Two Months Down, and I'm Already Loving This Life

Month Two recap . . . I didn't journal until midway through the month, because everything was working so wonderfully.  I wasn't asleep every night by 10:30 as I'd hoped, but I was up and showered and ready or nearly so every school day by the time the girls were dressed.  Then . . .

Day 17 - Alarms stink!  Today's alarm was Addie.  Saturdays are often light days for us, so everyone sort of wakes up whenever.  I figured that meant I was good to do the same.  Then the tooth fairy forgot to show up, so I was awakened by a crying girl around 7:00 a.m.  Stinking fairy!

Day 18 - And today I was awakened at the same time by the tooth fairy's letter one inch from my nose and a search for two missing gold coins.  Argh.  So much for sleeping in!

Day 21 - Finally got to bed on time last night and feel rested today.  I've been awake (after several snoozes), showered, and ready nearly every morning before or just after the girls' alarms.  Still, I really need to work it earlier.  It would be helpful to have actual morning time and use it well.

Day 22 - Up too late last night AND this morning.  Now remembering how important that early rising is for my family and how essential that early bedtime is for me.  Of course it didn't help any to have such a deeply painful conversation with someone I respected and thought I knew and then to quickly after learn that my childhood friend Tyler died during the night.  I cried for the better part of four hours today.  Now I have tired eyes and puffy face and grieving heart.  Let sleep come early tonight.

Day 30 - This was an important experiment.  It is so much easier to love my life when I can see it (yay, Month One!) and be ready for it.  I still want (need) to get better at turning off earlier so I can get out of bed earlier enough to actually have time before the girls are up and going.  Still, the days I was ready or nearly so and could help them get out of bed and ready were so much better than the others.  Definitely worth continuing.

               Through this I have realized the power I have to make or break the day for my entire family.  Must use it for good in order to love this life.


How I did:
* Woke up before the rest of my house every weekday!
* Was ready for the day most days right around 7:00/7:10.  By the time the girls got downstairs anyway.
* Did not do well getting to sleep by 10:30 OR prepping my day the night before.

What I'll continue:
* Rising before the others (attempting to have at least 15 minutes to myself before the family is up)
* Ready by 7:00 a.m. on weekdays
* Prep the girls' breakfast/lunch/clothes the night before (this is the last remaining consistent morning battle!)


Month Three - QUIET
Boy do I need this one!

What I'll do:
Build QUIET into my day by:
* Breathing - mindfully three times a day
* Minimizing Facebook - checking in only once per day from the computer only--limited to my accountability group, messages, and tags.  If I see a political post while I'm there I will QUIET my fingers to refrain from the battles that are starting to negatively affect my mental health.
* Turning the radio off - to spend at least one car ride a day (when I'm there by myself) in silence.


Want to join me in loving my actual life?  Here's your chance.

G: for Game Plan

Month one is in the books!  And I did it!  Mostly.

A few excerpts from my journal:

Day One - Breakfast done.  Dishes washed.  Sinks and cupboards scrubbed.  Dishwasher running.  Blog post written . . . Boy can I start strong, though!

Day Two - . . . Kids may hate me when this is done, but I love our clean house.

Day Four - This project would likely be easier without a family to mess up my hard work behind me.  It tuns out I can be quite the screaming lunatic as I remind myself this is my experiment not theirs.  Still, cleaning up after their smoothie making is on them, right?

Day Eleven - And . . . stalled.  Bee guy came out and porch is un-usable.  Plus it's 8,000 degrees, so there is no painting or organizing happening . . . It turns out this keeping things clean is tricky when I'm barely home.  And when it is so hot.  I've also noticed the key really is cleaning every room as I move through it.  If only I could convince my kids to do the same.

Day Nineteen - Oh my.  Full confession time.  Not only has my room not been clean at bedtime every night, but it isn't even clean at all.  Like, not a single time . . . I'm not going to get all of these projects done this month.  But I'm loving the satisfaction of finishing up.

Day Thirty-one - I did it!  It was rough by the end, but I think I have a handle on the schedule I need.  Got our room clean and love keeping it that way.  We have also spent the day(s) fighting with the girls to get their rooms clean.  Now to get them to school and get their "back to school" stuff cleaned up and out of here.

How I did: I got the projects done (plus two)!  Cleaning each room as I walk through it is the key to this whole puzzle.  As is a schedule for deeper cleaning (so many spiders in this house!).  Also, family is unwilling to be enlisted to empty their laundry baskets.

What I'll continue:At least two projects completed per month.  Clean rooms as I walk through. Keep trying to enlist family. Create monthly and yearly schedule for cleaning.


Now on to month two!  I like this game plan bit with the goals as I try to continue this experiment of loving my actual life . . . by first getting to know my actual life and sorting it all enough that I can actually see it.

Month Two is "First Things First -- Mornings."  I used to be a morning person, but somewhere along the way I started staying up too late and barely functioning before 8:00 a.m.  Last school year that left us frantically running to beat the bus on our best mornings and arguing and crying on our worst (that would be me and at least one child crying).  Something's got to give if I'm going to love this actual life . . . and be a bringer of peace in the morning instead of a creator of chaos.

So, first things first.  Mornings.  We camped for Labor Day weekend, so I actually started today, Day Six.  The first day of school.

What I Will Actually Do:
* Wake up before the rest of my house.
* Be dressed and ready for the day by 7:00 a.m.
* Prep breakfast and leaving the house the night before (as much as possible).
* Go to sleep by 10:30 so all those things can happen.

What I Will Always Remember:

His compassions never fail.  They are new every morning.

                                                                                                        {Lamentations 3:22-23}

Every. Single. One.



{Have you checked out this book yet?  Go get it now.  You'll thank me.}

F: for Following Through

I met a goal!

Yeah.  Probably not something to brag about (and likely a bit embarrassing to make note of), but this is what we've come to, people.  It is, indeed, noteworthy for me to say I met a goal.

It was at the eleventh hour (actually just into the tenth), but I made it!

A few months ago I received this wonderful book from a friend of mine.  I read the introduction and cried my way through it.  I felt like the author, Alexandra Kuykendall, was speaking to me.  To me.  And why Baker would publish a book written expressly for me I didn't know, but I was so grateful they had.

Then I put the book on my shelf.  I didn't have time for its experiments and its challenges and its hardness.  I always intended to pick it back up, because I intended to do the experiments myself.  I intended to dedicate these next nine months of the school year to loving my actual life.  So, knowing how quickly I get distracted, I figured I should pick it back up.  I wanted to read through it all once before school starts the day after Labor Day and then go through it again, chapter by chapter, month by month.

Once I got started a week or so ago, I realized I needed to start my months a bit sooner.  So I revised my goal to finish the book before the end of July so I could get started on August 1.  Reasons to come in a minute.

It may sound silly, but I had to work to get this finished by July 31.  When the vacations end and the realities of being a work-at-home mom and a work-from-home mom set in, my reading time is relegated to the quickly fleeting hour between when my oldest is tucked in bed and when I should be tucked in bed.  That's also my "catch up on a TV show," "check Pinterest," "write," "tidy up the house," and "figure out the plans for tomorrow" time.  (See why I need this book?)  But this was important to me, and I was going to make it happen.

And I did!

I entitled this post "Following Through" not because I needed an F (though I did), but because that is one of my greatest challenges in life.  I am a fantastic starter.  There are very few people who can prepare and begin as well as me.  That said, most of the projects in my house are still unfinished, I have four started novels that dream of being submitted for publication and an additional five stories I've started for my sisters and friends which are still half untold, my Bible through the year plan has 1/4 of the check boxes empty, I keep gaining and losing the same ten pounds, my tennis shoes and running clothes are still stacked next to my bed, and the majority of the laundry in our house is washed and dried but unfolded in baskets in the basement and laundry room.

I'm a goal setter.  I'm a dreamer.  I'm not a doer.  I'm not a follow-througher.

Until last night.  Now I did it.  I set a goal for myself, I decided to bump it to a shorter time frame, and I did it!  I FOLLOWED THROUGH ON SOMETHING!

Yes!

So now what?  Now I can do it in other things.  That's what I've shown myself.  And I'm going to need that this year.  There have been many books I've thought, "Ooh, I'd like to work my way through this over the next month."  Those books are now dusty on my shelf, most of them more than half unread.  But this one is different.  This one needs to be different.  I feel like my life depends on this one.  At least loving it does.

Alexandra Kuykendall set out on a 9-month experiment to love her actual life, in its chaos and mundaneness and mess and joys.  And she laid out the plan for us to follow.  So I'm going to.  This is the life God gave me, and I think he meant for me to love it . . . not just tolerate it.

She started out with "embracing quiet."  I can see that, and I need to do that.  I need to do all the things, but this is a 9-month experiment.  And I'm going to start where I need to.  With following through.

Month 6 for Alex was Home Organization, but that's Month 1 for me.  There are a few reasons for that.  One is to show myself that I can follow through.  We moved into our house just over a year ago (like the end of the July), and I have several started projects to decorate and organize that I have planned or even begun (is a can of paint still good after one year if I never even opened it?) that are now shoved in a drawer or used as a door stop to keep the cat out of our bedroom (that can of paint is good for something at least!).  So I want to follow through with those, and I want to see progress.  Beautiful progress.  On my walls.  Another reason is because school starts next month.  This is my last month of summer, and I still haven't organized the papers and projects from last school year.  Before I bring the chaos of 2nd, 3rd, and 6th grades into my house I need to get rid of the chaos of 1st, 2nd, and 5th.  Finally, this is where I want to start.  So I might as well make it fun, right?

Month 1: Home Organization

What I will actually do:
Finish two house projects a week.  (Even if I have to hire them done.  Then I need to work that into the budget.)
Pick up items to put away as I walk through a room.
Make sure my bedroom is cleaned before I go to sleep.
Enlist the family's help in folding and putting away laundry so baskets are empty in the laundry room by Monday morning.
Clean up breakfast and lunch before dinner every day--including the dishes (don't judge; I'm bad at follow through remember?).

I'm going to journal my successes and failures like Alex did, and I'll even share some of what I learn here.  Then I'll list out Month 2 as well.  Because half of follow through is knowing someone will check in with you to see how you did.

E: for Entering In (also, for Enough)

I work in a trauma-rich environment.  That's the actual phrase they use to describe my workplace.  My work is not specifically "trauma-rich"--I'm the Business Manager.  I handle Human Resources and budgeting and accounts payable and such.  So it's not my job per se that is trauma-rich.  It's the place where I work.

We provide services for children who have been sexually abused.

And here's the thing.  Nationally, over 90% of children are sexually abused by someone they know, love, or trust.  In my county, in the nearly 10 years I've tracked these stats, it's closer to 99%.  Think on that for a minute.  Ninety-nine percent of children are sexually abused by someone they know.  Someone they trust.  Someone they love.  It might be a family member or a family friend, but it isn't a stranger hiding behind a bush to nab them.  It's someone their parents have let into their lives.  Or it's the parent him or herself.

That's trauma-rich for you.

Because of the nature of our workplace, and the space our therapists and interviewers and family advocate and intake coordinator hold for our children to tell their stories, we've been talking about self care.  Self care really looks different for everyone . . . and most of us are better at declaring what it's not.  At a recent staff meeting, we talked about how proper self care is built on a foundation of entering in.  It's a foundation of feeling what there is to feel and then handling it appropriately (i.e. not drinking too much, swearing, yelling at everyone around you, or eating.  I know, right?).

Entering in.

Experiencing the feelings.

Not numbing them.

Because numbing them means you aren't feeling them. And the drinking, swearing, yelling, eating, and escaping is all about numbing.

Well, great. Now what? Entering in feels very, very scary. And very painful. And the opposite of what I really want to do.

So I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear. And then I feel a bit better for a while. And then I go back to work or I have to "Mom" again or I somehow start to feel . . . and then I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear.  And then the whole cycle starts over again.

And none of that is real or right or healthy or even all that helpful.

But there's a bigger problem.  And the bigger problem is that when you numb what hurts you also numb what heals.  Because numbing isn't self selective. You can't numb the bad without numbing the good.  You can't escape the pain without also escaping the pleasure.  At least that's what this TEDTalk lady said.  She says humanity is about allowing yourself to be vulnerable.  It's about entering in and sitting in the hurt and being honest about it.  And she says it's impossible to connect without that.

As I sat there in our staff meeting and thinking about what she said (and how much I really wished someone had brought doughnuts to that staff meeting), I realized something.  In the past I've written about my sensory processing disorder, and I've talked often about my own journey through postpartum depression and the meds and therapy that got me through that.  What I maybe haven't mentioned is that for over a year I also took an antidepressant prescribed by my doctor simply because my sensory issues don't really lend themselves to having children and momming. Nice, right?  So I dutifully took those pills, and I could make it through my days with work and kids and school and schedules.

And I made it through.  And I didn't cry so much.  And then I realized I didn't cry at all.  And I didn't really laugh that much either. And I didn't really have a desire to write anymore or even the words to write.  And I panicked when I realized I couldn't even really daydream.  So I quit taking them.  In my head I said, "Well, most writers are crazy. I'd rather have that crazy if it means I can create."  But the truth was that I just wanted to cry again.  I wanted to feel.

{Now I'm in no way advocating that everyone should get off their medication for depression or anxiety. I'm not even positive it was the right decision for me--and I definitely gained about 20 pounds, so one could argue I'm just doing a different kind of medicating--but it is something I needed to do.  I needed to feel.  BUT if you can't make it through your day and you can't enter in because you can't get out of bed, then you need to take something.  If you can't enter in because all you can think about is hurting yourself or total escape, then you need to take something.  If you can't enter in because you can't quiet your mind down enough to focus and breathe, then you need to take something.  Please keep taking your something, but do it under a doctor's care and with a therapist who can help you safely enter in.  And don't take yourself off your something without your doctor and your partner or close friends.  Please.}


Our pastor is currently preaching through a series on The Lord's Prayer.  A couple of weeks ago his message was on "Give us this day our daily bread."  Our daily bread.  What we need for today.  He read Exodus 16 to us and preached about that manna.  That "what is it?"  That literal daily bread.  Just enough for the one day.

I have so, so much.  And I still want more.  But He gave me Enough.  Because that's who He is.

Enough.

Not more than I need.  Not less than I need.  Enough.

During the message, our pastor asked, "What do you complain about the most?  What do you ask God for?  A life of ease?  A life of plenty?  Or for your daily needs to be met?"

That really hit me.

Do I complain about not having enough?  Do I complain about disappointment?  Do I complain about discomfort?  Or do I ask for my daily bread?  Do I ask for justice?  Do I ask for God's will?  Do I simply ask for more God?

Do I ask for Ease?

Or do I ask for Enough?

When I ask for enough rather than ease or escape then I find that I had enough to begin with.  That God, in His wisdom and knowing-all about my life, has already given me everything I need to enter in and rest in His enough.

Oh, it won't be easy.  And I'll have to stop overeating or self medicating in whatever way is right in front of me.  There will be pain, because that's what it means to be human.  There will be vulnerability, and there will be times when it is so awful I want to stop.  But when I enter in I will find that I have everything I need to make it through that day.

And I will laugh.

And I will cry.

And I will write.

And I will live.

(And hopefully I'll lose those 20 pounds.)

A: for Advent

I don't write enough.  I don't write enough to finish my novel or blog all my ideas.  I don't write enough to appease my sister, my mom, my husband, or my closest friends.  I don't write enough to be faithful to a calling on my life.  And I don't write enough to feed my soul.

A while back I came across a fun idea to blog through the alphabet.  I wanted to give it a go, but then I didn't.  And I didn't for so long that I wondered if I ever would.  Then an idea to write a post about something I read popped into my head, and in church this morning it dawned on me that it's an advent post, and advent starts with A.  So here we go.  (Hopefully you can read a post on zebras or zoology or ziplock baggies in December of 2016.  We'll call that a win.)

This has been a hard advent.

Family members have given up watching the news.  Eyes are regularly filled with tears threatening to spill.  People are dying, hate is filling the news . . . I met a woman who said she and her husband were talking about their children growing up and wondering what world would be here for the children they might have some day . . . and whether they should even have those children.  Life is hard.  And this advent doesn't feel much like a season of joyous anticipation.

Some advents are.  Some years the air is bursting with excitement as we count down the weeks until the Christ candle is lit and all the presents are ripped open.  It's more of a "Hey, you guys!  One more week down! Only three to go! Can you hardly wait?!"

But this year.  This year it's more of a pleading.  A "How long do we have to wait?  I don't know if I can do this another day, let alone another week.  Come, Lord Jesus. Why are you taking so long?"

My oldest daughter and I just finished reading the Harry Potter series together.  I loved them even more this time, reading them with her.  The 7th book was especially meaningful, and I love that we read it during advent.  There is a scene that caused those close tears to fall and my voice to catch so much I had to pause. My daughter looked at me when I did, both of us lying there in my bed.  She just looked up at me, and I smiled while the tears fell and said, "This is life. This is what keeps us going."  She smiled and nodded, and we read on.

A hundred dementors were advancing, gliding toward them, sucking their way closer to Harry's despair, which was like a promise of a feast . . .

He saw Ron's silver terrier burst into the air, flicker feebly, and expire; he saw Hermione's otter twist in midair and fade; and his own wand trembled in his hand, and he almost welcomed the oncoming oblivion, the promise of nothing, of no feeling . . .

And then a silver hare, a boar, and a fox soared past Harry, Ron, and Hermione's heads: The dementors fell back before the creatures' approach.  Three more people had arrived out of the darkness to stand beside them, their wands outstretched, continuing to cast their Patronuses: Luna, Ernie, and Seamus.

"That's right," said Luna encouragingly, as if they were back in the Room of Requirement and this was simply spell practice for the D.A. "That's right, Harry . . . come on, think of something happy . . ."

"Something happy?" he said, his voice cracked.

"We're all still here," she whispered, "we're still fighting. Come on, now . . ."

There was a silver spark, then a wavering light, and then, with the greatest effort it had ever cost him, the stag burst forth from the end of Harry's wand . . .                                    {Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, p649}

This has been a year, friends.  Mine started with my dad in surgery to remove cancer from his body.  Along the way between then and now, friends' parents have been lost, jobs have been taken, pregnancies have been deemed "high risk," Beirut, Paris, San Bernadino, Colorado, Oregon, airplanes have been blown out of the sky, and, just last week, a friend's 17-year-old daughter committed suicide.

Life is wearying, and this advent feels like more of a lament than a joy.

As the pastor said during last week's funeral, this in between is a hard place to live.  

It is, isn't it?  This in between when Jesus was born and died and resurrected and ascended and when Jesus comes again to set everything right can feel like hell on earth.  It feels never ending, and I worry sometimes that it may be all consuming.  This might be the death of us.

At least that's how it feels.

But then, there's someone there. Someone who stands next to me and whispers, "Did you see God right there?" Someone who lifts me up and helps me stand. Someone who says, "We're still here. And we're still fighting."

And then there's Hope.  

I was asked on Friday what is my happiness. "If you really knew me, you would know my happiness is . . ."

And my answer was, "Hope." 

My happiness is Hope.  This year, in the midst of all this darkness and fighting and lamenting and crying I quit taking my antidepressant. The main reason was crazy, foolish even perhaps.  But I also wanted to see if I could do it.  And so far I have.  Because my happiness is Hope.  It's seeing a glimmer of God, of His people fighting, of all of us together lamenting His advent.

On Friday I was also challenged to share my happiness.  So . . . I give you Hope.  I wish for you, in whatever your lament, Hope.  Deep-seated, rooted somewhere you can't even see Hope.

A Letter of Apology

A letter of apology, to my oldest daughter--

Dear one, I owe you an apology.  And I am very, very sorry.

There are so many places where I fall short in the eyes of the world or in the eyes I see in the mirror.

I am afraid when I should be brave.  I don't write enough.  Our house gets messy, and I fall behind on the laundry.  You know I hate to cook, so we eat out too much.  I have trouble saving our money, and we have more debt than we should.  I don't work out enough.  I eat too much ice cream.  I stay up too late.  And I sleep in too long.  I watch more TV than is healthy, and I let you do the same.  I don't spend as much time with Daddy as he deserves.  I choose other things over spending time in prayer and reading my Bible.  I yell at you for crazy things.  I have a hard time controlling my temper.  I don't like vegetables.

But somewhere along the line I did you a disservice.  Somewhere, somehow, I let you believe that those things are how I see myself.  I let you believe that I don't think I'm enough.  And then, that translated into you believing you aren't enough.

And, oh, my precious one.  You are.

You.

Are.

Enough.

You have those beautiful blue eyes and a great smile that makes them disappear.  I love your apple cheeks everyone says are mine.  You are smart and funny and caring.  You live up to your name because, like grace, you can make beauty out of ugly things.

I still remember when your preschool friend Lily's baby brother died right after he was born.  You waited for Lily to come back to preschool, and when she did, you held her hand and sat by her.  Because she needed you.  You were three, Baby.  Three.  But that shouldn't be a surprise, because I remember how you looked at Jerry lying in his casket when you were less than one year old.  You probably thought he was sleeping, except you looked at him like you saw him differently than the rest of us did.  And then you turned to Miss Nancy, and you reached for her to give her the love you had tucked in your tiny baby heart.  And, just last month, I watched you work through your frustration to figure out how to draw an elephant just in case you needed to remind our family that you have their backs.  Nobody loves more than you do, honey.

I love how much you love Ivy and your friends and reading and messy rooms and Marie Grace and Trixie Belden and sleeping in and riding your bike and Paris and not working hard.  I love that you don't like to fly but you still want to see the world and go to France some day.  I love getting to know the beautiful young woman you are becoming.

And I am sorry for not telling you that enough.  Because I am proud of who you are.  I am proud of you.  And I am proud to be your mom.

You are enough, Baby Girl.  Enough.  And you always will be, no matter what.

I wish I could see myself through your eyes, and I wish you could see yourself through mine.  Then you would sit up tall.  And you would take on the world like a mighty warrior.  Like a beautiful, mighty warrior.  Like a girl who loves like no one else can.  And you would proud to be you.

Reviewing: Wild in the Hollow

Wild in the Hollow
by Amber C. Haines

Subtitled "On Chasing DESIRE & Finding the Broken Way HOME," Wild in the Hollow is at times memoir and at others rambling essay.  I mean that in the best way possible.  Amber C. Haines's prose isn't always easy to follow, but hang in there--what she's saying is worth hearing.  And it's all beautiful.

Wild in the Hollow follows Haines's literal journey from her roots in the hollows of Alabama to her small house with acreage in Arkansas.  It also details her spiritual journey, lived through addiction and running from God to the ache of loneliness in the middle of a marriage and the art of pursuing His heart in the midst of personal dreams.  And with Haines's "soulful" way of writing, it's all stated matter-of-factly with no judgment and full transparency.

I enjoyed both journeys.  And I enjoyed seeing my own journey to find "home" in the pages.  As Haines reveals the culmination of her journey (to this point anyway) in her life, her marriage, her church, her friendships, her faith, and her parenting, I found myself in there as well.

Nobody writes like Amber C. Haines.  I'm telling you--even the acknowledgements contain nuggets I want to never forget.  She writes beautifully and vividly and honestly.


Disclosure: I received this book free through the Revell Reads Blog Tour program in exchange for my honest review.  I was not required to read a positive review, and all opinions expressed are my own.  I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255.

Empowered Through Pain

It's been an interesting 14 months for the Bierenga family.  I've alluded to some of our family's journey here and here and again here.  I have wrestled over the last year with how much to write, whether to write, and what to really say.  In the end, I still haven't written.  I know I will, because that's what I do.  But I still need a little more space to really climb into it.

At the same time, something settled in my brain on Monday that I have to share.  Then it will feel real, and public, and permanent (remember, that's true about the internet).

Monday dawned dark and early, and I was in a bed at my parents' house.  My parents were on their way out the door.  I needed to shower so my sister and I could join them in a curtained room in the surgical prep area of Hackley Hospital in Muskegon.  The morning was freezing cold, and we shivered our way to the hospital before the sun was even considering breaking the horizon.  We found my parents in the last "room" on our left.  Dad was lying in the bed, and Mom was sitting on a chair next to him.  We spent our time there together, just the four of us, for the first time in years really, now that Sara and I are married and have five kids between us.  We were together while the nurse prepped Dad, while the anesthesiologist talked with him, while Sara prayed for Dad and the surgeons and the cancer to go away, while the surgeon checked in with him, while the surgeon prayed for the surgery team, while I read a sad note from a friend whose battle with cancer is nearing its final days, while we laughed and took pictures and read comments from friends who are praying.

And then it was time for the team to walk him to the Operating Room.  Nearly eight years ago, my dad left for Iraq.  That goodbye was hard.  That goodbye was for 400 days and thousands of miles and time zones and bombs and war.  That was the hardest goodbye I've ever had with my dad.  This one nestled right up against it.  So much was riding on that bed.  My daddy was riding on that bed.  And how do you kiss him goodbye hoping and uncertain and wishing and dreaming and desperately loving?  We did it.

While we were waiting in the Family Waiting Area (while "The 700 Club" played on TV, so that wasn't super helpful), we all tried to occupy ourselves.  Sara worked on a training for work.  Mom read Facebook and played Candy Crush and Words with Friends.  I read a book for the Baker Bloggers Program.  And while I was reading, while the surgeons were collecting samples of my dad's insides for biopsy, while hundreds of people around the country were praying, while we were trying to distract ourselves, it hit me.

I was reading the section entitled "Experiencing God's Presence in Suffering, Loss, and Pain."  Kevin Harney wrote:

Suffering is suffering.  It is ours as we walk through it.  It invariably leads to tears, sorrow, heartache, and struggle.  It usually comes unannounced and we rarely know when it will leave.
Most of all, suffering can crush our faith or strengthen it.  The decision is ours.  Will I cling to Jesus through my pain and with tears streaming down my face?  Or will I turn my back and walk away from the only One who can carry me through?  Will I curse God or bless his name even if my teeth are clenched in agony as I worship?  Will I let the presence and power of God fill me to overflowing when I have nothing left to give, or will I seek to make it through in my own strength?
Powerful people seek to face suffering by relying on their own reserve of strength and tenacity.
The powerless throw in the towel as soon as the winds shift, long before the roof comes crashing down.
But the empowered hold the hand of Jesus and let his strength and presence carry them through the tempest of suffering, loss, and pain.  The empowered know that they can't weather the storms life will bring, but that the Maker of heaven and earth can place them under his wings and shelter them no matter what comes their way.

I read that, and then I looked up at my mom and my big sister, and I said, "I'm empowered.  And I'm empowered because we're empowered.  That's what you and Dad taught us."  And it's true.

Our faith isn't perfect.  My grandparents made their mistakes, but they instilled in my mom a faith that is her own.  And through their own struggles and journeys and heartaches my parents have given me a faith in the Maker of heaven and earth and His shelter and peace.

Just over 19 years ago, I left home.  I moved to a secular college because I wanted to forget my parents' faith and find my own.  During that time I made mistakes, and I said and did some hurtful things in my "enlightenment."  But I worked hard to build my faith.  And now there I was.  Sitting in a nondescript and uncomfortable waiting room while my dad underwent cancer surgery, and I realized that the faith I have is now my own, but it's also my parents'.   I'm empowered by the presence of God in the midst of my pain and suffering.  But every single day of the journey we have walked since November 2013 I have seen the same empowering written in my parents' words.  It's been in their strength, in their hope, in their peace, in their prayers.  That didn't change when Zack died.  It didn't change when my dad was pushed into retirement.  It didn't change when our house was broken into.  It didn't change when Dad was told he had cancer.  It didn't change while we waited in that room together.  It didn't change today when we were told that my dad's lymph nodes and all margins of his prostate are clear of cancer.  And I know without a doubt that it wouldn't have changed if we had been told his body was riddled with the disease.

Harney goes on to talk about being "propelled onward by the call and mission of God."  He says that our journey of faith is not really any different than Abraham's when he was still called Abram and he followed an unknown God from the land of his family into a new land where God would build His kingdom.  "Who follows God like this?" Harney writes.  "Abraham and Sarah.  Peter and Andrew.  You and me.  We hear his call.  He leads us on a mission day-by-day and moment-by-moment.  We go, not knowing where it will lead us but trusting the God who calls us to follow him."

And we do.  The journey might lead us through betrayal.  It might lead us through the valley of the shadow of death.  It might lead us through cancer or job loss or the breakdown of a family.  But through all of that, the good and the bad, through the pain and the joy, we live with a tenacious faith that knows "God can see the end of the road even when [we] can't."

Thanks, Mom and Dad.  Thanks for lending me your faith when I was a little girl.  Thanks for letting me go off and try to build my own faith.  And thanks for letting me find a faith that was yours all along.

Reviewing: Empowered By His Presence

Empowered By His Presence: Receiving the Strength You Need Each Day
by Kevin G. Harney

Wow.  This is a great book.  The format, the content, the application--all of it is a wonderful tool for the Christian's journey.

Kevin Harney breaks this book down into a four-week devotional journey (for individuals, small groups, or churches) consisting of a short reading six days a week and a "for further study" portion that can be broken down throughout the week or used for more in-depth study and discussion on the 7th day.  In his introduction, Harney discusses power, its origins in our lives, and its usefulness in our lives.  He also notes there are three types of people: powerful, powerless, and empowered.  Our goal as Christians is to live lives that are empowered by the presence of God and the Holy Spirit.

Through each of the four sections--"Experiencing God's Presence in Suffering, Loss, and Pain"; "Encountering God in the Community of His People"; "Empowered for the Journey by Receiving God's Rest"; and "Propelled Onward by the Call and Mission of God"--Harney tells a story of someone in the Bible and often someone from current times to demonstrate the empowering of God for each step of everyday life.  He then concludes every day's reading with a description of how the powerful, powerless, and empowered individual would respond in that situation.

I found these descriptions to be incredibly helpful.  I tend to be self-critical and read books like this from a place of exhaustion recognizing (and quickly becoming overwhelmed by) all the steps I have to take to "arrive" at some impossible pinnacle of piety.  In reading Empowered, I found each day's reading to be in turns challenging and affirming and encouraging.  Then, reading the descriptions I was able to find myself in each reading and note where I need to work to deepen my dependence on God and His power for my day.  Sometimes I was surprised to see where I fell; other times I was encouraged.  Every time I was challenged by the faith of those who have gone before me and the desire to rest in God's power to meet the needs in my own life and in those around me.  The best news of all is that this power exists and is available to each of us . . . and it is the same power and spirit that dwelt within Christ and empowered Him for His daily journey.


Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers (www.bakerbooks.com/bakerbooksbloggers) program.  The opinions I have expressed are my won, and I was not required to write a positive review.  I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255 (http://www.access.gpo.gov/nara/cfr/waisidx_03/16cfr255_03.html).

Reviewing: The Making of an Ordinary Saint

The Making of an Ordinary Saint: My Journey from Frustration to Joy with the Spiritual Disciplines
by Nathan Foster

Three brief moments of disclosure before I begin:
1) This book took me months to read. That was all on me.  I slowly and carefully digested each word.  I'm certain it could have been read faster, but I couldn't do it.
2) I haven't read Celebration of Discipline by Richard Foster.  Still, I have my preconceived notions about the spiritual disciplines and Richard Foster's beautiful (and comical) use of antonyms in his title.
3) One of my dearest friends edited this book.  She knows me well enough to know that means nothing as to my liking this book.

Now.  On to the review.

Nathan Foster is the son of Richard Foster, whom I have always referred to as "The Disciplines Guy."   Richard's famous book Celebration of Discipline was published when I was one year old and has always felt like a daunting, "must-do" task for me if I want to be a true Christian.  I'm not sure anyone put that on me besides me, but it has always sat there nonetheless.  So, when my editor friend told me what she was working on, I was skeptical and intrigued.  Then I got my hands on the book.  And I spent the next three months eating, chewing, laughing, wiping away tears, nodding my head, and shaking my head in amazement.

For starters, I was glad to find out I wasn't the only one who found the concept of the spiritual disciplines as a formidable but essential checklist in order to reach true Christian status.  Richard Foster's own son felt that way too!  And, in much the same words my own pastor father would use, Richard gently explained to his son (and to the reader--in a coup we get "The Spiritual Disciplines Guy" AND his "Skeptical About the Disciplines Son"!): "This isn't supposed to hurt.  It's not supposed to be a checklist about succeeding or failing.  It's supposed to be about choosing God."

With candid honesty, vulnerable humility, and well-sprinkled humor, Nathan Foster details his four-year journey with the spiritual disciplines.  It's a journey from fear, trepidation, and duty to freedom, love, and joy.  Through his journey, Foster makes approachable what has long felt daunting.  And he helps his reader see the secret Richard Foster tried to share with us all along:

It isn't about twelve rigid practices; in fact, as I go about each day, there are so many simple ways I can intentionally direct my will and actions toward God.  While the categories are helpful, they are only constructed to enable us to frame our experiences.  In a sense there is only one discipline: an active response to a loving God. (p191)

And, in that learning to actively respond to a loving God, through Richard Foster's introductions to each chapter, Nathan Foster's prosaic explanations of his practical implementation of each discipline (sometimes accidental, always simple, and never with mundane results), and a brief essay on a "mother or father" of the faith who lived that discipline daily, we see that this really is practical.  It really is about responding actively to a loving God.  It really is about choosing joy and choosing love and seeing God and needing Him and wanting Him more than anything else.

I'll read this book again.  Next time it won't be for an assignment or with a deadline I already missed.  It will be with a journal and a plan to actively and intentionally walk this journey on my own.


Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers (www.bakerbooks.com/bakerbooksbloggers) program.  The opinions I have expressed are my won, and I was not required to write a positive review.  I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255 (http://www.access.gpo.gov/nara/cfr/waisidx_03/16cfr255_03.html).

Reviewing: Steel Will

Steel Will
Staff Sgt (RET) Shilo Harris with Robin Overby Cox


Shilo Harris is one of the many veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars who have come home with scars from wounds that anyone who comes across them can easily see.  In fact, his scars are hard to avoid.  Harris was riding in a Humvee that was blown up by an IED while he and his men were clearing a road referred to as Metallica.  The blast caused his ears, part of his nose, and some of his fingers to be blown off, and the heat and flames from the ensuing fire burned much of his body.  Due to the nature of these wars, wounds like this are nothing new.  Harris and Cox detail many of them--all horrifying to imagine, but some gut wrenching to endure through Cox's almost too-vivid descriptions--in Steel Will.

What makes Staff Sgt. (RET) Shilo Harris different from many veterans is that he has chosen to talk about his journey.  Steel Will is subtitled "My Journey Through Hell to Become the Man I was Meant to Be."  This is an accurate description for the road he walked--he describes the flames and the heat so intense it caused ammunition in the Humvee to discharge and his uniform to melt into his body--and a figurative one as well.  Harris doesn't shy away from sharing his own growing pains and mistakes as he grew up in the home of a Vietnam vet suffering from undiagnosed and self-medicated PTSD.  He also doesn't shy away from his own selfishness as a young adult and the pain those choices caused for the people around him.  So it's no surprise that he doesn't sugar coat the realities of living through his medically-induced coma as his body struggled to heal, the impact of his new life on his family, his guilt over surviving, the cost of his activism, and his children's desire to protect him from stares while they are together in public.

And, through it all, the missteps, the pain, the hell on earth, the hell in his mind, the suicidal thoughts, Harris credits God with helping him endure.  I expected faith to play a bigger, more active role in the story Harris and Cox lay out in Steel Will.  Instead, it is sort of an underlying theme.  And, true to his willing transparency, the faith often belongs to Harris's wife.  When he doesn't have his own, he draws on hers.  When he can't draw on hers, he humbly draws on his young daughter's.  In the end, the steel will to endure might not belong to Shilo Harris.  It might belong instead to Kathreyn and Elizabeth Harris.

As the daughter of a former National Guard chaplain who survived my father's deployment to Iraq--a deployment that brought home a different father than he brought over--I can recognize that there are no unwounded soldiers.  And there are no unwounded soldiers' families.  Being one of those, this was a hard book to read.  I read portions of it to my husband, and he asked me to stop.  The descriptions turned his stomach.  But you know what?  Those are the costs of freedom.  When we don't have family members or friends or neighbors who serve, it gets easy to debate the merits or horrors of war as theory.  When we read a book like Steel Will we are forced to confront them.  I think that even though it's hard, this is a book well worth reading.  It's worth it to understand just a bit about where our soldiers and their families are and what they endure.  It's also worth it to see that in our own ways, God brings each of us through a hell in order to make us into the people we were meant to be.  And when it gets too hard to endure, He gives us the steel will of the faith of those around us to help us make it.


Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers program. The opinions I have expressed are my own, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.

A Dying Man, Giving Up the Fight

My blog takes its title from a song by Sarah Hart (Amy Grant also covered it).  I find the song beautiful, and it truly captures my heart--sometimes, perhaps always, honesty is the best hallelujah we can offer.  It's the strength and beauty of a crocus popping through the spring snow.  It's the mother crying her baby back to sleep in the middle of the night.  It's the husband laying his wife of 50 years to rest.  It's broken.  But it's honest, and it's beautiful.  And that broken honesty is better than a hallelujah.

In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.

We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make.  And our tears were better than a hallelujah.

We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that.  But we still walked.  One foot in front of the other.  A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh.  And then a whispered prayer.  And then a sob.

And then the phone rang.

My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years.  One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack.  Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me.  He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had.  Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq.  You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do.  So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad.  Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life.  This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great.  We'll take it.  And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.

Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq.  We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch.  For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay.  He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well.  But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.

We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son.  A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost.  As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death.  Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did.  And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers.  There was a rifle salute and taps.  The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body.  He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.

And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can."  We did.  We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.

 But the memories . . . we can carry those further.  There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack.  Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared.  None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva.  And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself.  I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him.  Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.

Because that was Zack.  He was beautiful, and he was broken.  And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight."  He was tired, so he went Home.  And he was greeted with arms open to catch him.  To hold him while he rests.  And it is better than a hallelujah.

Overexposed

This is me.  Baring my soul.  It's easier to do when I'm sitting at Starbucks and you're wherever you are, and I don't need to look at you.

For a while now I have been thinking about writing this.  Many of my friends have heard me share bits and pieces, and they take it with varying degrees of acceptance, humor, and belief.  I love them anyway.  Because it's weird.  Like face blindness and other random mental disorders diseases conditions, a lot of people don't think I'm telling the truth or think it's just an excuse or something everyone lives with. 

Here's my reality: It hurts to cut my toenails.  I can't wear nylons.  When headlights shine in my eyes when I'm driving at night, I want to hit something.  I don't like the taste of the candy coating on brown M&Ms.  When my kids are poking me and people are whispering and the overhead light is flickering and someone behind me is tapping his foot and my necklace is laying wrong on my neck, I feel like someone is inside me clawing to get out.  I have a sensory processing disorder.

Most of my life was spent in the dark about it.  I thought I was just sensitive.  My parents thought I was just being dramatic.  People saw me and thought I was fine, but I knew that I wanted to run and hide.  Or hit someone.  Or throw up.  Or just sit down and cry.

Several years ago, my husband bought a book for me.  It is called Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight.  He bought it for me because he loves me and because he thought it sounded exactly like me.  I read it.  And I cried.  For the first time, I discovered that it was real, that I was real.  That I could trust what I was feeling.  And I learned that while I couldn't cure it, I could cope with it.  And I could tell people about it.

I've spent the last several years doing that.  Telling people.  Often it's in an apologetic way: "I'm sorry, but I can't eat that--it's too spicy for me."  Sometimes it's in a defensive way: "Well, it's spicy to me."  Other times it's in a pleading way: "Please.  I'm overwhelmed right now.  I need a break."  For the most part, people are kind, and usually they want to learn more about it or say that maybe that's the same thing their nephew has.  Some people even want to know how they can help.  But there are others (of course there are) who say, "Yeah--those things bother me too.  I just shut them out."  or "Well, if you try hard enough you can get over it." or even "Right.  You just always need things to be your way." 

Listen, that's hurtful.  I didn't choose to be this way, and I promise you that I would change it if I could.  I wish I could eat spicy things or onions.  It would make me feel like less of a problem.  I wish I could sit in a hot tub.  I wouldn't miss out on the fun or wreck other people's plans for the evening.  I wish I could "tune out" the nylons or the necklace or the pretty sweater.  I would be able to wear the latest fashions then.  I wish I could be around my kids when they're "just being kids" and not feel overwhelmed.  I would feel like a better mother.

At the same time, there are things about it that I would never give up.  Did you know that Asiago Cheese Bread from D&W has so much flavor that it doesn't need butter or anything else?  Do you know that the red M&Ms are actually a bit sweeter than any of the other colors?  Do you recognize the smell of snow on the air days before it falls?  Can you smell spring when the first thaw begins?  Are you able to picture exactly where you set something down or the song that was playing the last time you were in this spot?  Can you (almost always) notice when someone gets a haircut or new glasses? 

When people ask me what it's like to have a sensory processing disorder, I never know what to say.  I never know how to compare my response to a "normal" response, because I've never had a normal response.  Everyone has days when they're overwhelmed, and Disney World puts everyone over the edge at some point in their stay.  All I've ever known to say is that it's real, I have it, and I need a break. 

Then I read The Lifeboat by Charlotte Rogan.  Without knowing it, she gave me the words to explain--to myself and to the people around me--exactly what a sensory processing disorder does.  On page 64, Grace Winter is recalling the Empress Alexandra and the passengers she met aboard.  She writes about memory and refers to a scientific explanation for why memory is faulty.  Then she suggests that "sometimes . . . the failure to remember is not so much a pathological tendency as a natural consequence of necessity, for at any one moment there are hundreds of things that could take a person's attention, but room for the senses to notice and process only one or two."

Ah.  There you have it.  That is normal.  The senses notice and process only one or two of the things happening around them.  But, in my "abnormal" brain, my disordered sensory processing system notices all of the hundreds and tries to process all of them at once.  Then I have to shut down or explode or melt down. 

It's real.  And lately I've been overstimulated 99% of the time.  Today I'm wearing my lightest necklace, and I still feel a bit panicky.  My skin itches and my shoes feel like they're cutting off my circulation.  Something burned in the kitchen at Starbucks and the coffee has been sitting in the carafe for too long.  The guy next to me is wearing a cologne that doesn't suit me, and there's a drip in the sink.  It would be helpful if they turned the music down and if the girls at the table over there stopped their chatting.  The bathroom door needs to be oiled, and I wish the only open seat when I arrived didn't have windows on both sides of it.  Oh, and to top it all off, the people waiting in line are kissing.  Loudly.  I'll manage--one of the open tabs on my browser will give instructions for a friend and me to make a weighted blanket to help me center again, and I found really great perfume that seems to get me back to zero--but it's a daily battle. 

I nearly called this post "Living in This 'Too Loud Too Bright Too Fast Too Tight' World," but in the end I chose something even more appropriate.  Overexposed--that's how my nerve endings and my brain feel every day.  And that's especially how I feel now that I've shared all of this.  I'm telling you it's hard to be a mom with a sensory processing disorder.  It's hard when I recognize it in my middle daughter and when our responses clash.  But I'm learning to cope.  And I'm learning to share it with others just like I would tell them if I couldn't hear well and needed them to speak up.  There's no cure for what I have, but if you'll be patient with me and if you'll believe me when I share my heart and if you'll ask me before you hug me, then maybe we'll both discover that there are so many wonderful things that my disordered brain can offer.

The Twenty-seventh Sabbath

I'm not in church (proper) again this Sabbath.  I was raised in church and going to church and playing church and never taking a Sunday off of church.  We even went to church when we were on vacation.  As I've grown older, I find myself taking a few Sundays off here and there.  Maybe I'm learning that breaks (Sabbath rests?) are important here and there.  Maybe I understand that 90 degrees is too hot for an outdoor chapel, and it feels silly to drive back to town to go to an air conditioned church.  Maybe I'm justifying.

Whatever the reason, today finds me in my third Sunday off in 2012.  My kids and my husband are at church today, and I'm at the cottage.  So I have spent this Sabbath sleeping in, eating an unhealthy (but lifelong favorite) breakfast, finishing a book, blogging, catching up on Facebook, catching up on my Bible reading, and reading friends' blogs from the past few days.  In a bit I'll go for a ride as I wait for my family to arrive.

So, instead of a hymn today, I'll share two blog posts I read today that have served as my sermon for today.  I know I'll ponder them throughout the day and coming week, and I hope that they serve to change my way of thinking--and acting--for the rest of my life.  Just like any other good sermon.

My friend Amy, writes for her therapy.  Today, she issues a reminder to trust in God.  To leave things--worries, our days--in His hands.

A friend from high school wrote a heart-wrenching post on her blog.  She's a gifted writer, and here, she takes this mother's heart into a moment no parent should have to endure but too many do.  By doing that, she reminds us to keep our eyes on our children even while we are trusting God to have them desperately and securely held in His grip.

Be blessed on this Sabbath--whether you are keeping it in church or in reflection on the amazing gifts you have received from your Abba.

Enduring Injustice

I recently had a conversation with a friend about something that happened more than a year ago.  As is often the case in broken relationships, there was misunderstanding, heartache, and injustice.  And a lot of pain.  But, at the same time, there is a glimmer of God working.

There are times in our lives when we have to endure injustice.  Life isn't fair.  Relationships hurt.  We get blamed for things we didn't do.  Our relationships end, and our hearts break.  We want to rise up and defend ourselves.  We want to make it right again or at least make sure people know we aren't who or what we've been accused of being.

Surely there are times when we are allowed to do that.  We get to defend ourselves in court--with integrity--and we can certainly speak to our motives or explain the reasons behind our actions. 

But there are perhaps more times when we are called to endure injustice with grace and courage.

For it is better, if it is God’s will, to suffer for doing good than for doing evil. For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, to bring you to God.  (I Peter 3:17b-18)

And that's what it all comes down to.  When you have done the right thing, when you have spoken the truth in love, when you are taking the fall so that someone else doesn't have to . . . when it's God's will.  That's the point where you endure. 

It hurts to be wrongfully accused.  It hurts like hell to lose relationships that matter.  But when you can see that good is happening, that God is still in control, that He is moving, then it's all worth it. 

May I always be more than willing to suffer injustice for the greater good of God's master plan. 

May I see that in those times I have the opportunity to be Christ to those around me.  He suffered the ultimate injustice--His death--for the greater good--our lives. 

And may I never stop praying for reconciliation and healing in broken relationships . . . all in His good time.

A Reason to Celebrate

So . . . in case you haven't heard, it's my special day today.  On this day in (35-year) history, I was born.  It was 10:10 a.m. Pacific Time.  I don't know if I was early or late or right on time, but I know I was born when my dad was home from his few days on/few days off schedule on an island off the coast of California with the US Navy, and I was born at the perfect time to give my parents an anniversary steak dinner.  No, really.  The hospital where I was born gave the happy new parents a steak dinner the night before they were discharged from the hospital, and that just happened to be their anniversary.  Their fifth anniversary.  I've no doubt been an eternal gift to them. 

Let me be clear--I love my birthday.  I'm high maintenance, so I love that this is a day about me.  I love to receive gifts, and I love to have fun.  So, yeah.  I'm not going to hide it.  It's my birthday.  Give me a day to celebrate it!  :)

• I slept in this morning.  It was nice to have the girls go downstairs on their own and sit nicely without fighting--until I got downstairs, anyway.
• Red Robin seems to be the place we McDowells celebrate our birthdays.  Because that Banzai Burger is just so good.
• This morning I volunteered at field day at Ellie's school.  And I had a fantastic time playing with the parachute with all of the 1st and 2nd graders.
• Last night I "rang in my birthday" (well, within a couple of hours) with my book club at The Score listening to live music from Outer Vibe.  Thanks to Marianne for my yummy beverages and to Ashley, Stephanie, Marianne, and Courtney for the laughs and the hoarse voice I have today.
• I really like cheesecake.  Thanks to Eric for making it for our board meeting tonight.
• Hearing three little voices say, "Happy birthday, Mommy!" is one of the coolest things in the world.  Especially when one of them bursts through the bathroom door, interrupting your shower in this fashion: "Happy birthday, Mommy! I need to poop."
• For my birthday lunch I treated myself to a salad and tapioca pudding from Forest Hills Foods.  Yum.
• I took a nap today.  It was a birthday nap, because 35 is a bit old to spend two hours playing with a parachute.
• Beau gave me a quirky road trip guide and the Jericho Complete Series DVDs.  Great gifts.  Great gifts.
• I received more than 100 birthday greetings because of Facebook.  I started to respond to each of them when there were only 30.  Then I felt like I had to keep going.  That was a lot of responses.
• It was really fun to read all the "Happy Birthday" messages from family members I've known my whole life, friends I've had for 30 years, and friends I've had for less than 30 days.
• I used to think that my cousin Michael was WAY older than me.  Today I realized that he is only 40 . . . how'd he get so much cooler and smarter than me in those five years?
• I was also surprised to see that my parents aren't that much older than me.  At 25, those 25 years felt like a lot.  At 35, not so much.
• It would have been really nice if the Tigers had realized that things are meant to go my way on my special day.  A win shouldn't have been too much to ask--especially when Verlander was on the mound.
• This afternoon I was packing for our Memorial Day trip to the lake, and I heard the phone ringing downstairs.  I ran down to hear Addie and Megan shouting, "Daddy caught a deer!  Daddy caught a deer!  On his way home from work!"  Thinking he must have HIT a deer, I called frantically returned his call.  No deer.  My kids might be crazy.
• For the first time in my life I got a gift of money for my birthday, and I have no clear idea of how I'll spend it.  I'm sure I'll find a way, but there's nothing "pressing" for it.
• Next Tuesday I'm giving blood with a coworker in memory of her friend's baby who passed away at only a few days old.  I'm also giving it because it's my birthday, and I can so I should.
• I can't actually believe it's my birthday.  I still feel like it should be February.
• This may be the hottest birthday on (my) record.  The temps make it feel like it might be July 24.
• Some birthdays have been memorable for their events (a surprise birthday party instead of dinner at Logan's with Julie) and some have been memorable for their simplicity (opening a Barbie cat and travel cage at some hotel on the way to Duncan, BC, when I turned 7).  This one ranks with the simplicity, and I love it for that.
• Tomorrow I leave for my parents' cottage for a relaxing weekend at the lake.  And more celebrations. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for having me at the end of May where I always get a three- to four-day weekend to celebrate my special day.  :)
• So far I've had a birthday sundae from Red Robin, a birthday cheesecake from Eric and New City Neighbors, and birthday tapioca pudding from Forest Hills Foods.  Tomorrow I'll get some birthday ice cream from the Sandy Pines ice cream store.  Saturday I'll get some birthday peach pie from Grand Traverse Pie Company.  And Tuesday morning I'll get my butt to the gym at 5:00 a.m. to work all that off.
• My mom, my dad, and my sister all called me to sing "Happy Birthday" today.  And they each called separately and sang in varying degrees of loudness.  It was great.

So far I've been alive for 12,784 days.*  If I live an average life, I have another 15,340 days* left.  I pray that they are even half as wonderful and beautiful and magical as this first half of my life has been.  If they are, I shall be a blessed girl indeed.


*Please note: Math has never been my strong suit.  I have attempted to adjust for leap years, but I don't fully understand them and may have royally screwed that up.

Accepting the Bad With the Good

At one point or another in my life, I imagine I have read the entire Bible.  I remember being in high school (probably middle school, too) and reading a chapter or two with my family after dinner each night.  (Remember when families actually ate meals together every night?  And then they did devotions?)  Like most people, I find some chapters of the Bible--some books of the Bible--more meaningful interesting easy to read than others.  And, like most books I've read, some have become my favorites.

I love Philippians.  Some day I'd like to commit it all to memory--I have a good start because of Aaron Wetzel and my days in Higher Ground.  As crazy as it sounds, I'd have to say that Job is my second favorite book.  It's long, and there's a fair amount of doom and gloom, so I'm not committed to memorizing it, but it's good nonetheless.

As I'm continuing to catch up to the end of May (how did that happen?!) in my Bible reading plan, I finally arrived in Job.  And, like every time, I was struck by its beginning.  Not by the part where Satan and God are talking, and God is bragging up Job.  Not by the part where God allows Satan to--with some parameters--strip Job of all of his security and wealth and love.  The part where Job says (as written in The Message):

Naked I came from my mother's womb,
naked I'll return to the womb of the earth.
God gives, God takes.
God's name be ever blessed.
(Job 1:21)

God's name be ever blessed.  Ever blessed.  No matter what.  No matter what my life looks like or how much money I have in the bank or how healthy I or my children am.  No matter what; God's name be ever blessed.

I know that I've shared this before, but I have a child who resides in heaven.  Baby Zion would be two years and seven months old if it had lived.  Addison, Zion's twin, is that old.  She is exuberant and loving and adorable and giving.  She is so grown up.  She is life, where Zion is not.  I have to remember, some days, that Zion was God's to give and God's to take away.  Like everything else in my life, God gives, God takes, and God's name be ever blessed.

The important thing to note from Job is that while he is committed to blessing God's name--no matter what--he isn't committed to a grief-free life.  He isn't committed to never crying, to never tearing his clothes and sitting in sackcloth and ashes.  He isn't committed to laughing in the face of death and destruction.  He's just committed to God. 

So am I.  There are days, moments, that I still cry.  Last night, my two oldest girls gave me mini pink roses from a neighbor's miniature rose bush.  As with the last time I received two pink roses, one was open, and one was closed almost to a bud.  That was a celebration of the birth of Addison and (unknown to the giver) a memorial to a baby who didn't live.  My girls knew nothing of that and were each given a little rose to give me.  It just happened to bring a tear to my eye.  That happens, and it will continue to happen.  I get to cry about it, because part of my heart isn't here.  My family isn't all together.  God gave, and He took away.  That hurts.

We are told repeatedly that Job never sinned. He never cursed God or turned against Him. So the sin isn't the crying or the loss or the grief. The sin is in turning my back on God.  I don't understand His ways.  I don't understand why He would tell us that we had lost our child in the same breath that we were told we'd had a second baby.  I don't get it.  And it hurts.  But may God's name be ever blessed.

Untying from the Mundane

I've had several conversations with different people lately, and all of our talks have circled around the same theme.  The content may have varied--from "dying a slow death" to "need to get away" to "can't do this anymore"--but they have all been born out of weariness.  It all came to a head for me the other day, when I was struggling to catch back up with my scripture reading, and I read Jesus' words in John 8:23.

But let me start a few days before that.

A dear new bride came to see me, because she was exhausted--both physically and emotionally.  She said she needed some encouragement, and she was hoping I'd have something to share.  My first tips--and the only things I have found that enable me to sleep with another person in my bed--were practical: earplugs and Tylenol PM.  That can take care of the physical exhaustion quickly. 

The emotional stuff . . . yeah, since the "dying a slow death" and "need to get away" and "can't do this anymore" may have all come from my mouth, I'm not sure I can help with that.

See, here's the thing.  My newlywed friend, my young mom friends, and I all have something in common.  None of us are in a place where things are changing or exciting, and it's entirely possible probable that none of us are in the spot where we thought we'd be in our early 20's late 20's mid 30's(!).  I'm tired.  I'm tired of not working in my dream job, I'm tired of fighting with my kids, I'm tired of cleaning up the exact same messes every day and being able to tell you what I'll be doing next Wednesday at 3:30 pm because it's what I'm doing EVERY day at 3:30 pm.  It wears on you.

As I talked with my young friend, though, something dawned on me.  Last week Monday night, I went to the seminary graduation of a man who is like a brother to my husband.  We have been friends with him and his wife for 12 years now, and he spent part of his seminary years as an intern at our church.  His wife is my DearWriterFriend who wants to be my DearPublisherFriend and who helped me realize what I want to be when I grow up.  It dawned on me that if my husband and I hadn't bought our current house 11 1/2 years ago and been stuck here for all these years, maybe none of that would have happened.

Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself.  When we bought our house in November 2000, it was meant to be for 5-6 years.  We were never meant (we thought) to still be here when we had school-aged children.  Instead, we've stayed.  And it has been a source of annoyance and frustration for me for the last several years.  But God hasn't let us go.  Now, there could be a number of reasons for that, but maybe this is one of them.

Aaron and Wendy moved to Oregon several years ago to be youth pastors at a small church on the coast.  We left our church to look for a new church family.  When we found out we were pregnant, we decided we needed to find a Calvinist church that would fit our family's doctrine.  Since there is a Reformed church at the end of our road, we decided to visit there.  We found our home.  And we bragged it up.  While Aaron and Wendy were in Oregon, we continued to talk about our wonderfully urban-involved and reconciliation-focused and Biblically-rooted church, and God began to birth in Aaron the calling to be a senior pastor.  When it came to be time for him to choose a seminary, he chose Western Theological Seminary in Holland, MI, and they chose our church to be their home.  Wendy took her old job at a local publishing house, and she began to push me to pursue my dream of being a published writer.  (She's pretty good at nagging, right, Aaron?)

Now, Aaron is a graduate, and they are looking for a new church home--this time one with Aaron as the pastor.  Someday soon, God will bless a congregation (local, I hope!) with a pastor who has a heart for urban ministry and reconciliation and bringing Jesus to people . . . a heart that was maybe affirmed and encouraged at our great church.  And I, for the first time in my adult life, have peace about what I want to be when I grow up.  And if we hadn't lived here in this same house, maybe none of that would have happened.

What's the point?  Who knows what God is planning, or what He is doing in our every days?  Maybe none of what I said is true--maybe God would have brought Aaron and Wendy to our church and me to professional peace without any of that.  But the point is that we just don't know.  And when you start to think that He just might be working through my boring every day, through my being stuck in this place, in this house, in this mundane reality, it all feels just a little bit less boring and stuck and mundane.

So how did it all hit home?  In these words, that I should have read on May 7, the day of Aaron's graduation and three days before my conversation with a young bride:

Jesus said, "You're tied down to the mundane; I'm in touch with what is beyond your horizons.  You live in terms of what you see and touch.  I'm living on other terms." (John 8:23, The Message: Remix)

It probably would have come easier if I'd read it when I should have.

A Lesson from my Dad

Because The Eighteenth Sabbath reminded me of my dad and one of the most important lessons a girl could ever learn, here is that lesson for all of you, too. 

In July 1989, my dad took a call at 36th Street CRC in Wyoming, MI.  It meant a family move to Grand Rapids from South Dakota.  It also meant I would start 7th grade in a new town, at a new school, with no one that I had ever met before.  My sister was in high school, so she had to go to school to register on a Monday.  I wouldn't start until Tuesday, so my dad took me to Meijer on Clyde Park to pick up a few things for school. 

Riding in the car with my dad has always meant listening to music, and it's usually meant listening to it loudly.  That's what we were doing that day.  It must have been 99.3 (WJQK), because WCSG (91.3) usually played sleepy music in the late '80s and early '90s, and WAYFM didn't exist yet.  We had just pulled into the parking lot, when a song by DeGarmo & Key came on.  My dad had me sit and listen to it, and then he said, "This will get you through tomorrow and every other day, kiddo.  If God is for you, then no one else matters."

It's a hard lesson to learn and an even harder lesson to remember.  When the pressures of the world stack up, and I feel like I don't measure up, the last thing I'm thinking about is that it doesn't matter what others think, because God is for me.  It's easier to think that if I was just something more, something different, then the world would be nicer to me.  But, the truth remains: if God is for us, who could be against us?  No power on earth can take His love away.

When you rest in that, you can truly rest.  Thanks, Daddy.  It really does get me through every day.

Finding the Strength to Come Back

Here they are.  The thoughts inspired by Beyond Belief: Finding the Strength to Come Back, Josh Hamilton's memoir. 

Addiction.  It comes in so many forms and starts for so many reasons.  I know people who are alcoholics in varying states of recovery, and I have a dear friend who is a recovering drug addict.  It's not something that I have always understood.  At the same time, I have always tried to understand.  But I figured that I'd never live it, so I would never really get it.

And then, over the past several months, I have come to understand myself in a different way.  I have come to see that while I smoked a handful of cigarettes when I was 16 but never became a smoker, while I drink a few times a month and have gotten drunk a couple of times over the last 14 years but never became an alcoholic, and while I have never used an illegal drug or misused a prescription drug, I am still an addict.  It's hard to admit, but I seriously have a problem with food.  In his memoir, Josh talked about being both an alcoholic and a drug addict.  He said that he needs to completely avoid alcohol, because he is unable to stop at just one drink.  In 2009, he had a very public relapse that began with a late-night dinner at a pizza place and the question, "What could one drink hurt?" 

For me it is a question of what can one bag of jelly beans hurt?  What can one fast food meal hurt?  What can one run through Culver's hurt?  And then it goes further than that, because I struggle with self control.  What can sleeping in one morning hurt?  What can one day away from my Bible reading hurt?  What can one lapse in self-discipline hurt?  For me, the answer is a lot.  The answer is that it's never just one day.  Because I'm an addict.

I hope that I'm not belittling the damages that are caused by alcohol and drug addictions.  I'm certainly not trying to do so.  I know that those addictions destroy families and careers and lives.  I know that food addictions don't do that.  At least not normally.  From time to time, though, they do.  I hope it doesn't for me.  I'm certainly not the healthiest person around, but I am also not in real danger of dying because of my addiction.  At least not at this point.  But I've seen it in people.  I've seen food consume them.  I've seen an extra-large casket at a funeral.  I know that it can happen.

But beyond the physical problems from addictions, there is a deeper issue.  There's the fact that this isn't what I was created for.  There's the fact that God wants one lord of my life, and it's Him.  It's not cocaine or Jack Daniels or Burger King.  It's Him.  It's Him. 

I had a bad month.  My husband may have witnessed that, but there is also a lot that I did in secret this month.  I hate it.  I hate that I did it.  I hate that I relapsed.  But I love that I can come back.  I love that His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

I read Beyond Belief at an interesting time.  The copy that I read has an extra chapter, updating readers on Hamilton's relapse in 2009.  I finished the book and looked Josh up online only to discover that he relapsed again early this month.  What heartbreak.  And then to read some of the negative comments that people are writing about him and even to him . . . why?  Why?  Because it's hard to admit that something could have so much power over you?  Because it's easier to judge him and find him a failure than to take a look at the addictions in your own life?  This was a horrible month for me.  It was set off by a new medication that erased the weight I lost in January.  I decided that meant it erased all the hard work I'd done and decided to cash it all in.  I couldn't see how it was worth it, so I barely worked out, and I ate what I wanted.  I'm embarassed to have to face what I did to myself this month and how I ended up back where I said I never wanted to go again.  But that's addiction.  That's relapsing.  That's life.  Thank God there's grace.

I believe that Josh Hamilton is a public figure representing the private battles so many of us face.  No matter the addiction, no matter the number of relapses, no matter the person, there's power in facing it.  There's power in acknowledging it.  There's power in getting back up to start all over.  So this becomes a new month for me.  This becomes a learning experience and another step in my journey--another page in my story.  I have the strength to come back, in the exact same place where I found the strength for day one: in admitting that I am hopeless on my own and hope-filled in Him.