was something for me. It was something I loved, something that drove me. Something that made me feel like I was making some sort of difference in someone's world.

It was Ele's Place. It was a place where kids who were grieving the death of someone significant in their lives could gather to be human again. It was a place for them, and it was a place for me. I volunteered there one night each week for a bit better than one year. And then I got pregnant with my oldest daughter, and it no longer made sense for me to make the drive. I cried when I left.

Yesterday, my sister asked me how things were going for me right now. First she asked in code, and then she spelled it out: Have you been feeling depressed again? She said, "Because you seem more chipper."

Having recently written about it, I had a quick and easy answer for her. Fish oil pills.

Then I had a longer answer for her, one that took us most of the way from Grand Rapids to Muskegon. I explained the Omega 3s, which I really do believe are making a difference. I also explained this blog and my 20 November posts. I told her that I believe that the time I have taken each day to type out some thoughts--no matter how random or how low the quality--has made a huge impact on my life. Dear Writer Friend said that it is quantity not quality, but I have to say that this quantity leads to a completely different kind of quality--quality of life.

As I was thinking about writing today, I thought about my mindset when I started this whole November thing. I knew that there were people who regularly check my blog to see the ramblings of a self-proclaimed FunnyWriterMommy, and they often teased me for not writing more. (Maybe I should start a new blog: FunnyNONWriterCauseI'mAMommy!) So then I made this commitment to write every day of the month, and I wondered how the followers would grow and how many comments I would get. When I would log back on and see that I had none, I would feel a twinge of "Is it worth it?!"

I didn't volunteer at Ele's Place because I thought that any of those beautiful middle school students grieving the death of fathers, brothers, and grandfathers needed me for even one second. I volunteered there because I needed something for me. Some little corner of the world set aside for me. It was selfish, but I loved every minute of it. That's why I cried when it was gone.

So here I am. In the middle of a new corner of the world that was sitting here waiting for me--almost as soon as Ele's Place left and Ellie Grace arrived. I have gotten more followers, and I have gotten a number of comments. The comments encourage me, and I feel honored that people take the time to read what I think is important enough to get down on "paper."

But that's not what it's about anymore. This is about me. This is something for me. And the 20 minutes I get for this each day is making me sane for the 22 hours I give each day to everyone else. So comment if you want. I'm not writing for you. I'm writing for me, because it gets hard to hold on without this bit for me. But I'm happy to let you eavesdrop.

+1

2009-11-20T13:15:00.005-05:00

Today marks the day when the number of my November posts has officially surpassed the largest annual total of my blogs. I'm not certain if I deserve a pat on the back or gasps of horror. Clearly I've been slacking up to now. Still, I must say I'm pretty proud of myself.

{I would like to accept this pat on behalf of all of FWM's faithful readers. And I need to thank Dear Writer Friend and NaBloPoMo. Without them, I would have posted about six times in 2009.}

This +1 Day begs the question: what will happen when November ends? One thing is certain, I won't feel pressure to write. Another thing feels almost certain, I won't write as much. But will I write? My track record suggests that it will be January or February before I post again. I don't want that, but that has too often been my reality. So how to change? How to become who I am?

I've been wondering this for years, since Dear Writer Friend and I first started meeting to discuss who we are and how to become that person. I came across a tiny card recently; it was sent to me by DWF, and it reminded me that greatest intentions mean nothing. It's not merely pursuing a dream or intending to dare. It's facing reality and becoming who I am. Who I was made to be.

So, Dear and Faithful Readers. I am a lover of words. I am a writer. +1 is only the beginning.

A Writer's Muse

2009-11-19T11:34:00.002-05:00

"I have never believed that everything happens for a reason. But I do feel very strongly that everything happens so that it can be turned into a column." -Gail Collins, The New York Times

My cousin posted this as his Facebook status today. He is one of my favorite cousins, and while I don't always agree with his ideas (though I do more than some would believe!), I do have the utmost respect for him. He's the "cool" cousin, and we all hope a bit of his "coolness" could rub off on us. I'm excited to be his friend on Facebook, because I appreciate catching the glimpse into his mind that his new iPhone offers through his more regular Facebook updates (and because I think he's cool and I enjoy "cooler by association").

So I noticed this quote when he shared it. And, because of Writer Mama and my assigned exercises, I'm starting to notice things more. I've always had opinions, but I haven't always shared them through words on a page (just words screamed from my mouth!). Somehow I think they'd be better received on a page. Reading the Gail Collins quote posted by my cousin Michael made me think about how much the Writer Mama should like the quote.

While I DO believe that everything happens for a reason, I also think that, in the writer's mind, everything also happens to be made into a column. Or a blog post. Or a journal entry. That's what Task One was really all about: seeing the muse in the every day and every thing. Whether it is what my girls say or how I lost my temper today or how many times I had to clean the floor or how amazed I am at the lines at Barnes & Noble last night or how alarmed I am that people would rather the USPS continue to lose billions of dollars than not bring me junk mail on a Saturday . . . whatever it is, it's my muse. It has to be if I want to embrace this writer's life.

So, while it can be said that not everything that happens to ME is interesting, somewhere something interesting IS happening, and it's either my job to find it or to make something dull interesting. Either way, I have to do it, because for me writing is like breathing. It's natural and it's necessary.

Surreal Wednesday

2009-11-18T09:39:00.001-05:00

ESPN Radio's Mike & Mike in the Morning (Mike Golic and Mike Greenburg) don't have the Detroit Lions on their "4 Totally Hopeless Teams in the NFL" list. Why?

Because they see a glimmer of hope.

Task One = Disappointing Revelations

2009-11-17T13:17:00.003-05:00

Task one: Search magazine shelves to gauge "current events." Use them to inspire your written words.

Last night (largely because of the deep breathing yesterday required), I got a "Free Mommy" pass to get out of the house for a couple of hours. Since I wasn't interested in meeting up with the Rogue fanatics at what Beau believed was the Monday-night Palin book signing at Barnes & Noble, I went to Schuler's. In addition to checking out all of the little gifty things (can't resist them!), I stopped by the magazine racks to knock Writer Mama's first task off my list.

Observations:
* There are likely more magazines published each month than literate human beings to read them.
* Literacy is likely not required to enjoy all of the publications. Intelligence is certainly not required.

* Clothing for cover models is obviously not required.

* The line between what consumers actually want and what the media forces down our throats is blurry. All too blurry.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm as superficial as the next girl. I also enjoyed reading the Twilight series. It was a great story--a fun romance for a girl who doesn't much like romances. But there are a few things worth noting, Dear Media:
1) Stephenie Meyer is not an outstanding writer. She spun a great yarn--much like Stephen King does--but her writing isn't gripping, her dialogue is lacking, and her characters lack depth.
2) Kristen Stewart and Rob Pattinson are not my Bella and Edward. Sure, Pattinson is fine to look at, but did his acting need to be stonier than his vampire flesh? And don't even get me started on Stewart! I hoped it was just for the film--just because Bella is supposed to be a bit awkward and shocked by the small-town obsession with her--but I've seen her in other things. She. Can't. Act. Period. If I am forced to swallow one more quote about her being one of the finest actresses of this generation, I'm going to scream. And I'm going to quit going to the movies. Or at least even believing I might enjoy them. Her being one of the finest actresses of this generation says bad things about this generation.
3) While the films and the novels might "define this generation," they won't stand the test of time. My children won't be studying them in their literature classes, and my grandchildren will find them on my bookshelf and likely pass right by them. They surely won't watch the films (except with the same amusement that we offer the acting in [all of] the Star Wars films).

Perhaps my thoughts above are indicative of many of the challenges facing this generation and its definition of art, reality, and talent. When "reality" TV encourages parents to use their children as pawns to hijack the media and already-budget-tapped law enforcement agencies or as ATMs to fund their jetset lifestyles and tummy tucks, a generation just might be lost. When "talent" is limited to celebrities who are famous for doing absolutely nothing other than spending money and sleeping around and partying their youth away, a generation just might be confused. When "art" is defined by subpar literature that carries a decent plot and acting that would bore even vampires to death, a generation just might be bought. And sold.

It all makes me concerned for my children. What will they watch, read, enjoy? It also makes me concerned for my own entertainment. Smart television is pulled from the screen for sex and crude comedies. The best movies of the year tend to be animated or rehashed from what we watched when I was a kid. Books are republished as soon as the movie version is released, and the actually artful cover art is replaced with the faces of the actors and actresses that destroyed the characters' limited credibility and deviated so far from the original plot that it is barely recognizable.

I may actually have to start using my brain here to come up with my own entertainment. That is, if I can find it under the mountains of trees wasted to print whatever I'm being sold this week.

As I'm looking for it, perhaps you could answer a question for me, Dear Media. Which came first: my desire for more on Jon & Kate, New Moon, Carrie Prejean, Sarah Palin, and the Balloon Boy or you burying everything that would be more worth my time so all I can see is this? And where can I opt out of what you're selling?

Task one: I suppose disgust can be as great a muse as intrigue.

{Deep breath.}

2009-11-16T18:10:00.003-05:00

Today was a slow down and breathe deeply sort of day in the world of parenting. Little One was up from 2:30-5:00. In the morning. Middle and Oldest were up by a bit after 6:00. Then, at 6:45, Little was up again. I know, because Middle shouted from her crib, "Mama! Addishun. Cah-ing."

So begins the day.

It didn't get too much better.

Days like this are very hard for me. They are also scary. I want so desperately to get through this without sinking into postpartum depression again.

The screener at the hospital met with me before I was discharged, because I am so high risk. I'm high risk for a number of reasons, but the two greatest are that I am a past sufferer and that I had an emotional pregnancy. To say the least. But I don't want to take meds again, and I don't want to sink deep again. I just don't. The screener recommended taking an Omega-3 supplement. Apparently there are links to Omega-3 and postpartum depression. Hey, I'll do whatever it takes. So I'm taking it. 2,000 mg a day. So far, so good.

But days like today set me back. They freak me out. They make me wonder if I'm sinking or if I'm drowning or if I'm just a little bit crazy.

I need to remember that three kids is a lot. Especially when one of them is only 3 1/2 weeks old. And the next one is nearly in her terrible 2s. And the oldest is only 4. Three kids--three girls--under 5 is quite a handful. Especially when one of them is up for 2 1/2 hours during the night, and the others wake up only 1 hour after I finally fall asleep.

It's a lot. For anyone. So I just keep taking my Fish Oil pills and my deep breaths. But it still freaks me out a bit.

Altering Reality

2009-11-15T18:13:00.004-05:00

Sunday is football day at the FunnyWriterMommy house. Why, it's almost a sacred day, and when it isn't football season, we're all just a bit lost.

At the FWM house, Football Day often equals "Altering Reality." Inevitably someone is miserable as a result of Football Day, so we work hard to change the rules--real or Fantasy--in order to alter our reality to something a bit happier.

For example, in my altered reality, our Fantasy Football league takes total points into account instead of win-loss record. Look at me in fourth place!

It didn't work for BeauDon today. His new altered reality rule is that only the first quarter of the Lions games counts. That made the Lions nearly undefeated this season. At the very least, they are playoff eligible. Today he added an extra quarter for good measure. Still didn't work. Sorry, BD. It's just another sad Football Day.

Today

2009-11-14T19:08:00.003-05:00

Today is day one of truly investing 86,400, and I did it! I lived each moment. Some I didn't want to live (scrubbing behind the toilet and discovering the kitchen sink backing up and leaking into the cupboard), and others I would live again and again (snuggling a freshly-bathed Meggie).

Today I relished the weather by ditching my sweater and driving with the windows open.

Today I decorated my front porch for Christmas.

Today I located my Writer Mama book from Dear Writer Friend, and I pledged to start reading it tonight. I also located a lovely and quite empty journal to fill with the exercises.

Today I washed one load of laundry, scrubbed behind the toilet, put away laundry, organized my wrapping paper closet, and set my cool red phone up in my "library."

Today I christened my landing as my library.

Today I snuggled in bed with my husband and our two oldest daughters.

Today I made eggs and bacon for my family.

Today I heard Steven Curtis Chapman's new song about heaven, which he wrote after his daughter died. As he sang that heaven is a sweet, maple-syrup kiss, I thought about Baby Zion and all that we will miss. Then, when he sang that heaven is where his daughter will take his hand and lead him to God and they will run together into his arms, I wept. Right there, at the red light. And I dreamed about the moment when my little one will lead me into the arms of the Father who has known us since the beginning of time . . .

Today I met my oldest girl's new fish: Argy and Cargy (the two Mickey Mouse goldfish--with Mickey's head on their tails) and Fibonacci and Fibonacci (the two fantails).

Today I tucked my middle girl in her bed with her two "pashas" (pacifiers) and her four blankets, all of which she tucks underneath herself like a little nest she lies in to dream.

Today I lived.

How Alive Am I Willing to Be?

2009-11-13T16:38:00.006-05:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about making my life count. Leaving a mark on history--on my children, surely, and those we meet--but even more than that making each day count for me. I want to live each moment, because I'm not so good at that. I want to live in my passions, in my weaknesses, in my strong moments, in my joys, in my sorrows . . . I want to soak it all in and really live it.

It gets so easy to live for what will happen next (see yesterday's post!) or think that life/happiness/fill in the blank will begin after the kids are gone/I'm done with school/we're out of debt. Realistically that is all so many years away for me, and I already thought surely I'd be pursuing all of my dreams when Beau graduated from college. Alas. I may never start if I always put a starting point on it.

So . . . let the living begin! Let the dreams come. Let the goals be achieved. Let my writer's heart break through. Let me love words and fall and laughing and sweet music and amazing literature and oranges and a good cry and facing fears and even failing from time to time.

Now . . . how exactly does one begin?

Simple Pleasures

2009-11-12T15:40:00.003-05:00

So the biggest event of 2009 is now complete for me, but that doesn't mean there is nothing left for me to anticipate. It's interesting, because I love anticipation. For me, the planning and dreaming about and waiting for is almost as good (often better!) as the actual event I've been longing for. Having a baby is never like that. I know that heaven will also be better than any of the dreams I have for it. But most other things . . . movies, vacations, meals . . . they all go so fast and often fail to live up to what I've anticipated.

Even so, here are a few of the favorite things I have left to dream about this year:

* Jumbo navel oranges
* Family pictures
* Going back to church
* Opening Wii EA Active on Christmas Day
* Being done nursing
* Sleeping through the night (closely related to the one above)
* Reading a book for pleasure
* Dinner at Mangiamo! and Green Well (thank you, Kampers!)
* New Moon
* Getting my hair cut
* Ending November with 29 blog entries (some even worth reading!)
* Making hair things with Julie, Abbie, and Ellie
* Designing Addie's birth announcements
* Eating prime rib at Logan's
* Writing the 2009 Christmas Letter
* Getting rid of all my maternity clothes (okay, this may spill into 2010, but it will happen)

And there is so much more that I hope for 2010. They're simple pleasures, but they're mine. And I love to dream about them.

Surreal Wednesday

2009-11-11T17:14:00.002-05:00

"C'mon. Give me some sugar."
Linny's grandma reaching for a hug from Tuck and Ming Ming on The Wonder Pets

Yesterday

2009-11-11T07:47:00.004-05:00

I missed blogging yesterday, so today I will attempt two. Either way, I still thought about what I would write, and I was aware of my surroundings. Both of these things are what I love most about writing.

Last night a man was killed. He was found guilty in a court of law and was sentenced to death for his actions. I suppose that if anyone deserves to die for the crimes they have committed, then he did. Killing people at random . . . targeting them like a sniper . . . wow. I can't imagine the fear that instills.

But . . . does anyone deserve to die for their crimes? Is the payment for a life taken ever another life? Is anything ever solved by that? Does it change anything?

"No, I don't feel any closure. I mean it's . . . it . . . nothing changes." This was spoken by a man whose sister was killed by Muhammad. And, at the end of the day, that's the truth. Nothing changes. The victims aren't magically brought back to life, the pain for those grieving doesn't end, and life doesn't go back to normal. Nothing changes.

So . . . was it worth it?

"Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. For even the very wise cannot see all ends." Gandalf, in The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien

Twenty Short Years

2009-11-09T11:14:00.000-05:00

I'm waking up at the start of the end of the world,
But it's feeling just like every other morning before,
Now i wonder what my life is going to mean if it's gone,
The cars are moving like a half a mile an hour if that
And I started staring at the passengers who're waving goodbye
Can you tell me what was ever really special about me all this time?

But I believe the world is burning to the ground
Oh well I guess we're gonna find out
Let's see how far we've come
Let's see how far we've come
Well I, believe, it all, is coming to an end
Oh well, i guess, we're gonna pretend,
Let's see how far we've come
Let's see how far we've come
("Let's See How Far We've Come"-Matchbox Twenty)

Twenty years ago today was a big day in history. I vividly remember watching the footage of the Berlin wall falling, and while I can't imagine Germany as East and West, I can picture the easterners flooding through. I can see the young men standing on the top of the wall or along its sides, striking the wall with pick axes and hammers, trying to knock down what never should have stood. I didn't understand what it meant for communism and the Cold War and the Soviet Union, but I knew it meant that school would be disrupted that day. I remember sitting in my 7th-grade homeroom and talking about what we had seen on our televisions that day.

Twenty years ago? Really? Because I don't remember it being that long ago. It must have been, because so much has transpired since then--in the world and in my life. So many more walls have been torn down and nearly as many have been erected.

Twenty years ago my family had just moved to Grand Rapids from our lovely home in the prairie. I was now a big city girl living across the street from a fire station and within spitting distance of my neighbors. Gone were the bull across the road, the cows that came into our yard, and the acres and acres of yard and farmland surrounding our house.

Twenty years ago I started 7th grade at my first Christian school. My mantra was "If God is For Us, Who Can Be Against Us" (yay DeGarmo & Key!), and I was scared to death.

Twenty years ago I didn't know a thing about who I was or what I believed beyond what my parents lived out in their every day. I didn't have anyone but my mom, my dad, and my sister. And God. And a library card to get me through the summer. God, my family, and the library are my only constants. And somehow they're enough.

Today I have a faith that carries me through valleys and over mountains. I have a husband who is my best friend. I have three beautiful daughters who make each day worth getting out of bed. I have a job that challenges me, whether or not I love it and working. I have a house in the city within spitting distance of wonderful neighbors. I have a great church with people who challenge me to learn and grow and love.

I believe that while today is the start of the end of the world and it truly does feel like every morning before, my life will mean something when it's gone. In fact, it will mean much, much more than it does today. Because when you worry, when you feel like the world is caving in, He is stronger than our weakness, faithful to the end. And like the master taught us, there is life beyond the cross. Even though we're weary, the battle won't be lost. After all, if God is for us, who can be against us? No power on earth can take His love away. If God is for us, who can be against us? We can live in victory today.

A Song for Addie and Zion

2009-11-08T12:41:00.000-05:00

Weak and wounded sinner
Lost and left to die
O, raise your head, for love is passing by
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus and live!

Now your burden's lifted
And carried far away
And precious blood has washed away the stain, so
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus and live!

And like a newborn baby
Don't be afraid to crawl
And remember when you walk
Sometimes we fall...so
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus and live!

Sometimes the way is lonely
And steep and filled with pain
So if your sky is dark and pours the rain, then
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus and live!

O, and when the love spills over
And music fills the night
And when you can't contain your joy inside, then
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus and live!

And with your final heartbeat
Kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory's side, and
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus and live!

"Untitled Hymn (Come to Jesus)," Chris Rice

Providence and the Lovely Day

2009-11-07T21:27:00.001-05:00

What a beautiful day we enjoyed today!

It all began with Addison waking for the first time at 4:00 a.m. (which Beau paid for as she didn't actually go to sleep until 2:30 a.m.!). Next, the other girls didn't wake up until a bit after 7:00, and we had family snuggle time in our bed. Then on to breakfast and a visit from good friends. I brought the girls to meet my mom for overnight at "Gamma & Gampa's" and headed to the grocery store with Addie.

Then the real fun began.

Addie and I went to USA Baby where they had great sales, and I had a coupon for 20% off the sale price. Yay for the new "youth chair" that will save me about three years before I need to buy another dining room chair. Does it get any better?! Oh, yes. It does.

On to Barnes & Noble--the new two-story mecca at Woodland Mall--with a generous gift card burning a hole in my pocket. Alas, it was for spending on the girls and not on me, but still! The girls now each own (well, after I write in them and make the presentation) their own copy of Little Women, for Christmas they will own There is a Monster at the End of This Book, and Addie is the happy recipient of To Kill a Mockingbird. Oh, yes. She is happy about it.

And STILL, can it get better? YES!

Target = gift card. Woo-hoo! (We should have had babies long ago!!) The gift card wasn't enough to buy the baby gate we need/want, so I got to spend it on other things. Addie has a little chime thingy (in a nonoffensive volume and tone) for her carseat, we have cupboard locks for the "Meggie cup/Addie bottle" cupboard that Meggie LOVES to rearrange--all over the kitchen floor!, and the tub toys are about to meet their organizational match.

Even better, I happened to be in the onesie aisle at the same time as a lovely couple was approaching the aisle in the midst of their discussion about not being able to find a maternity winter coat. I have one. I don't need it. I want to sell it. Give me your email, dear soon-to-be Mommy.

Photos and description sent. Hopefully money and goods will be exchanged next week. Ah, what a lovely day of Providence, coupons, and gift cards. Oh, and sunshine and breeze and relaxing. So far I love November.

Success Equals Five

2009-11-06T12:49:00.003-05:00

Today, November 6, marks the day of success. I have now "blogged" every day (except the first) of November. In addition, I have now "blogged" more in the month of November than I did in the entire first ten months of the year. Nice.

I've come to realize that my problem is prioritizing. I can't blame it all on my work-from-home job, though I'm sure that is part of it. At the end of the day, though, there are more than enough hours to raise my girls, do my job, clean my house, and fulfill my drive to create. There have to be, or I'm not going to make it through the next 18 years until Addie is on her way to the University of Notre Dame (or Cornell).

Oh, to master prioritizing.

Oh, to master getting out of bed at 5:45 a.m. to take my shower, get in some devos (at DeVos or in my big, comfy chair), blog a bit, and then make breakfast for the girls. That, of course, means prioritizing the end of my day--vegging in front of the TV, watching the news for the 10th time that day, or climbing into bed? It all depends on what my priorities are . . . vegging or becoming who I'm supposed to be.

I used to meet my Dear Writer Friend at DeVos for devos once a month. It wasn't really devos as much as outlining our goals--physical, spiritual, financial, emotional, creative, and professional. I found my notes the other day from our last meeting before DWF moved to the sunset. That was years ago. She's back now, and I'm no further on crossing those things off my list. Well, except for write a letter to/call Grandma once each week. She's in heaven now, so I'm exempt from that one.

So . . .
Physical. I need abs. And I have dozens and dozens of pounds to lose to be healthy. I want to be a runner some day.
Spiritual. I need to pray. More. Some. At all.
Financial. Thanks to Dave Ramsey, we have had some success here. There is still a long way to go, though. Gotta snowball.
Emotional. I need some space. Some time. Something for me. Tomorrow I should have time away. But I need to create that time with my friends, too. And some accountability to get it all in.
Creative. Blogging daily is a good start. How about that journal which shall be burned upon my death? (Really. I think I mastered that spell from reading through the Harry Potter series three times.) I have a lot of books on my shelf that need to be read, too. They're crying out for it, and so is my brain.
Professional. I need to develop a work schedule for each week and stick to it. There is much for me to learn to do my job well, so I should learn it. I also need to chat with Mom about the blogging (there it is again!) and other social networking she needs me to take on for her. Creativity in exchange for free child care? Works for me! And DWF just might get me on Twitter after all, though it my be as my mom.

So maybe success actually equals six, but five is a better start than I've made in a long, long time.

Happy Unbirthday, Baby!

2009-11-05T12:45:00.002-05:00

Today is the day we originally assigned as the birthday of our youngest children. When your labors are as predictable (short and late) as mine, you get to do just that: assign a birthday. Seems like this entire pregnancy had ideas other than predictable, though.

As we approached our due date--and assigned induction day--I had severe moments of anxiety, wondering what the initial unpredictability would bring. What would it be like to deliver twins, knowing that only one of them would leave the hospital with us? How would the birth certificate for the live child look? How would we explain it all to Ellie, to Meggie, to Addie? So many questions, all saved for the 5th of November.

The unpredictability deepened when my doctor said he would like to induce at 39 weeks instead of just after 40. That bumped the assigned birthday to October 27 and took 10 days from my predetermined timeline. I came to terms with that and busied myself with the laundry, nursery set up, and other little projects around the house.

Then, as unpredictability would have it, my water broke at midnight on October 21. As we rushed to the hospital (after about ten minutes of disbelief and confusion about the next step), we forgot so many things. The camera, last kisses for the girls, my pillow, pens for the scrapbook, anxiety about delivery . . . so much was brushed aside by the confusion of not knowing what was going on. As the night would dawn into morning and realization that the moment was here and Addie would pick their birthday after all, all that we had forgotten made itself known.

I wish I could put words to the matter-of-fact feelings mixed with deep sadness as I delivered Addison's placenta and Baby Zion all at once, with no effort and almost no awareness. Then to hear that Baby Zion's body had been absorbed and to watch them seal my beloved child--Addie's twin--into a plastic container to be sent in for testing . . . but there are no words. Just feelings as mixed as they were the day we learned that there had been two.

Today there were three beautiful girls in the van on the way to Addie's two-week checkup. There were three loud girls in the waiting room and three crying girls during the shot-giving portion of the checkup (H1N1 vaccines for the older two and Mommy). Addie slept through our shots, and the tears were mine at both Ellie's reaction and the awareness that though there were three, there should have been four. Forever there should have been four where there are three. This is our life. And it is a blessed life even when it doesn't make sense.

Today my third of four children is finally "full term." She is 7 lbs. 13 oz. and 20 inches long. She is healthy and growing and beautiful. And her life is richer for the time she spent with Baby Zion.

Surreal Wednesday

2009-11-04T15:37:00.004-05:00

Two Wednesdays ago was one of the most surreal days of my life. I was due yesterday. I should have had a one day old today, but instead I have a two week old. Despite all my thoughts and plans, my water broke on Wednesday, October 21, at midnight. I spent that night in a delivery room receiving penicillin through an IV and delivered a healthy baby girl around 10:40 a.m. Then I spent the next week trying to comprehend that I was holding the baby in my arms instead of my womb.

In honor of that surreal day in late October, we will begin celebrating Surreal Wednesdays. Today's surreal moment:

Meggie meets Starbucks.

You buy the kid one apple juice in a red holiday cup and suddenly she's too grown up to even come in the house when she's told.

Baby, don't ever let anyone cheapen you.

2009-11-03T10:15:00.005-05:00

Let's get something out in the open right away: having a baby is never cheap.

There is research that puts the cost of raising a child near $200,000, not including college. It really is worth every penny, but that doesn't mean it isn't shocking. I'm due today, but our beautiful daughter decided to take it upon herself (or my Alaskan Seattle friend paid her off!) to arrive two weeks early. That means that yesterday, the eve of her "birth," we received our first of at least three bills related to her.

$1,729.70.

In August, just 11 short weeks before our expected arrival, BeauDon took a new job, which meant new insurance. Through the grace of God the former insurance carried us through the dreaded COBRA period and right up until the new insurance took effect on October 1. That saved us nearly $1,200 in out-of-pocket (and nonreimbursable) expenses. Whew. Dodged that bullet.

That said, the new insurance just isn't as good as the old. Say what you want about Former Job, but the coverage was decent. I do have to say that Current Job coverage is better than nothing (WAY better), but we do now have a $2,500 deductible. Then we have to pay 20% of our bills, up to another $2,500. Nobody wants to anticipate delivery of a newborn knowing it is likely they will be billed $5,000. Thank goodness for HSA accounts and Current Job's generous seed money in said account! Now that we have (at minimum) reached our deductible, everyone in the family is invited to get sick and/or need some sort of medical care. Commence all elective surgeries and medical treatment (ahem and sorry, BeauDon).

$1,729.70. Yeah. Even with the HSA, we're going to need a while to pay that off. (Baby girl, does anyone else think it's excessive to charge us $1,390.00 for the nursery you were in for less than two hours?)

This is only bill number one, you say? Of three, you say? And the next one will be more? That would be the true reason I don't get an epidural. I'm too Dutch to pay for it.

Ah, well. When we're all cold again next winter because our tax return had to pay you off instead of buy new windows, we'll just snuggle you extra tight, young one.

The silver lining:
Today's call to billing services revealed that our account has not yet been adjusted to reflect the discounted rate we're eligible for through our insurance company.

So, darling Addie Maye . . . never let anyone cheapen you. Except maybe the insurance company.

For Wendy, who always seems to somehow know what is best for me

2009-11-02T13:03:00.004-05:00

It's the dreaded guilt-inducing month yet again (already?!), and I failed miserably at it last year. One might wonder why I would ever give it a go again this year when my win-loss record rivals that of the Detroit Lions, but like the Lions I can be assured that I have faithful (to the point of eligibility for sainthood) fans in my corner. So, in honor of WMW, my committed inch-by-inch writer friend; our better-than-average elder and his beautiful wife; our lovely neighbor who is moving too soon; my favorite worship leader who always believes the Lions will play football that first Sunday in February; my hubby's former WW coworker who thinks I really am funny--or at least worth laughing at--and any cyber stalkers I don't know about, I give you my best efforts at posting every day this month except for the first.

(NOTE: Full disclosure statement--last year I blamed my lack of posting on my nearly full-time work schedule and my toddler and preschooler. While this year I have (naively) added a newborn into the mix, I also happen to have the entire month of November off. Thus, I lost the major part of my excuse and have added 2:00 a.m. feedings in as the perfect time to doze off or dream up witty blog entries. Or explore excuses for my failure at NaBloPoMo.)

As a tribute to last year's failure, I have decided to dedicate today's post to all the times (since November began) that I have meant well and, well, fell short in the final minutes of the game:

* My Fantasy Football team, Sassy Frass, had far too many Packers on it this week . . . normally that works for me, but this year my defense is no match for the grand ol' #4.

* It is day two of odd-even parking in this fair city--and my ninth annual effort at it--and I still can't remember which side I should use on which day.

* The "over easy" egg I made for my preschooler ended up closer to over hard than raw. She cried.

* I took aforementioned preschooler's "Yes, I want toast, Mom," to mean she actually wanted it toasted. She didn't. She cried.

* I left the newborn on the chair for a bit too long while trying to make said egg and toast. She cried. Then she stopped. I came out to find aforementioned preschooler holding her and rocking. Without supporting the baby's head. She meant well. I almost cried.

* Prior to newborn's most-recent feeding (about 1 hour late, according to the shrillness of her cry), I neglected to secure a cup for toddler to fill with her healthy ten-minutes-before-lunch snack of Cheese-its. She found a shoe.

Here's hoping that none of this rubs off on the baby wrap auction ending tomorrow morning. So far that thing is mine, but the hours to go make me fear my chances. Stupid eBay and getting all my hopes up only to steal the dream from me at the last second.

I'm sure there's more, but it's all slipped my mind for now. And the kids are a 1/2-hour late for their naps, which means there is apple pie calling my name. Ooh, and Halloween candy. One day down. How many more to go?

A Mother's Intuition and a Father's Preparation

2009-06-17T09:41:00.004-04:00

I got pregnant in February. It has never been hard for us to conceive--we've been blessed to get pregnant in the month that we have started trying for all three of my pregnancies. It's a blessing that not many woman get to enjoy.

So, knowing that we wanted our last two children close together, shortly after our youngest daughter's first birthday we conceived our "number last" child. During the early stages of pregnancy I struggle with nausea, tiredness, soreness, and many other ailments common to those early days. I also struggle with anxiety, wondering if the baby will be okay, if it will live, who it will look like, how it will fit in our family, what gender it will be . . . again, common to any newly-pregnant woman.

This time was a bit different. This time my cravings were different and some of my normal symptoms weren't there. This time my anxiety led me to check with friends and call the doctor's office. This time I just knew there was something wrong.

I explained those feelings away by referring to the postpartum depression I struggled with after the birth of our second daughter. I explained them away by chuckling at my belief that God could never give us only good, being afraid of what blessings He had for us, and knowing that the shoe would have to fall eventually. But they persisted. Even through the two checkups where we heard the heartbeat and I measured the right size, they persisted. Something was wrong and soon we would learn what--I just knew it.

Our one and only ultra sound was scheduled for June 16 at 2:45 p.m. As I tried to sleep on Monday night, I was plagued by dreams and anxiety that I haven't known for years. I woke early on Tuesday morning and laid in bed wishing, willing, praying, breathing away my anxiety. Nothing worked. I spent the day being quite productive in the office--it helped to keep my mind off the knots in my stomach--and left for my appointment at 2:30 p.m. Walking out of the office, I had the overwhelming sense that I would not return the same. I knew that our appointment that afternoon would change everything about our lives.

"Don't WE have a flair for the dramatic," I thought. Then I whispered a prayer that God would prepare us for whatever we would learn that afternoon.

Leaving the parking garage AFTER the appointment, I admitted to God that it would have been hard to be prepared for what we learned. But I thanked Him for doing it anyway.

We got called early for our ultra sound, and I settled in to the bed and the goop and prepared to see our baby for the first time. As the tech zoomed around, we caught a glimpse of Baby. She kept moving, and we saw Baby again. She said, "Is this your first ultra sound?" We said yes. Then she focused on Baby again, but I couldn't see its heart beating. Momentary panic. As focus became more clear, however, we saw a little heart beating away. 146 beats per minute. Strong, solid, consistent. Beautiful.

Then in a quiet voice, the tech said, "I see something else that I have to tell you. There's something here." I cannot express the terror that sets in at words like that. Then rationality: a hole in the heart, a problem with the brain, a missing limb . . . we can deal with these things.

I held my breath, and I'm sure Beau did, too, as we heard her say, "There is a twin, but it's heart isn't beating. It's much smaller, and it stopped growing. I'm sorry."

I'm sorry?!
We're having twins?
Our baby died?
How? Why?
Does this dead baby stay in me until I deliver?
I have to deliver it?!
Will the other baby be okay?
What would we have done with two?
Can I please go home now?

So many questions, and almost no answers. Even worse, so many conflicting feelings flooding my mind. Grief over the baby we lost. Joy over the baby that is there. Relief that we never knew there were twins and didn't have the chance to wrap our hearts around two babies. Pain. Fear. Regret.

Peace.

We were prepared, if you can be. I had known that something was wrong, so I was ready for it, even though I couldn't have dreamed up this reality. We had no reason to suspect twins, and the doctor had nothing but apologies to offer us. But we had more than that. We had peace. We had the knowledge that our beautiful baby--whose gender we may never know--is now Baby Zion, celebrating eternity in heaven with a Father who has always known its identity, its heart, its beauty.

The rest of the ultra sound was thankfully much less eventful. Except for gender, we got every glimpse, picture, and reassurance that we needed from Twin A. And every time the tech typed "Twin," my heart lurched. The true pain came when she needed to record the heart beat, or lack thereof, of Twin B. To watch her push record on a flat line and see our baby on the screen with its still heart . . . I have never known that pain. The true joy came after I got to go to the bathroom (a small joy in itself!), and she resumed the ultra sound on the healthy baby. Up until that point, the position had been wrong to get a picture of its heart. I laid back down, accepted the goop again, and settled in . . . she put the paddle on my stomach, and we were immediately rewarded with a beautiful four-chambered heart. I have never known that relief.

So here we sit. There is one healthy baby in my stomach, and it is kicking me regularly. That, in itself is a gift from God, because I normally only feel it every 2 or 3 days. It kicked me to sleep last night and is reminding me again this morning that life goes on. That I am loved and held and have beheld the true beauty of life--and death--in the presence of God. There is also one dead baby in my stomach, and its little body will remain unchanged while we monitor the growth of its twin. In 20 weeks I shall deliver them both. One will be tested, and the other will test us. One will live with God and in our hearts, the other will live with us and in our arms.

Someday what I have written here, and the kind thoughts we have received from our Family, will perhaps help our living twin to understand what it lost and what it gained in its 14 1/2 weeks shared with Baby Zion. It will be an entry to talk about heaven and eternity and how God carries us. Delivery day, baptism day, birthdays, the first day of kindergarten, graduation, wedding day . . . every day will be tempered with what could have been and what is. We will always wonder, yet we will always rejoice that our Zion is in eternity forever without ever having to spend a day living in sin and pain. To slip from its mother's tummy, from the love it was created with and our desire to have it with us, into a world with no more night is a beautiful thing. It's a sad thing, but it is joyous too.

My grandfather died in September of 1998. My grandmother died last October. My sister's father-in-law, who was like a dear uncle or extra grandfather to my own girls, died in January. Countless friends have lost babies they didn't get to hold. All of these people--these people we love and who loved us--were there to greet our Baby Zion on its arrival on a day in mid May. This is the first of his great grandchildren that my grandpa got to meet. There is comfort there. May they know true joy together until the day that we are greeted by them and can celebrate eternity the way we were made.

We are blessed.

A Subtle Reminder.

2009-03-26T10:20:00.001-04:00

"People, I love this country. It's the best Babylon on the face of this earth, but it's still Babylon. This is not the kingdom of God, and my ultimate allegiance belongs to Jesus and so does yours."

- Tony Campolo

Keeping Up Appearances

2009-01-22T17:38:00.003-05:00

I honestly thought it would be more romantic than this . . . I'm not referring to marriage or motherhood, though in both instances life is a bit more changing diapers and washing dishes than lingering the days away on the beach or exploring foreign countries.

This 109-year-old farmhouse that is now in the city.

I pictured it as cozy and full of history. It is those those things, but it is a bit more dust and falling apart and cupboards smaller and shorter than reality demands.

I spent the better part of the past two days cleaning. The bleach smell on my hands and the cracking skin lead me to believe that it is likely a bad thing that I can literally count the times I've scrubbed those cupboards (six) and the time that I cleaned under the hood of the stove (yesterday) in the 8 years we've called this home. But there is a party at my house today, and in the interest of keeping up appearances, I have scrubbed cupboards and floors, forced my husband to recaulk the tub and the toilet, put away a month's pile of clothes in the girls' rooms, and sucked cobwebs out of windows, blinds, and crevices.

Come on in, company.

As I was scrubbing the kitchen cupboards, my mind was wondering to how silly it is that I clean and clean only when my house will be full of my casual acquaintances. It's nice to have friends that at least my house can be itself with.

But what about me? Don't I do the same for me when I'm about to walk out of my house? The things I say and the things I do are not always an accurate reflection of myself. It's often an act that I adopt in keeping up appearances. And those appearances aren't even for just the casual acquaintances. I told a friend how much I weigh the other day. She is the only one who knows besides my doctor, and he is bound by doctor/patient confidentiality.

I know it isn't just me, and I know it's important to adopt social skills in public even if I don't really have them in real life. The challenge is this: in a lot of ways I'm embarassed about who I really am.

Perhaps my only resolution for 2009 should be to get appearances and real life come more in line. Instead of resolving to lose 10 20 at least 30 pounds this year or clean my house regularly, I should just resolve to be more real. Not that I shouldn't try to fix those things, but I shouldn't try to fix them just in keeping up appearances. If they embarass me so much that I'm frantic that someone might see them, perhaps I should try to fix them permanently. I just might save myself another four months with a counselor.

So, in the interest of not keeping up appearances:
* I hate exercising. I hate it so much that I just don't do it.
* I wasn't joking when I asked for a creative solution to my lack of self-discipline.
* I hate cleaning. Especially the dishes and the bathroom. Yuck.
* I LOVE food. In fact, I hate how much I love it. No. I don't even hate it. I love loving food.
* Candy is my weakness. Followed by peanut butter, ice cream, and mint. Oh, and red meat. And carbs. See what I mean?
* Sometimes I'd rather read "People" or "US Weekly" than some great work by Dostoevsky. And I'd generally rather discuss the latest celebrity gossip than said great work. Unless it's a David McCullough book . . . no, probably even then.
* I find it difficult to not spend money. Even when it's something I don't want.
* Most days I'd like to be a stay-at-home mom without doing the laundry, washing the dishes, cleaning, cooking, putting kids to bed . . . mostly just the stay-at-home part.
* I have to force myself to pray, and I can't remember the last time I did devotions.

{Deep breath.}
Okay. Now it's out there. Embarassing. Seriously.

Even this blog is judging me. I'm going to go call my therapist.

A Year in Random Review

2009-01-03T09:09:00.000-05:00

So 2008 is over, and we're three days in to 2009. If this year is anything like the last, then these three days might as well be three hundred for how fast this year will go.

I don't really get the whole "celebrate 'til you puke" at the sunset of a year or the sunrise of another. Even the worst year of my life--2001, which was also oddly the best--didn't provoke that sort of feeling in me, though there was hope that maybe "this year would be better than the last."

All that said, I do have the desire to somehow recap 2008 with a list of my significant discoveries from the year. Some even with links to demonstrate my internet savvy or perhaps just prove that I'm really not making these things up. Many of my discoveries were wonderful, some were a bit disappointing yet significant, others were rediscoveries, a few were discovered on the very last day possible, and most were actually discovered by others but noticed by me. In the end, electricity, Coca Cola Classic, and the internet are much the same (thanks for that last one, Al Gore).

"Forever" by Chris Brown
iPod Touch
Taylor Swift
Guitar Hero
Missing Grandma
The Favre-less Green Bay Packers
Ben Barnes
Harvey Milk
James Franco
Old Friends
New Friends
True Friends
Michael Buble
"Doubt"
". . . faith and desire and the swing of your hips . . ."
"I ache to remember all the violent, sweet, perfect words that you said"
A friend's baby born with spina bifida
John Mayer's cover of "Free Fallin'"
The twisted emotions of having a deployed soldier
Megan Leigh McDowell
Laughter
Amazing harmonies
Fighting children
Prince Caspian
Knock knock jokes from a three year old
Mrs. Astor Regrets, Meryl Gordon
Hope
Using cash
Death by Christmas tree
David Cook
"Jericho"
Facebook
"Fringe"
"Freaks and Geeks"
Seth Rogen
"I tried to be chill, but you're so hot that I melted . . ."
"Thunder" by Boys Like Girls
Post-partum Depression
Down Came the Rain, Brooke Shields
Edward, Bella, and Jasper {*SIGH*}
Beaver Island
Camping in a pop-up
The ER in Ludington
November 4, 2008

And now for a tribute to those whose passing (regardless of the date) left an indelible mark on me in 2008. . .
Tim Russert
Brooke Astor
May Boatwright
Esther VanderMeer
Harvey Milk
Jesus Christ
Julie's cousin Joshua

Busyness gets in the way of the business

2008-12-03T06:49:00.001-05:00

Church Meetings
Dishes
Laundry
Work Meetings
Cleaning
The revenue side of the budget
Bathing, cleaning, and feeding the girls

Writing
Playing in the snow
Exercise
Chatting with a friend
Reading
An online game of Scrabble
Catching up on a friend's blog
Honoring World AIDS Day
Keeping the Sabbath
Snuggling the girls

Collapsing in a chair at the end of the day, she sadly acknowledges that there is a lazy element to the busyness. But, it must be said, that is largely driven by the busyness.

Tomorrow. Please. Let tomorrow be a better day. Then, she thought, she will happily settle in to her sabbath lifestyle. For now she'll keep it in her heart.

Just because I was busy, please don't think I didn't think of you, dear friends. He knows your name, and your faces are written on my heart. One day your pain will be gone. One day we will be free. If I could keep you, if I could heal you, if I you were mine . . . carry on, my friends. Your strength, your courage, your smiles . . . Walk on.
{December 1 * World AIDS Day . . . Every Day * A day to care}

Softly and Tenderly

2008-10-31T20:56:00.000-04:00

My grandma died on Tuesday night. I wasn't there. To hear it told, though, and I have, over and over, it was beautiful. It's a lovely thing, to hear it over and over.

It really was beautiful and sweet, and Grandma got to say goodbye to everyone she loved and who loved her. We were first. On Sunday we stopped at the Hospice House to see her. She was there not because her death was imminent but because my parents were out of town (camping with us) and their house sprung a gas leak. Craziness.

Our visit on Sunday was also sweet and beautiful. She was wittier and livelier and more fun than she had been in a long time. She and Ellie played games with Ellie's cow, Betsy, and she was sassy with me, too. But even in the middle of all of that, she looked so sad. I wanted to climb in bed with her, but I didn't. I didn't, because for a moment I was that little girl again, afraid that she wouldn't want me there.

Grandma's death--her last few days, really--were filled with sweetness and beauty. That's a strange thing, because she wasn't always. People don't normally speak ill of the dead, and I won't do that either. I'll just be honest. My relationship with my grandma was challenging, and I was afraid of her until that last day. That last day, I sat there looking at her, and she was so sad and vulnerable . . . and beautiful. We didn't talk about our past, and we didn't talk much about the future. But I knew that she loved me and she knew that she loved me, and I loved her back. Most importantly, perhaps, I knew that I loved her back. With my kiss goodbye to her, there was closure. Though I didn't know it would be the last kiss she could give me back, I said all that I wanted to--all that I needed to--in that last kiss. And it was lovely.

Grief is an interesting thing. Though Grandma was 92, and I had joined the forces--Grandma included--praying each day that God would take her Home, it's still just a bit shocking. It's strange to think that when I go to my parents' house again, she won't be there. She won't ask us to lock the door before it is even shut behind us. She won't give popcorn to Ellie until I tell her to stop, only to have her switch to jelly beans or peanuts. She won't be there.

She's Home. And, in the end, that is the most beautiful thing about the whole bit.

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,
calling for you and for me;
see, on the portals he's waiting and watching,
watching for you and for me.

Come home, come home;
ye who are weary come home;
earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling,
calling, O sinner, come home!
- "Softly and Tenderly," Will L. Thompson

Ellie went trick or treating with my niece Danielle tonight, so I sat with my sister. We handed out candy and watched a movie, but more than once one of us said, “I really miss Grandma.” It’s strange that I didn’t think about her every day before she died, and now I do. I know that will fade with time, but for now I remember wistfully or painfully or gratefully . . . mostly I just remember. Not all of the memories are wonderful, because we had a strange relationship, but she really was one of the most permanent fixtures in my life. She was always there. And now she’s not. And, as Ellie said yesterday, “I can’t see this heaven, where Nana is. It must be far, far away.” And then I think of Narnia. Every time.

Voter fraud is alive and well.

2008-09-05T09:34:00.000-04:00

So I still don't know which candidate should have my vote in November. I have listened to the speeches, watched them interact with their chosen Vice Presidential candidates, watched them with their families, blah, blah, blah. And I still don't know.

McCain=experience and perseverance
Obama=hope and change
McCain=reckless
Obama=inexperience
McCain=stiff and old
Obama=WAY liberal

What's a girl to do? I'm seriously considering selling my vote to the highest bidder. Not the candidate, mind you, or even anyone officially involved in the campaign. Nope. Just your average, every-day citizen who might want their candidate to win. So, commence bidding.

I'm really trying quite hard not to think about how many years back into voter reforms and such that this sends us. Maybe it's okay because no one is badgering me for my vote. Instead, I'm badgering them to pay me for my vote. Then I can use that money to fill up my gas tank or something.

Seriously, though. When politics are full of party lines and lies and rhetoric and lofty dreams and attacks and mockery, who is a girl to believe?

I've Lept.

2008-08-07T17:47:00.000-04:00

Go JETS!

Sorry, Packers. Bad move.

Rest assured, I do wish Aaron Rodgers the best, and I will be hoping for Jennings on my fantasy team. But I would also like a new jersey.

Ready? Commence Breathing

2008-08-05T09:11:00.000-04:00

He's back!

I must confess to being relieved. I thought the retirement was premature. I thought he had one of his best seasons last year. I thought they were one pass away from the Super Bowl, and they could do it again this season. They own our division. Sorry, Aaron. They do.

Normally I'm not a fan of people retiring and unretiring. If you're done, then you're done. But this whole thing sounded a bit shady to me from the beginning.

So now what? He doesn't have to be a Packer. I'm okay with that, I guess. They may have a good future in Aaron Rodgers, and I certainly wouldn't want to be Aaron and get thrown back onto the bench. But then what?

Oh, gosh. What if he's a Viking? THEN what would I do?!

Journey Through the Valley - Part Two

2008-07-23T10:05:00.001-04:00

There was a time not long ago when nearly every smile that crossed my face was fake. It was also a time when my toddler's voice or my newborn's cry brought shivers only duplicated by fingernails on a chalkboard. The ringing phone caused me to sink deeper into my chair, and I longed for someone else to take the children that looked like me but couldn't possibly be mine to bed so that I could be alone.

Today is a winding road
It's taking me to places that I didn't want to go
Today in the blink of an eye
I'm holding on to something
And I do not know why I tried
I tried to read between the lines
I tried to look into your eyes
I want a simple explanation
For what I'm feeling inside
I gotta find a way out
Maybe there's a way out

It was a dark time. I didn't know where I was or why, but I was quite certain that I would stay there forever. I couldn't figure out why I rarely felt connected to either child that I knew I loved . . . except when I did, and then it was obsessive. I was fine to let everyone, anyone, care for my girls . . . except when I wasn't, and then I was obsessive. I couldn't stay awake, but when I slept I couldn't rest. I was mean. I was ugly. And I didn't care a bit. About anything. And I figured no one else did either.

Except there were some who did, some who noticed. I thank God daily for those people. Without whom I would still be in my chair, not caring, going through the motions that I wished belonged to someone else. I wouldn't be me.

Postpartum depression. Really? Because I'm certain that only happens to other people. Depression is such a strong word. It doesn't really define me. But then again "a mental state characterized by a pessimistic feeling of inadequacy and a despondent lack of activity" certainly sounds like me. Sadness? Check. Hopelessness? Check. Low self-esteem? Check. Sleep disturbances? Check. Exhaustion, emptiness, inability to enjoy things one previously enjoyed, social withdrawal, low energy, becoming easily frustrated? Check, check, check, check, check, and check.

Okay. Deep breath. Maybe it's true.

Today is a winding road, tell me where to start
And tell me something I don't know
Today I'm on my own, I can't move a muscle
And I can't pick up the phone, I don't know
And now I'm itching for the tall grass
And longing for the breeze
I need to step outside
Just to see if I can breathe
I gotta find a way out
Maybe there's a way out

It's interesting that Webster's defines depression as "a falling in of the surface; a sinking below its true place," because I think that there is nothing that describes it better. I felt like I wasn't myself, and I wasn't. I had truly sunk below my true place as a wife, a mother, a friend, a valued person.

Yeah, I'm walking on a tightrope
I'm wrapped up in vines, I think we'll make it out
But you just gotta give me time
Strike me down with lightning
Let me feel you in my veins
I wanna let you know how much I feel your pain

Today my smiles are genuine. Today my daughters' voices are beautiful. Today I remember how to laugh. When the days get bad, I remember that day lying on the bed in Mackinaw City when I laughed, really laughed, as I was being smothered in "tickle kisses" from my patient husband and my beautiful toddler. It was a long time in coming, and I know it wouldn't have come without medicine and therapy.

I never wanted to be a medicine taker. I hate the idea. Maybe I'll talk about it more in a post on a different day, but I'll confess to being scared, nearly panicked, about starting an antidepressant. But I knew that it might help lift me back up to my true place and I had to find a way out, so I did. And it remains one of the best decisions I've ever made.

Oh, Ellie and Meggie. We've come so far. You are my beautiful girls.

Your voice
[Is] the soundtrack of my summer
Do you know you're unlike any other
And you'll always be my thunder
[My girls], your eyes
Are the brightest of all the colors
I don't wanna ever love another
You'll always be my thunder
So bring on the rain
Oh, baby bring on the pain
And listen to the thunder

Song lyrics from "Thunder" by Boys Like Girls, quoted here for my daughters.

Journey Through the Valley - Part One

2008-07-02T09:57:00.000-04:00

Something happened yesterday that has struck me and my family in a deeply personal way. A man, struggling with depression, allegedly (though he confessed, so there's nothing much alleged about it) entered a realty office in Muskegon, asked for his realtor, and fatally shot him. News reports vary on whether he was shot in the face, in the back of the head, or in the side of the head. Any way you look at it, it was at point blank range. And any way you look at it, the victim was a dad, a husband, a middle school youth leader.

And he was a realtor.

My mom, the realtor, is at work today. She was going to go in yesterday, but then Troy was shot, so she stayed home. My sister joked that my mom should borrow my dad's flak jacket from when he served in Iraq to go to work today. Mom said, "Over my face?"

There has been discussion surrounding the shooter, this Robert Johnson. He is a 73-year-old man who was angry over the declining housing market, which meant that he would lose money on the sale of his current house. He blamed Troy for that. So he (allegedly) shot him. Dead. A life ended. Hope ended. Because someone was angry. And depressed.

And that's where the discussion is now. Everyone who has something resembling an excuse to share prefaces it with, "I'm not condoning what he did . . ." And then they say something about the despair that encompasses those suffering from depression. I agree with that. Wholeheartedly. But he (allegedly) killed someone. And how many more depressed people are in Muskegon and maybe mad at my mom? Or maybe my pastor dad? Depression doesn't give you license to do what you want, consequences be damned.

So what is it? Is it stricter gun control laws? (I maintain that people who shoot other people don't care much if they get their guns illegally too). Is it metal detectors at the doors of all buildings? Is it working in pairs so that no one can blindside you? Or is it the community--each person's own community--making sure that people with mental illnesses get treatment?

I have postpartum depression. For about six weeks, I was deeper in the valley than I ever have been. Thankfully I have amazing friends who stepped in and told me they missed me and wanted me back. They helped me help myself. Because they're my friends. Because they love me. Because they love my girls and my husband. Now my depression was never psychosis, and I never thought about hurting myself or my children. Some people do, and if those thoughts and compulsions are like the other symptoms that accomapny depression, they truly are uncontrolable. My depression is being treated with medicine and therapy, and I'm back, now. Still journeying through the valley, but back.

What about Robert Johnson? He had family. He had someone. He had a community who should have seen him and helped him help himself. After he (allegedly) shot Troy, he ran to his former son-in-law's house. The ex-son-in-law turned him in and, while not speaking formally to the press, told someone that Johnson had been angry about the house and had been suffering from depression.

Let me get this straight. You knew? You knew that this man, who I'm sure is a lovely, lovely man when he is healthy, was depressed and you just watched? You didn't step in? And now one man is dead, and another is charged with premeditated murder. Two lives ended. Two families destroyed. A community shocked at the first murder in 20 years. A profession trying to figure out how to work without fear in a turbluent economy and falling market. Because of depression?

Depression is treatable. For some it involves inpatient treatment. For some it involves outpatient therapy. For some it involves antidepressants. But it's treatable. No one needs to die because of it.

So now as Troy's family makes plans to donate his organs and arrange a funeral, middle school children from a church youth group try to cope with the loss of a friend and mentor, a little boy and little girl try to understand that they will never see their father again, and I send my mom to work wishing that she could wear a military flak jacket, I have to wonder. Where were the people who loved Robert Johnson? Why didn't they step in before his depression drove him to do something that cannot be reversed? Something that cannot be fixed? Something that cannot be treated?

I wish they had. The VanderStelt family wishes they had. Roosevelt Park and the greater Muskegon community wishes they had. The Nexes realty company and the WMLAR group wishes they had. And I'm sure, in the end, Robert Johnson wishes they had.

It's a journey through the valley, and while it is your burden to carry, you cannot carry it alone. That's what community is for.

Still Checking Closets

2008-06-24T22:04:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking lately about Narnia. Not the films, though I am irresistably drawn to them. Not the books, either, which I read aloud to my husband over three years of road trips. I'm talking about the place itself. But there's really more to it than that even.

When I'm reading about Narnia or thinking about it, riveted in my seat after the credits are rolling or lying in bed wishing my closet opened to magical lands, I am filled with longing for a place like that. For walking with the Lion of Judah and losing myself in His wild mane. For the place where my heart is at ease and time flies but stands still at the same time. For Home.

The Pevensie children were called to and drawn to and created for a magical land. And once they'd tasted of it, they couldn't be content in this world. Except for one.

"Sire," said Tirian, when he had greeted all these. "If I have read the chronicle aright, there should be another. Has not your Majesty two sisters? Where is Queen Susan?"
"My sister Susan," answered Peter shortly and gravely, "is no longer a friend of Narnia."
"Yes," said Eustace, "and whenver you've tried to get her to come and talk about Narnia or do anything about Narnia, she says 'What wonderful memories you have! Fancy your still thinking about all those funny games we used to play when we were children.'"
"Oh Susan!" said Jill. "She's interested in nothing nowadays except nylons and lipstick and invitations. She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grown-up."
"Grown-up, indeed," said the Lady Polly. "I wish she would grow up. She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age. Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can."
--The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis

I do that. I waste my time wanting to be somewhere or something other than what I am. And in doing that, I miss what I'm called to, drawn to, and made for. Narnia may not be in the back of my closet, and I may visit only in my dreams. But there is something about it that I can keep alive within me. I am allowed to hope and dream for a place of my own and find it in Him.

"Created for a place/I've never known/This is home/Now I'm finally where I belong/. . . I've been searching for a place of my own/Now I've found it/This is home" (Switchfoot, "This is Home" from The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian)

My heart is not meant to live in this land. My heart wants to be Home. For me, now, it is a dream. A magical dream, but it is one that I can hold on to. It is one that I can share with other Narnia lovers and wishers and dreamers. Others who were made for more than this. Because in the end, even though Peter and Lucy and Edmund lived in this world, they longed for another. They held on to another. And one day, in the end, they were home to stay. "The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning." (Aslan, in The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis)

I don't know when my dream ends and my morning begins. There are days that I hope it is soon, and there are days that I hope I get to see my girls grow to love God and others and have children of their own to lead to Him. When I walk through a valley, I remember that this is not the end. This is the term, and my longing for Home is the dream right now. But one day, one day soon, really, the dream will end. I cannot wait for the day that God will hold my face in His hands, look into my eyes, and say, "The dream is ended: this is the morning. You are Home. This is your land."

But until then, Dearest One, I'll live. I'll live here and now. But you need to help me not waste any more days, forgetting what matters, forgetting that dreams can be real, wishing to be grown-up. While I'm here, though, know that I'm thinking of Home. I'm thinking of magical lands where time flies by while it stands still. Where I am a queen. That's what I was made for. And one day, I'll be there with you.

"It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"
"But you shall meet me, dear one," said Aslan.
"Are--are you there too, Sir?" said Edmund.
"I am," said Aslan. "But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there."
--The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis

Let me know You. And may my times with You in my dreams and in my Narnias help me to know You better here.

This post is lovingly dedicated to the Rings.

I Check Closets for Narnia

2008-06-11T11:03:00.000-04:00

It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word
And then that word grew louder and louder
Till it was a battle cry
I'll come back when you call me
No need to say goodbye

Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never been this way before
All you can do is try to know who your friends are
As you head off to war
Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light
You'll come back when it's over
No need to say goodbye
You'll come back when it's over
No need to say goodbye

Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it, too
Doesn't means that you have to forget
Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
Till they're before your eyes
You'll come back when they call you
No need to say goodbye
You'll come back when they call you
No need to say goodbye
"The Call", Regina Spektor, from The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian

This song makes me weep.

Pray. Without ceasing.

2008-05-12T17:15:00.000-04:00

I spent the morning, frantically looking for any proof. Any proof would have worked, but I found nothing. So I prayed. I prayed that the friend I have living in China was not in the school that will prove to be a grave for many. I prayed that she made it out of her apartment. I prayed that she didn't even live in that part of China. I prayed. And I continued to look for her address, a note, a clue, anything.

Finally. Proof. The northern part is her home. Not the central part that saw the death of many of its youngest and brightest. Safe. I breathed in deeply, with gratitude.

And then I ceased praying.

But why? Just because I don't know them, are they any less? Do the daughters, sons, friends, family members of others matter less than those who are mine? No.

Dear Abba, be with these, our Brothers and Sisters, and those who are not. Give them safety this night as they struggle with pain from wounds physical and emotional. Give them breath. Give them peace. Give them hope. And give them You. Amen.

400 Days--Part Two

2008-05-09T10:51:00.000-04:00

Our four hundred days are over. In the end, it was less than 400 days and it wasn't as hard as we thought it would be. And yet every day was a tender one, with tears at the ready. We did get to talk on the computer quite a few times, Curly-haired Cutie remembered her grandpa with a passion, and She Who Is Named After Him was smiley to see him. Our reunion was tearful and joyful and giggly. Not to mention early in the morning.

All that said, it seems as if we are still waiting as I keep forgetting to take the yellow ribbon from my old oak pillar, and our National Guard Deployment flag is still in our window.

Here was our four hundred days:
* Three wedding anniversaries, including one for my parents
* Seven missed birthdays, because Soldier Dad was home for Grandma's and Brother-in-law's.
* One hurt birthday girl on a warm day in May when her mom neglected to call on her birthday, her dad was states away hadn't talked to her in nearly a month and still didn't call, and her sister was too busy to call.
* One pregnancy announcement, and seven subsequent doctor's visits with reports of the babe's growth
* Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Day, Super Bowl, Valentine's Day (whatever), Easter. Oh, and Flag Day, which FunnyWriterMommy's husband thinks is important to include.
* Eleven Curly-haired Cutie's overnights at Grandma & Grandpa's without Grandpa
* Eleven dinners on the Tuesdays after the overnights
* She Who Is Named After Him's birth on Super Fat Tuesday

So much of my world was gone, but now he's back. And it's like he never left. But it's still good to have him back for many more birthdays and holidays and overnights and dinners and maybe another pregnancy announcement and birth.

He is such a good, good man. And we are so, so blessed.

Your feet will touch the soil of many countries.

2008-04-18T15:16:00.000-04:00

Some time ago, another lifetime, really, my husband and a friend's husband got the crazy idea that we should pack up and move to South Africa. A dream come true. And yet, the dreamer friend and I knew it wasn't right. So we didn't. And it hurt.

Because God will use anything in front of us to speak to us, I got a good fortune to end my lovely dinner of Orange Chicken the night I knew we couldn't move. "Your feet will touch the soil of many countries." Peace. I knew that I knew that I knew. And it hurt.

It's time again to be a dreamer whose dreams get closed behind doors of reality and "not yet." But the dream doesn't have to die. I'll close it behind the door, and I'll extinguish the flame, leaving only an ember. When the time is right, perhaps He will fan the flames . . . because sometimes the dream never dies.

So, yes. My feet will touch the soil of many countries. And maybe some day I'll be the one packing up to move and explore a new city. Maybe some day I'll be the one visiting grad schools and making a different life for myself. Maybe some day I'll be the one on the book tour. For now, though, those dreams join South Africa behind a door that I can't afford to open.

Sometimes it still hurts.
But when I know, it doesn't matter that I can't see.

Isn't it just like the Lord to invite me
To put all my dreams in His hands
Forever releasing the grip that once held them
Forever surrendering my plans
And then when He's certain it's not born of man
He calls for the fire to rekindle again
And he askes me to know with my heart
What's not seen with my eyes
So the dream never dies.
-"When the Dream Never Dies," Child of the Promise

rev·o·lu·tion

2008-03-11T10:15:00.000-04:00

Moments earlier she was asleep on her father's chest. Blissfully oblivious to the state of affairs in the world or the significance of days on the calendar. Unaware that her shirt was purchased, by a friend, for a purpose higher than she. Unaware that she, too, was purchased, by a King, for a purpose higher than she.

Now she lies peacefully, practicing smiles. Still unaware of much of the world and her place in it. Behind her bright eyes are hopes of prompt meals and avoided baths. On her chest, one word. On her heart, one purpose.

A Tuesday earlier, her fourth, she laid cradled in the arms of her mother. Dozing, careless, blissful, oblivious, content. Her parents heard these words: "Every revolution that has ever been fought started in a room like this." (Ashley Scott as Emily Sullivan, Jericho 2:4 "Oversight")

How true they are. Nearly 2,000 years ago it was an Upper Room. More than 200 years ago it was a pub or a printing house. When and where will the next room be as a girl stands up a woman and calls for change? Brings about change? And what will be that change? {God, let it be peaceful.}

But how can a mother look in those bright eyes and see revolution? How can a mother see bright eyes that betray passion and heartache and danger and bold leadership? Can a mother then put aside personal fear and wishes for her daughter in order that her Father--her daughter's Abba--may fulfill His grand purpose in her little one? {God, keep her safe.}

Her sister is Grace. Her bright eyes find beauty. They betray joy and hope. She makes beauty out of ugly things.

But this one . . . her eyes say something else.

Black Tuesday

2008-03-04T11:29:00.001-05:00

It's official. The day we always dreaded has finally arrived. Tonight I shall sleep in my jersey in honor of the greatest QB ever to grace (yes, grace) the gridiron. Sad, sad day indeed.

I shall miss you, my favorite.

The Difference a Week Can Make

2008-02-11T09:57:00.000-05:00

One week ago today we were still waiting . . . and not so patiently. One week ago tomorrow, we were welcoming the newest member of our family. She's beautiful. Breathtaking. Incredible.

Megan Leigh was born at 2:24 p.m. on Tuesday, February 5. Fat Tuesday. Super Tuesday. It was a good day all around.

My labor with Megan was harder and a bit longer than with Ellie, but the delivery was actually a nice experience. I dilated from a 6 to a 10 in about five minutes, I had a few minutes reprieve, and I pushed through two contractions (four pushes in all) for less than five minutes. Then she was there. 19 1/2 inches long. 7 lbs. 12 oz. And I lost my heart again.

She looks almost exactly like her big sister did.

Soon She'll Kick You, Too

2008-01-18T08:33:00.000-05:00

It's past time for an update on the impending birth of Baby #2 (formerly known as Breech Baby). Big Sister is TERRIBLY impatient for the arrival, and while FunnyWriterMommy appreciates the time to work and clean and (occasionally) rest, she hurts enough to be getting impatient, too.

It's not that I hurt. I'm just so sore. I was thinking that as I was ~~tossing and turning~~ flailing around like an overturned turtle around 3:30 this morning. "Gosh, I'm so sore that I can't wait until the baby is born. It will be so nice to be able to sleep flat on my stomach and whip around to my back or side at whim." I'll welcome all that other pain and soreness this time, just because it won't be in my lower back anymore.

Ellie, on the other hand, is just plain eager. The other day, she laid with her head on my stomach, rubbing absentmindedly with her hand. "When will we get to see Baby Meggie? We would have her by now if Dr. Dood wasn't in the way," she said wistfully. (Never question the mind of a two year old!) She has also been known to walk in to the room and say, "I just want to see her!" Mommy and Daddy do, too, honey. The sweetest two incidences happened this week (Monday and Thursday respectively): I woke Ellie up early so we could go to our doctor's appointment, and Ellie said, "Again?! Will Dr. Dood finally give us Baby Meggie?" Aww. Then yesterday Ellie picked up Megan's adorable little white Sunday dress, and I told her that we would put Megan in that and take her to church. Daddy asked, "Can we take Meggie to church with us?" Ellie jumped up and down and said, "And I'll hold her hand!" Seriously? Adorable.

As for the real update that extends beyond our eagerness (and slight anxiety at times), all systems are go for an early February arrival. Dr. Dood reported that it doesn't appear that we'll need to induce unless we go past Brett Favre's amazing Super Bowl victory on the 3rd. Instead, we just wait with bags packed and Eric & Julie's number on speed dial so that they can take Ellie while we go have a baby. Then, six glorious weeks to spend with my girls and not working . . . aside from dishes, meals, diapers (those things are small!!), naptimes, nursing, cleaning up toys, fending off jealousy with my amazing mothering skills, maintaining our potty training successes . . . but, come mid March I'll have to do all of that WHILE working. So these six weeks will be heaven.

By way of another update, I'm next on the new mother doting list. Congrats to the five down and best wishes to the five still to come. May I join the list before all of you. ;)

Give me an "S"! Give me a "U"!

2008-01-09T16:45:00.000-05:00

SUCCESS!!! It's a beautiful word . . . and it's amazing to see it written on your child's face.

Only 2 1/2 months after we started, we have it! We're POTTY TRAINED!!

Yay, Super Big Girl!

We felt like the moment was here, but it became clear this past weekend.

Just after Christmas: Thinking that we had a good long time with Trying to Be A Big Girl alone with Mommy during the long break, we decided to wear Big Girl Underwear. First attempt also included plastic pants. We peed. In our pants. And continued playing. Second attempt included only the Big Girl Underwear. And a puddle. The carpet can be cleaned, and no one can duplicate the look on I Really Want to Be a Big Girl's face when she puddled. "Take me to the bathroom!!" became a common refrain over the next few days.

Friday, January 4: Pull-ups on because we were en route to THE AIRPORT TO PICK UP SOLDIER BOMPA and then to lunch with the newly reunited family. Mommy didn't hope for too much on the potty front, so she even packed an extra pull-up. Ever-Eager To Surprise Girl asked to go with both Mommy and Daddy when they had to go to the bathroom, though she did head toward the "Big Girl Bathroom" instead of the "Big Boy Bathroom" in the restaurant when Daddy was walking with her. She surprised everyone at turning the correct direction when Daddy said, "Go to your left." (So she knows her directions?! Yes. Before she can potty consistently. Nice.)

Sunday, January 6: Celebrating Christmas at Bompa & Gramma's house . . . there is no way Big Girl Underwear is a good idea. We tried it. AND IT WORKED!!! But will it work without Mommy and Daddy around?

Monday, January 7: Oh, yes it will! Definitely Big Girl stayed dry for a one-hour car ride, all day long, and even cried when she woke up pottying in the middle of the night. WHOA.

Seriously. Clearly a Big Girl lives here.

P.S.
Monday, December 31: The whole family went to the doctor to get a small picture of our schedule for the next month as we checked on Breech Baby. The doctor poked and poked and happily declared that she is No Longer Breech Baby. Then, said baby head butted Mommy. She was still declared, "Good girl, Baby Meggie!" (by her big sister, no less!)

Another Year Is Dawning

2008-01-01T18:40:00.000-05:00

I missed singing one of my favorite songs to close out 2007, so I'll share it here:
Another year is dawning!
Dear Father, let it be,
In working or in waiting,
Another year with Thee;
Another year of leaning
Upon Thy loving breast,
Another year of trusting,
Of quiet, happy rest.

Another year of mercies,
Of faithfulness and grace;
Another year of gladness
In the shining of Thy face;
Another year of progress,
Another year of praise,
Another year of proving
Thy presence all the days.

Another year of service,
Of witness for Thy love;
Another year of training
For holier work above.
Another year is dawning!
Dear Father, let it be
On earth, or else in heaven,
Another year for Thee.

2007 closed out so beautifully, meeting, embracing, and hugging old friends--and new ones in the form of a darling nearly one-year-old girl from Ethiopia & Oregon. It truly was a lovely ending to a hard and beautiful year.

It's interesting to stand on this side of 2008, the dawning of another year, and wonder what it will bring. To whom will we say goodbye this year? Whom will we greet with the wonder and celebration of new life? Whom will we treasure and draw closer than ever before, and from whom will we grow apart? There is certainly great comfort in knowing that whatever this year may bring, whether we face it with ourselves or loved ones on earth or else in heaven, it will truly be another year lived in the grace, wonder, awe, beauty, and tender arms of God.

A new year is nothing without New Year's Resolutions--the kind that will hopefully become new ways of life rather than something I chuckle about in twelve short months.

In the year of our Lord 2008, I resolve to:
1) Cook with more veggies (thank you Jessica Seinfeld and Deceptively Delicious)
2) Think--and speak--positively rather than critically
3) Potty train our toddler
4) Welcome our darling Megan into our home as she has already been welcomed in to our hearts
5) Cherish our time with both of our daughters--especially since one will be in school already in the fall
6) Pursue publishing something I wrote years ago and swore I would publish one day
7) Spend less money and pay off more debt
8) Make real progress toward living the life I was made for and looking like the One I love and Who loves me far more than I am capable of dreaming
9) Celebrate the quiet, happy rest of Sabbath--true Sabbath

Thoughts from the East Side

2007-12-07T10:50:00.000-05:00

Wow. November 8. I did very well on NaBloMo, don't you think? Amazing. It all went down hill when I went to take care of my grandma for a week when Mom was in Vegas. Grandma is 92 next month and an interesting bundle of the baggage my family carries daily. Then life got crazy when I got home.

(My apologies if this is the first time you're hearing some of this.)

November 16 -- dear friend had a lump removed from her breast

November 18 -- told Beau about friend's surgery (forgot to tell him before), and he reported to me that he found a lump on his back . . . felt said lump. It's big. And hard. And exactly what they tell you to look for in self exams.

November 20 -- found out that dear friend's tumor was cancerous . . . she walked through cancer 15 years ago and cannot have any more radiation. A visit with her oncologist would tell more.

November 22-24 -- Thanksgiving celebrations. Lovely, lots to be thankful for.

November 25 -- An excited Ellie woke up to see the tree full of lights and in our living room. "Daddy, look at that! There's green ones and red ones and yellow ones and blue ones and 'nother one green ones!" It almost makes up for the terrible twos which also hit this weekend.

November 26 -- Beau had his appointment. Likely a cyst, but can't tell without an ultra sound. Scheduled ultra sound for November 28.

November 27 -- Ellie got two timeouts and a spank . . . FROM THE BABYSITTER. Honestly, I can see her getting that stuff from me, but she is always good for the babysitter. Please let this be a short phase!

November 28 -- Beau had his ultra sound. Scheduled follow-up appointment for December 5. Also had congregational meeting at night. Grr for budgets and people who don't contribute to their church like they should. It's not like it's their money! Sheesh. Called dear friend when I got home to get a report from her oncologist. Double masectomy. Then six rounds of aggressive chemotherapy. Cried with friend, laughed with friend, listened, talked, enjoyed the fact that God gives us good friends and brings strong and amazing women into our lives.

December 3 -- found out from doctor that baby is currently in a breech position. This explains all of the pain I've been in--low baby and breech = ow, ow, ow!! He told me not to leave sleep over it (I told him I was--not from worry but from pain), but he also let me know what would happen if Breech Baby doesn't adjust her position. In four weeks, they will do an ultra sound to determine baby's definite position. In five weeks, they would do an external manipulation to try to coax Baby into head-down position. If it doesn't take or if she moves back (most do), they will schedule a c-section for the last week of January. Also, they do the external manipulation at the hospital, because occasionally women go in to labor during the procedure. Coming to terms with the fact that Baby could arrive any time between five weeks and nine weeks.

Later that night -- returned from moms' group to hear that my cousin's wife had their baby--about three weeks early. The baby was breech, so they'd scheduled a c-section for late this week. Her water broke on the 28th, though, so she called her husband at work and climbed into the bathtub so any leaking would not get all over her house. Five minutes later, her husband walked into the bathroom to find his wife carefully trying not to push any more than the foot out of her. Yes. The foot. My cousin called 911 and delivered his breech baby with the cord wrapped around her neck in their bathtub while their toddler was still home!! The paramedics arrived at their house just as Brian was looking for something to suction out the baby's nose. Now I'm losing sleep.

December 5 -- Beau's ultra sound inconclusive. Whatever it is will be removed on Friday (today), and doctor will send it in for biopsy if needed. Super.

December 7 -- Lump removed. It's a cyst. Praise God! It had gotten infected and came out in pieces (I'm trying not to imagine all of this), but it was definitely a cyst. During the suturing process, Beau "squirted the PA in the face (EW!)," so now he has to get an infectious diseases test. It's always something.

And that brings us to the current time. I'm going out for breakfast. I've earned it! Especially because for the moment our two year old is not terrible and Breech Baby isn't causing terrible pain.

This IS my life

2007-11-08T13:55:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I feel like I'm constantly waiting for my life to start. This isn't a new feeling; I'm plagued by it often. A conservative estimate figures that the average person spends more than three years of his or her life (three 365-day years!) waiting for things to begin. So how do you measure how long I have wasted waiting for my LIFE to begin?

But, when I look around, I see that my life has started. And it's a beautiful life--even in all of its ugliness.

* I am loved by an incredible God who sees in me things so beautiful that they make me cry.
* I have an amazing husband who also seems to think I'm better than I am.
* I have the loveliest daughter in the world (sorry, but it's true!) and another on the way . . . both of whom are special treasures entrusted to my husband and me by this God who loves and cherishes our little ones even more than we do. And who watches over them so carefully that even our parenting mistakes will not prevent our girls from changing their world.
* I finally have a job that I love, where I am a writer.
* My family is healthy, even in our dysfunction, and we love each other deeply. Poorly at times, but deeply nevertheless.

There is no reason, as I hold my life in my hands in this moment and gaze at it longingly and lovingly, to not see that it has begun. That even when it is dismal and dictated, it is still too brilliant to exchange for one that might seem easier or more free.

So what do I do? How do I LIVE in this moment? Switchfoot reminds me: "This is your life; are you who you wanna be?" If I could add one more thing to truly become who I want to be--even, dare I say it, who I am--I would call it a writer's life.

That's the life I want to live--a writer's life, fully embracing my dreams and my realities . . . my talents and my imperfections . . . my joys and my sorrows. I want to live this writer's life. And to do that, I need to stop waiting for something. This life is here to embrace. So embrace it I will.

Even when it hurts.