Hope

I started the Christmas season with a bang.  I love this time of year, I really do.  I go full-on jingle the day after Thanksgiving.  Decorating, clothing, gifting, baking--you name it, I'm doing it.  I get down and I get busy.  I want to spread the cheer, spread the message of Jesus Christ, and spread the hope.

I love traditions--and I'll admit it, I'm a bit of a control freak, so I usually do the majority of the decorating and baking.  This year, when it overwhelmed me and Noah took over--I cringed at first, but man, he really did an amazing job.  I told him that was the best gift he could give me.  This is what I want my kids to learn--a gift doesn't have to be wrapped up with a bow.  It is such a tremendous undertaking, and he even managed to get Ezra involved and excited, which is something I've been struggling to do.  Noah has stepped up as the third Elf on the Shelf, and he's stepped in so big on the days I really need an extra boost.  I wish his little brothers could really see how much he loves them and wants this season to be special for them.

This year, it got to be too much.  Depression settled in for some reason.  I've let go of many of what I usually consider "must do's" and I'm concentrating on the "barely getting by's".  When only half the tree lit up, and Ezra threw some jumbled up lights into it, I shrugged my shoulders--Eh, whatever.  It's us.  And, in some places, it might be called art instead of half-hearted.  We'll do better next year, right?

I started to feel as if I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders.  I'm moving through sludge.

Then I was hit with a complete--I don't know what to call it.

A friend died.  A very dear friend.

The news knocked the breath from my lungs, and my body to my knees.

The pain with which I already miss her is visceral, a physical pain.

I want her back.  It's not fair.  It's not right.

I need to know that she made things right with God in the end.  I need to know she's with her daughter and grandson.  What I really need--is to be able to hug her again.  I just want to hug my friend again and tell her how much I love her.  To tell her I never stopped loving her.  I can't function well enough to wrap presents for my kids, or even attempt to make headway through Christmas baking.  I have no idea what Christmas breakfast or dinner will look like.  I keep putting off my grief, but I'm not doing anything else, either.  I can't laugh, I don't want to eat.

I need a break.

I need hope.

She and her husband were the ones who led me to my salvation.  When I first met her, she didn't immediately invite me to her church--she invited me, a complete stranger, to her home, instead.  I was so badly in need of that unconditional love and friendship, I went.  Her family instantly became mine.  That's how she was, she loved hard and genuinely, perhaps to a fault, and made everyone immediately family, whether you entered her home once, or three million times.  It was another several weeks before she introduced me to her church.  I found myself, and God there.  I found friendship and family.  They taught me about hope.  I learned so much from them.

They helped us pray Avery into being, and passed him around so proudly when he finally arrived.  They prayed hope and miracles when doctors told us there wouldn't be such things.  He was our little secret at the last youth weekend retreat I attended; I wore a hoodie with a front hand pouch so I could keep my hands on Avery without anyone thinking about it.  My friend's daughter would hug me from behind, tucking her hands in with mine, lacing our fingers together.  We'd giggle and she'd whisper, "I love you, Baby," in my ear, as we hand-hugged Avery together.  

I know, as sad as I am, the reality is, my friend did get her Christmas miracle.  She is no longer in pain.  Her family has seen so much shit and grief, she is finally at rest, and I hope, I pray--at peace.  This is the hope I'm given in a tiny baby laying in a manger.  I am promised I will see her again, and we will be reunited in eternity.  I know we will dance and rejoice as she once again welcomes me into her home.  But, for now--I grieve.  I mourn.  I'm angry.  She said she was going to beat this--no little old cancer was going to get her.  I'm hurting so much.  I'm sad.  I miss my friend.  I want to shake my fist and scream.

Always putting family first--and everyone was family--I know this is not how Angie would want things.  This is not how she would want me to feel, or want me to mourn.  But--I.  Just.  Can't.  Move.

Please, this season is not about rushing through the stores or putting priority shipping on that last item you just have to have for Aunt Pearl.  It's not about who has the most gifts or the best-lit house, or the biggest party.  If your house isn't the cleanest, Christmas is still going to be okay.  If the family Christmas craft doesn't get done until after Christmas, it will still be okay.  If the baking isn't pristine, the memories will still be the important thing.

This season is about family and making memories.  It's about laughing and being with those you love.  Take tons of pictures, and be silly.  This season is about the hope, and the promises we've been given from a sweet little baby named Jesus, borne by a mother who endured more than any mother ever should.  Hold on to those promises and that hope.  Live by Angie's example: love deep, love hard and love genuinely.  That is her legacy.

Please hug your friends.  Tell your family you love them.  Share a fun secret or two and giggle.  Read to your kids.  Check on your loved ones.  Resolve anything you've left open, and call that friend you've been meaning to check in with.  Please just go hug your people.  Love them well.

When I Hit My Knees, God Reminds Me....

Ironically to the tailspin this time of year typically sends my depression into, Christmas is my favorite time of the year.

I love giving gifts--year round.  But at Christmas?  It's pure gold.  The more cheer I can spread, the better.  Imagine someone throwing confetti and glitter around while dancing and prancing and flitting around like a five year old child, with a ridiculous smile on her face--that's me.

Two nights ago, I stayed up past midnight doing the near-literal impression of swiping my credit card left and right all over my laptop.

Swipety-swipe, it's Christmastime, people!!!!  Let's DO this!

Man, I was having fun!  I wasn't even buying gifts for my own family.

And for me, that's the really fun part--jumping in feet first for other people.

Last night was another story.

As I scrolled through Instagram, I stopped at one of the Christian pages I follow.  This page supports moms in need--moms who take care of children with high needs, husbands who have had medical crises and now have medical needs, moms who have their own medical needs, and so on.  There's a family with a little boy with cancer we've been praying for since August, although he was diagnosed long before that.  At the beginning of November, he was rallying.  He was going to make it.  He was going to be okay. There were so many of us praying.

The notification on the Instagram page last night was horrible, grim news.

He didn't make it.

He died last week.

I cannot swipe my credit card and bring him back for his family.

I cannot swipe my credit card and end this family's agony.

I curled up on my couch and just cried.  It was that kind of cry--even now, writing this--that kind of keening cry that only a mom can cry when a child, even when he isn't her own, even when she doesn't know him, is lost.

I went out to my front porch, where my front yard is lit up with Christmas lights like a runway, and I just cried.  I just sat there, holding myself, crying, pouring out my heart for this family I've never met.

I hit my knees and I inside my head, I just screamed at God--WHY?  What is the point of this?

I don't know if there is a point to it.  I don't know if I care if there is a point to it--a child died.

There is no silver lining here.

Sometimes, in moments like this, when the world stops, it feels as though I can't go on.  And the world does need to stop.  A little boy died.  A mother is mourning.  I don't want to go on.  What is the point?  The hurt is just too much to bear.  The pain is too much.

And when I think it's too much--I know I have to bear it, I have to teach my children to bear it, I have to continue on because I have my own three miracles to raise and lift up.

There is not a silver lining, but as I know, with every tragedy, when I hit my knees and cannot stand and cannot bear it, I know my God is still standing.  I know He can bear it.

Just as my front yard lights up our street, I am reminded that my Abba is the One who lights up the darkness.

I don't know the 'why,' and God may not give me the answers, but I know my Abba remains sovereign, no matter how tragic the situation is.

My Abba reminds me:
     Look for the helpers--Be the helper.
     Look for the light--Be the light.
     Look the good--Be the good.

I cannot swipe my credit card for this family, and others like them, but I will continue to hit my knees, and I can continue to remind this family they are not forgotten.

Eternal Love

We lost a president last week.

It hit me hard, but not for the reasons I thought it would.

Yes, he was an incredible man, a wonderful human and a war hero.  In my opinion, he was a good president (but please don't make this post political).

Most of all, he was an upstanding husband.

George H. W. Bush set all the precedents when it came to being a dad--not just a father, but a dad--and a husband.  

He was always more than a president.  First and foremost, he was a family man.

When former President Bush lost his beloved wife in April, in my saddest heart of hearts, I did not believe he would last much longer.  They were the kind of couple who would not last long separated--they needed each other like water and air--like God.  

I can't imagine the pain former President Bush's heart was in without his beloved.

I know his children and family are bittersweetly rejoicing as former President Bush and his wife are now reunited with each other, and also with their little girl.  

As I said though, his death hit me hard.  

Being apart from Shawn is not a pain I ever want to endure.  I can't endure that kind of separation from him.  I can't bear it.

The former president's death has had me thinking about being reunited with Grace.  Meeting her for the first time, but it will also be a reunion.  And Shawn--what if I'm reuniting with him?  What if I have had to live without him?  What if he's had to live without me?  And for how long?   

Sure, Shawn and I argue, fuss and fight--but God has always meant us for each other.  We make up, and we're sorry.  We do our best to put God first, we're stupid together and fun together--and I can't ever imagine life without him.  

I don't want to ever imagine life without him.

Former President Bush and his wife, Barbara, set an incredible example to the rest of us as parents and as spouses. 

I am so happy they are eternally reunited, not just with each other, but with their precious daughter.  And I'm grateful for the example they set for all of us.  

Most of all, I'm grateful my own eternal love.  Thank you God, for providing for me.  

"This is Just How it is"

Avery's been going through some stuff.

And a lot of times, he puts me through a lot of stuff.

A few weeks ago, we were having a rare moment, and we were in deep conversation.  I do love these moments with my boys, and I am loving how  Avery is maturing enough to have more of these moments.  He's begun to come into his own in a more positive way, and I've enjoyed being a part of his personality blooming and developing.

We were talking about another specialist he would be seeing, and I asked  how he's doing with all this 'autism stuff.'  How is he feeling about the diagnosis, and being different, and his brain, and everything that comes with it?

"Well Mom," he began, "I've always been this way.  The only thing that's different is we have a name for it now, right?  And now we can start helping me better because we have the name.  And I actually really kind of like being different and I actually really kind of like the way my brain works.  It's pretty cool.  And you know, God has a plan for me.  There's a reason He made me this way.  Just like you always tell Noah there's a reason He made him that way.  I don't know when, or if, I'll find out God's reason, but I have to trust Him, and this is just how it is.  And it's going to be okay.  It won't be easy, like you tell Noah, but it will be okay in the end.  And if it's not okay, it's not the end, right?"

I sat back, stunned into silence, in complete awe.

Huh.

He's been listening all along.

This is the child I struggle with so much.  This is the child I struggle to get through to.  This is the child who teaches me so much, and I often wonder what on earth I could possibly hope to teach him because I just cannot get through to him--we lock horns and go right to battle--often, literally.  I've written here about the battles that come to blows, that have become physical, than have become painful, physically and emotionally.  I never know if he's listening.  If I say 2+2=4, he insists it equals 5, and will work on the equation until he can make it equal 5!  It is the reason we need a co-op for homeschooling--because he often will not listen to me, but if his tutors tell him the same thing I've been telling him, it's written in stone!

And yet, here we were.

I was more than a little blown away.

My own words, repeated right back to me, straight from my boy's precious heart--not by rote, but by feeling, with emotion, with pure faith and knowledge, and complete trust in his Abba.  He said it as his prayer, with utter belief and contentment for his life.

This is just how it is.  And it's okay.

You're a Unicorn, Babe

I had just finished ranting telling my husband something about supporting other moms and ending the Mommy Wars for good, and he simply smiled at me.

Then he said, "You're a unicorn, babe.  I love you."

I chucked my chin at him, neighing, while giving him a querying look.

Huh, what???

He explained:  "In a world of women waging war against each other, and flipping each other off, and knocking each other over to get to the finish line first, and measuring who does what more of and better--you don't care about all any of that.  You care about the mom.  You care about raising her up, encouraging her, being her friend, helping her out, things like that.  You know how tough motherhood is, and you acknowledge it.  It's not a competition for you.  That's not what you care about.  You care about making sure she's healthy and able to take care of her children, and taking care of herself, too.  You're a unicorn.  You're not the norm."

These are the things I want to do--hold your crying baby in the grocery line (or follow you through the store so you can do you shopping) so you can pay (shop) without juggling.  I want to help you load your car.  I will rock, walk with, hold, whatever it takes, with your baby so you can enjoy your meal in a restaurant.  Here's a secret:  I've already held babies on airplanes to give moms' proper breaks.  I know you may not know me from Adam, but these are the things I would like to do for you.  I've read about the police officer and flight attendant in other countries nursing the hungry babies when the moms didn't have formula, and I think--these women are my heroes!!!  Feed the hungry!  Help the moms without judgment!!!  And for these of you who do know me (because it would be totally weird if I showed up on a stranger's doorstep to do these things), I will come wash your dishes with you, vacuum while you nurse or rock your baby while you shower (or manage your chaos while you shower, or cry over your teenager, whichever).  Can I take you out to lunch, or just a quick coffee break, maybe get a pretty mani/pedi?  Can I pay for a babysitter so you can go out alone, or grab a date night with your husband?  I would love to listen to you rant, or cry, or not say anything at all--I will gladly just sit beside you so you know you are not alone in this.  If you would rather I hold your screaming baby while you rock in a corner take a drive around the block, let's do it!  And if you give me your keys to your house, you just never know what will happen while you're out (it's happened, there are a few people you can ask)!!!  Don't worry, your china and jewelry are safe.  Your bathroom and your kitchen? Not so much.  

This is my passion.  It's a passion I never imagined myself having.  In college, I judged parents harshly, and I was going to save children from horrible situations.  Now, I realize we have to raise up strong women and moms so child never end up in horrible situations.  We have to be real.  We have to be transparent.  We have to love without judgment.

I've had a baby who was 'difficult' and turned into an okay toddler.  I will digress here and point out we were new parents, he was a new human, and none of us had a clue what we were doing, so it's not entirely on him.  I've had the world's easiest baby who turned into a terror of a toddler.  Then I had Ezra--and well, he's the third, so, you know (right???).  I've had them all.  I've been so deep in the pit of postpartum depression, I scared myself and didn't tell a soul.  I know how difficult motherhood can be.  It's exhausting and there are times you feel you just can't do it anymore.  And you know what?  It's really okay to say that out loud!  And it's okay to ask for help, and it's okay to cry, and it's okay to pick yourself back up--with help, if you want--and keep going.  There is no shame in the game, as these kids these days are saying.  I also know how rewarding motherhood is, and how we often need just a few minutes to regroup so we can remember that.  Sometimes we need a friend to remind us of that, too.

These are the things we need to be doing for each other.  We need to be raising each other up, not counting points as we tear each other down.  "Therefore, encourage one another, and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing."  --1 Thess. 5:11

Mamas, please allow me to be your unicorn.  I would love to do these things, and more, for you.

For you fellow unicorns--I freaking love you.  You're amazing and incredible and great job and keep on and please don't ever stop!!!!

For those of you thinking about unicorning--take up your alicorn, mount it right on your forehead for the world to see, and join us!

Because--well, you already know--you're unicorns, babes.

Invasion of the House Guest

I'm a house guest this week.

Correction:  I'm invading a teenager's space this week.

I'm not sure he really wanted me here, and I know I have a *ahem* bit of an overwhelming personality.  It's a lot for him to handle.

Being a teenager is hard.  Being a teenager with an alphabet soup associated with you is harder.  Being a teenager going through everything he's dealing with?  HardEST. 

The thing is, I remember being in his situation as a child.  And now I know what was going on in my own brain (helllllooooo... Autism, OCD, anxiety, etc...), it sort of helps me understand him better.

I was always happy to see our visitors (or be one), but I liked my stuff the way I liked my stuff.  I became upset (sometimes ragingly so) when things were disorderly, loud, overwhelming, when my things were touched, when guests left their things out (right down to just leaving their shampoo and soap in my shower).  I was usually displaced from my bed and/or my room--my safe place.  I couldn't even seek comfort in my own bed because they'd been in it, or hide in my own room in case they needed to get to their things or they needed privacy.  It was disturbing for me, to say the least, and I would be completely out of sorts for days.

My mother told me to deal with it.  I was selfish.  I was rude.  I needed to learn to share.  I was being difficult.  Why couldn't I just get along?  I was teased for my rigidity and inability to cope.  Later in life I was 'sick' and a spoiled brat.  It was downright awful for me, no matter how happy I was to see our guests (or be one).  I felt completely alone and awkward and angry and misunderstood.  I remember being so jealous of how well everyone else got along, and wondering what was wrong with me.

From one of the things I've learned about my children: they aren't being difficult, they are having a difficult time, I have learned that in particular about my past.  I wasn't doing any of those things on purpose.  I was having a genuinely hard time, and did not have the proper coping skills.

My friend's son is having a genuinely hard time.  There is nothing difficult about him.

I am trying my best to take up as little space as possible.  If I could be as small as an ant in order to respect this young man's needs, I would.  I'm trying to remember to put my things away after I use them, and immediately clean up after myself.  I'm trying to remember to respect privacy, quiet, boundaries and unspoken rules (as well as the spoken ones!).  I'm trying to remember his ways of doing things may not the same of mine, and I need to do them his way.  This is his home.

I know how distressing it can be to have someone invade your safe place.  And I'm not here for a fun, quick visit. I'm here during one of the worst times in his life, temporarily taking over in his mom's place for a bit.  I have settled in for the long haul.

Precious mamas, I'm begging you:  Whether you and your family are the guests, or you have guests, if you think your child is being difficult, please take a step back.  Clear your mind.  Take a deep breath.  Stop worrying about what your hosts or guests might think about your child, or your (lack of) parenting skills.  It's time for Mama Bear Mode.  You are your child's safety net.  This is YOUR child (perhaps not the child you wanted, but the child you have).  This is the child you have sworn to love and protect--so please, do just that.  Could it be your child is having a difficult time, instead?  Could it be your child is genuinely upset?  Talk with your child, not at your child.  Listen to your child.  Find out what is going on inside his mind.  Then help him work through it.  Advocate for your child's needs with your hosts or guests.  If you are the host or guest, and a child is having a difficult time, please have compassion, and find out how you can help.  Your child is looking to you to protect him, and needs you on his side.  Love your child through this, love him where he is.  Please.  

9/11 and Being a Fire Mom

Seventeen years ago, our country was dealt a deathly, unfathomable blow.

Many of us are still dealing with it: Those of us who witnessed it on tv, the survivors who were there that day, the surviving first responders and volunteers, the families of the many victims.  There is so much trauma from what we all saw, and what some of us had to do that horrible day, and the days and weeks, and even months, that followed.  That was the stuff of our most unimaginable nightmares.

It has left some of us crippled by physical, emotional, psychological and spiritual pain, while it has also left many of us grateful for what we have, in every single day that has followed.

The anniversary always hits me with a pain I can't seem to bear.  I know I'm not alone.

This year it seems to be a bit more difficult, having Noah in the fire department, knowing this is the career he has settled on.  I know God has great plans for him.  We've raised Noah to care for others, and I know he will be the comfort people need in their worst hours.  However, this is the second most difficult thing I have had to do as his mom.  I don't know that I'm prepared to wear the title of 'firefighter mom," even as it leaves me beaming with pride, even as I don the hat.  Each time he leaves for a shift, I tell him, "Come back to me safely.  I love you," and I pray.  I pray hard.  I hit my knees on his behalf on a regular basis.  When he comes home, I hug him.  I hug him hard, I think him for coming back to me, and I send up the biggest prayers of gratitude.  As if he's come home from a war, not a 12 hour shift.  I have to trust him, his chief, and the other men and women in his department.  And of course, I need to trust God.

I've been emotional this past week, and just knowing what my son is getting himself into is enough to make me burst into tears.  I try to not think too much about what he is, and will be, up against.  This is the stuff of my worst nightmare.  When I look at him, I still my little boy.  I still see him playing dress-up and playing with his toy fire trucks.  I can't keep him safely wrapped up in my maternal bubble wrap forever.  I have cried in anguish for the mothers who lost their little boys, the ones they sent off to work that day, never to return. I have screamed at the unfairness of their losses.

My son is brave.  I admire him so much, and I'm incredibly proud of him.

I pray a lot so God will make me brave for Noah, and my two littles.  Goodness knows they won't have desk jobs, either.  Oh, the painful irony in that sentence.

Bravery isn't always bold and daring.  Sometimes bravery is timid and hesitant, doing what needs to be done even when you're scared out of your ever-loving mind.

Sunday morning, my pastor's wife prayed over me.  She prayed that I will learn to remove the unnecessary things from my overloaded, heavy plate, in order to make room for the important work, the important things, the important people.

Things I need to turn over to God.

WORRY.

ANXIETY.

FEAR.

INDEPENDENCE and DISTRUST.

DEPRESSION.  

ANGER and FRUSTRATION.

Worry, you are a time suck.  Anxiety, you are a crippling robber.  Fear, you are a liar.  Independence and Distrust, you are a thief of my dependence upon Abba.  Depression, you are a deep, dark pit.  Anger and Frustration, you are thieves of enjoyment.  They rob me of sleep, steal my enjoyment of my life, they run away with my relationship with my precious children and husband and Abba.  They fill my plate to tipping, making less room for the important work He gives me.

I will put my trust concerning Noah's future in my Abba.  My Abba is my refuge, my hiding place, my safe place.  He is where I put my boys--His boys--where I will continue to work on emptying my plate so I can concentrate on just loving them best.  In times such as these, I'm so grateful to have a loving, grace-filled, merciful Father to turn to.

"You are my refuge and my shield; I have put my hope in Your word."  

Psalm 18:32