Growing up, one of my favorite things about Christmas was receiving that huge box in the mail from our family in Maine. It would arrive from my two aunts and my grandmother, packed to the gills with gifts.
One of the things my sister and I could count on would be a little gift bag or two we could open right then and there when the box arrived. There would be some chocolate, a chapstick, maybe some hand lotion, something special from my aunt's salon, or an ornament, maybe something our grandmother had knit or our aunts had sewn. Just some things that would delight us, a few things to hold us over as we wondered what the other gifts held.
Those little things were that extra bit of love--the extra time it took our aunts and grandmother, the extra thought, the extra everything, above and beyond the original gifts--just to tell us how special we were, how much they were thinking of us, and how much we meant to them, how much we were missed.
Looking back, that is one of the biggest lessons my aunts and grandmother taught me: Include the extra love.
Go the extra mile.
I sent two packages this year for Christmas, and yes, they had the extra love gifts in them.
OPEN NOW! I love you. I miss you. I care about you. I'm thinking about you. You're special to me. You are important.
When my friends told me about the joy those little things brought to their girls, and when I heard the happiness that brought to my friends--this is my Christmas.
This Christmas, please go that extra mile for someone. Show that extra love, show someone how special they are, and let them know you're thinking of them.
THIS is Christmas.
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Wednesday, December 6, 2017
Brave
"Say what you wanna say and let the words fall out honestly I wanna see you be brave with what you want to say and let the words fall out honestly I wanna see you be brave..." (Sara Bareilles, Brave)
I popped the bathroom door open just enough to see Avery singing into his hairbrush in front of his mirror, belting out our new anthem for his invisible audience. I was caught between tears and laughter. It was one of those moments.
I've always loved this song by Sara Bareilles, but recently it's taken on a new meaning for us. I was singing it in the car a few weeks ago, and something made me turn it up. This is our anthem! Then I started casting funny face glances at Avery (he's my funny face boy--when we take selfies together, we make funny faces), who was sitting in the backseat. I started dancing a little in my seat as I drove (this embarrasses my children to no end, "MOOMMMM!!! Other drivers are going to SEEEEEE you!"), and twirling my finger at him as I pointed and continued my funny faces. I want to see YOU be brave! Show me how big YOUR brave is!
Naturally, being 8 years old, he rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, looked out his window, refusing to even look at me, and just could not believe his mother would behave this way. What-ever.
For the record, I have no idea where my children get their sass from. But, I digress.
To my maternal delight, I knew I had gotten through to him when I heard him in the bathroom that night. YES!
You see, Avery's had a rough patch this year. Through testing for something else, we inadvertently discovered he's having "no see-um" seizures (official diagnosis is right side temporal lobe seizures). Because we were not expecting a seizure diagnosis, I made them check the paperwork three times to be certain they were telling me about my child, and not someone else's. I was horrified when they told me in front of Avery. Isn't this something a parent should hear on her own? After the appointment, I sent my oldest son to the car with his little brothers, and fell apart in the lobby, right there on the floor. It was horrible; I vaguely remember two women, strangers to me, and to each other, coming to my aid. One prayed over me, and both held me as I sobbed. The second shocking call came while I was getting my hair cut, from one of the neurologist's interns, who was later disciplined for the way he handled the call. When we first saw the neurologist, based on the exam, the EEG from the sleep study, and family history, he didn't think we had much to worry about. After the first EEG the neurologist did, we found out we had a lot to worry about, and that was the phone call I received--again, in front of all three children. Keeping it together in front of my kids is not my forte; I sent my oldest next door with the littles for frozen yogurt, and again, fell apart. The stylist received an extra large tip that evening.
We call Avery's seizures "no see-ums" because he does not exhibit symptoms, so we don't know when, or even if, he's having them. I cannot see this enemy, and I do not know how to fight it. I've been angry, bitter and frustrated. I've cried and yelled. I have sobbed during worship, and prayed on my knees at the altar with my pastor's wife and husband at my side. I have laid on the floor, wailing with maternal agony, gripping my husband as he held me, scared out of my mind before we received the official diagnosis, wondering how bad it was going to be. There are nights I'm afraid to go to sleep because I don't know what is happening to Avery. I watch him like a hawk. Every activity he's asked to be part of, I overthink because of this new diagnosis. My child already has ADHD, anxiety and is on the Autism Spectrum--isn't that enough??? He's begun having migraines, which is not a good sign for a child with seizures--can we please just stop???? When is enough, enough? As Avery's mom, this has been the most frightening thing for me to go through. As a family, we've seen too much--too much God--to look elsewhere, to lean on Anyone else, to believe anything else, so we are relying heavily on Him in this. I've wanted to yell at the doctors: "FIX. MY. CHILD." I know it will do no good. Instead, I yell at the One whose shoulders I know can handle it, and, in His time, will fix my--our--child, as He sees fit. There is so much the doctors cannot tell us because of Avery's lack of symptoms. They cannot treat him due to the lack of symptoms. There has been one thing they have been able to tell us, though: Our son will get worse.
And there's one thing we tell Avery's doctors: Our son has God. Our son's conception was God's miracle, and God is not just going to walk out on him.
In all of my fear, I have watched Avery hold his shoulders high, as I have tried to not let him see my own panic. Through all of the testing, he walked bravely. His only fear of the MRI was the needle that would help him sleep through it. I, however, sat in the waiting room with my husband, grasping his hand until he not longer had any feeling, while he did his best to stay strong for me, struggling with his own feelings and emotions, as I sniffled either into my tissue or his shirt. Avery complained a few times about the itchy EEGs, but you would too if you had to wear them for 24 hours, and carry a video monitor around with you. I was the one who had to take period breaks in my 'crying closet' so my son wouldn't see me break down, unable to handle what he was having to deal with. One morning, he announced, with complete confidence, "When God heals me, I want the world to know, because I want everyone to know to that God still does miracles, and I want people to believe in God." Just like that, out of the blue. We hadn't even been talking about God. The car had been completely, unusually quiet, and after Avery's pronouncement, it remained that way, a stunned silence.
We've researched the brain until we're both blue in our faces. Avery knows everything you could possibly ask him. I think he wants to know the "why" in the why his brain is sick. What, when, and how it happened. Why he doesn't exhibit symptoms (we're finding this type of "no see-um" seizure is being seen as more and more typical in kids like him on the spectrum). The truth is, there aren't any answers right now. I asked him one morning how he feels about all this seizure stuff, because he doesn't always have to be brave. He explained to me, shattering my heart into pieces, that he wants to be brave so I won't be scared. If he's scared, then I will be scared (isn't this supposed to be the other way around?). So we agreed it's okay for him to be scared, and even angry. We fist-bumped, and agreed to try to be brave together, but to remember we don't always have to be brave. He didn't ask for this. But the important thing is to move on from the anger, and learn to carry it with grace. He may not have asked for it, but he has it now, and there's not much we can do about that part, aside from praying for healing, understanding and God's will. Even though we do not understand it, there is a reason for this diagnosis. I have to believe that, or I won't survive this.
I know in my heart everything is going to be okay. Getting there is the long, hard journey. But Avery is going to be okay.
I popped the bathroom door open just enough to see Avery singing into his hairbrush in front of his mirror, belting out our new anthem for his invisible audience. I was caught between tears and laughter. It was one of those moments.
I've always loved this song by Sara Bareilles, but recently it's taken on a new meaning for us. I was singing it in the car a few weeks ago, and something made me turn it up. This is our anthem! Then I started casting funny face glances at Avery (he's my funny face boy--when we take selfies together, we make funny faces), who was sitting in the backseat. I started dancing a little in my seat as I drove (this embarrasses my children to no end, "MOOMMMM!!! Other drivers are going to SEEEEEE you!"), and twirling my finger at him as I pointed and continued my funny faces. I want to see YOU be brave! Show me how big YOUR brave is!Naturally, being 8 years old, he rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, looked out his window, refusing to even look at me, and just could not believe his mother would behave this way. What-ever.
For the record, I have no idea where my children get their sass from. But, I digress.
To my maternal delight, I knew I had gotten through to him when I heard him in the bathroom that night. YES!
You see, Avery's had a rough patch this year. Through testing for something else, we inadvertently discovered he's having "no see-um" seizures (official diagnosis is right side temporal lobe seizures). Because we were not expecting a seizure diagnosis, I made them check the paperwork three times to be certain they were telling me about my child, and not someone else's. I was horrified when they told me in front of Avery. Isn't this something a parent should hear on her own? After the appointment, I sent my oldest son to the car with his little brothers, and fell apart in the lobby, right there on the floor. It was horrible; I vaguely remember two women, strangers to me, and to each other, coming to my aid. One prayed over me, and both held me as I sobbed. The second shocking call came while I was getting my hair cut, from one of the neurologist's interns, who was later disciplined for the way he handled the call. When we first saw the neurologist, based on the exam, the EEG from the sleep study, and family history, he didn't think we had much to worry about. After the first EEG the neurologist did, we found out we had a lot to worry about, and that was the phone call I received--again, in front of all three children. Keeping it together in front of my kids is not my forte; I sent my oldest next door with the littles for frozen yogurt, and again, fell apart. The stylist received an extra large tip that evening.
We call Avery's seizures "no see-ums" because he does not exhibit symptoms, so we don't know when, or even if, he's having them. I cannot see this enemy, and I do not know how to fight it. I've been angry, bitter and frustrated. I've cried and yelled. I have sobbed during worship, and prayed on my knees at the altar with my pastor's wife and husband at my side. I have laid on the floor, wailing with maternal agony, gripping my husband as he held me, scared out of my mind before we received the official diagnosis, wondering how bad it was going to be. There are nights I'm afraid to go to sleep because I don't know what is happening to Avery. I watch him like a hawk. Every activity he's asked to be part of, I overthink because of this new diagnosis. My child already has ADHD, anxiety and is on the Autism Spectrum--isn't that enough??? He's begun having migraines, which is not a good sign for a child with seizures--can we please just stop???? When is enough, enough? As Avery's mom, this has been the most frightening thing for me to go through. As a family, we've seen too much--too much God--to look elsewhere, to lean on Anyone else, to believe anything else, so we are relying heavily on Him in this. I've wanted to yell at the doctors: "FIX. MY. CHILD." I know it will do no good. Instead, I yell at the One whose shoulders I know can handle it, and, in His time, will fix my--our--child, as He sees fit. There is so much the doctors cannot tell us because of Avery's lack of symptoms. They cannot treat him due to the lack of symptoms. There has been one thing they have been able to tell us, though: Our son will get worse.
And there's one thing we tell Avery's doctors: Our son has God. Our son's conception was God's miracle, and God is not just going to walk out on him.
In all of my fear, I have watched Avery hold his shoulders high, as I have tried to not let him see my own panic. Through all of the testing, he walked bravely. His only fear of the MRI was the needle that would help him sleep through it. I, however, sat in the waiting room with my husband, grasping his hand until he not longer had any feeling, while he did his best to stay strong for me, struggling with his own feelings and emotions, as I sniffled either into my tissue or his shirt. Avery complained a few times about the itchy EEGs, but you would too if you had to wear them for 24 hours, and carry a video monitor around with you. I was the one who had to take period breaks in my 'crying closet' so my son wouldn't see me break down, unable to handle what he was having to deal with. One morning, he announced, with complete confidence, "When God heals me, I want the world to know, because I want everyone to know to that God still does miracles, and I want people to believe in God." Just like that, out of the blue. We hadn't even been talking about God. The car had been completely, unusually quiet, and after Avery's pronouncement, it remained that way, a stunned silence.
We've researched the brain until we're both blue in our faces. Avery knows everything you could possibly ask him. I think he wants to know the "why" in the why his brain is sick. What, when, and how it happened. Why he doesn't exhibit symptoms (we're finding this type of "no see-um" seizure is being seen as more and more typical in kids like him on the spectrum). The truth is, there aren't any answers right now. I asked him one morning how he feels about all this seizure stuff, because he doesn't always have to be brave. He explained to me, shattering my heart into pieces, that he wants to be brave so I won't be scared. If he's scared, then I will be scared (isn't this supposed to be the other way around?). So we agreed it's okay for him to be scared, and even angry. We fist-bumped, and agreed to try to be brave together, but to remember we don't always have to be brave. He didn't ask for this. But the important thing is to move on from the anger, and learn to carry it with grace. He may not have asked for it, but he has it now, and there's not much we can do about that part, aside from praying for healing, understanding and God's will. Even though we do not understand it, there is a reason for this diagnosis. I have to believe that, or I won't survive this.
I know in my heart everything is going to be okay. Getting there is the long, hard journey. But Avery is going to be okay.
Saturday, November 11, 2017
Veteran's Day
Today is a day to celebrate our many amazing veterans, their wonderful service to our great country, and their incredible sacrifices. As a military brat though, I struggle with "Happy" Veteran's Day. It actually makes me physically cringe. I understand that most people revert to that term for lack of anything else to say, and because we, society, have been saying it this way for years. But, as I said, it's something I really struggle with.
My house growing up, was anything but happy. My father suffered hell, in part due to his years in Vietnam. We know what to call it now--PTSD. As a society, we are thankfully becoming kinder about it than we were back in the 80's and 90's. Back then, he had to buck up and be a man, whatever that's supposed to mean. My father was a suicidal, functional alcoholic who suffered from a great depression. Even when he was physically present, he was emotionally absent. God only knew the battle going on in his head. Our entire family suffered. That makes him sound like some horrible, abusive person. He wasn't. He did his best. He provided well for his family, but he was a broken man. My mother frequently admonished me to not ask my father about his years in Vietnam. I have so many other memories from that particular area, but I would only be digressing. He retired from the USMC when I was in my mid-teens, just shy of his 25 years, just before Desert Storm, and I remember my profound fear when they began recalling recent retirees for that 'skirmish'. We were lucky, unlike so many of my friends, whose parents were either active duty, or more recently retired than my father.
It may not sound like it, but I really am proud of my father's service. I'm grateful for our armed forces. My father and I didn't see eye to eye on many things later on in life, but one thing he did teach me was respect for our military, and respect for office. I have a profound respect and gratitude for our military. It's possible that because of what my father went through, my respect and gratitude is even more profound. Bird's eye view, and all. It's something Shawn and I are passing on to our children.
For so many families today, there are wars still being fought here at home. Veteran's Day is not always a happy reminder of service. Our veterans struggle daily, hourly. The suicide rate is astronomical. The divorce rate is through the roof. Families and lives are destroyed, even when our servicemen and women make it home.
For these reasons, and for many other reasons for so many families, I don't say "Happy Veteran's Day." Instead, I say "Thank you so much for your service and sacrifice, my family and I are grateful."
*To the gentleman playing with Ezra in Walmart yesterday, who suddenly couldn't look me in the eyes when I thanked him for his service, "Thank you for your service, sir."
*To Noah's youth leader, our family friend and my fellow missions/disaster response team member, "Thank you for your service, sir."
*To my precious friend, who is retired USMC, "Thank you for your service, ma'am."
*To the USMC veteran whose home we had the privilege of working on in Texas: "Thank you for your service, sir."
*To the USN veteran I worked alongside in Texas: "Thank you for your service, sir."
*To our neighbor, "Thank you for your service, sir."
*To my many friends on Instagram, "Thank you for service, sirs and ma'ams."
*To our homeless veterans who deserve better: "Thank you for service."
*To our K9 veterans: "Thank you for your service," and belly rubs, and Kongs forever.
To all of you, thank you. Your service and sacrifice, and that of your family, do not go unnoticed to this family. YOU are not unnoticed to this family. You are precious, and you count. Your service counts. "Thank you" will never be enough, but it is all we have.
My house growing up, was anything but happy. My father suffered hell, in part due to his years in Vietnam. We know what to call it now--PTSD. As a society, we are thankfully becoming kinder about it than we were back in the 80's and 90's. Back then, he had to buck up and be a man, whatever that's supposed to mean. My father was a suicidal, functional alcoholic who suffered from a great depression. Even when he was physically present, he was emotionally absent. God only knew the battle going on in his head. Our entire family suffered. That makes him sound like some horrible, abusive person. He wasn't. He did his best. He provided well for his family, but he was a broken man. My mother frequently admonished me to not ask my father about his years in Vietnam. I have so many other memories from that particular area, but I would only be digressing. He retired from the USMC when I was in my mid-teens, just shy of his 25 years, just before Desert Storm, and I remember my profound fear when they began recalling recent retirees for that 'skirmish'. We were lucky, unlike so many of my friends, whose parents were either active duty, or more recently retired than my father.
It may not sound like it, but I really am proud of my father's service. I'm grateful for our armed forces. My father and I didn't see eye to eye on many things later on in life, but one thing he did teach me was respect for our military, and respect for office. I have a profound respect and gratitude for our military. It's possible that because of what my father went through, my respect and gratitude is even more profound. Bird's eye view, and all. It's something Shawn and I are passing on to our children.
For so many families today, there are wars still being fought here at home. Veteran's Day is not always a happy reminder of service. Our veterans struggle daily, hourly. The suicide rate is astronomical. The divorce rate is through the roof. Families and lives are destroyed, even when our servicemen and women make it home.
For these reasons, and for many other reasons for so many families, I don't say "Happy Veteran's Day." Instead, I say "Thank you so much for your service and sacrifice, my family and I are grateful."
*To the gentleman playing with Ezra in Walmart yesterday, who suddenly couldn't look me in the eyes when I thanked him for his service, "Thank you for your service, sir."
*To Noah's youth leader, our family friend and my fellow missions/disaster response team member, "Thank you for your service, sir."
*To my precious friend, who is retired USMC, "Thank you for your service, ma'am."
*To the USMC veteran whose home we had the privilege of working on in Texas: "Thank you for your service, sir."
*To the USN veteran I worked alongside in Texas: "Thank you for your service, sir."
*To our neighbor, "Thank you for your service, sir."
*To my many friends on Instagram, "Thank you for service, sirs and ma'ams."
*To our homeless veterans who deserve better: "Thank you for service."
*To our K9 veterans: "Thank you for your service," and belly rubs, and Kongs forever.
To all of you, thank you. Your service and sacrifice, and that of your family, do not go unnoticed to this family. YOU are not unnoticed to this family. You are precious, and you count. Your service counts. "Thank you" will never be enough, but it is all we have.
Thursday, November 2, 2017
Look for the Helpers
"Always look for the helpers. There's always someone who is trying to help."
--"Mr." Fred Rogers' Mom
I wrote most of this on the plane home from Texas as I tried to process everything. Blessedly, we had a huge plane with very few passengers and I had an entire row to myself, so I could just let the tears flow privately. I really still don't even know how to begin to process everything I saw and heard, and was privy to. I don't know how much I want to share, and what I need to guard in my heart. I do know this trip was different than Jamaica in that unlike in Jamaica, where we left the children the same as we found them, we left the homeowners in Texas better than we found them. In that way, it's been easier to come home than it was coming home from Jamaica, a relief in so many ways.
My plan going down was to take tons of pictures, maybe post them to social media--"Hey! Look what we're doing! Look what's still going on down here!" Once we landed and I saw the destruction and devastation still there, I couldn't. It was like a punch to the gut. It hits you--this is not trash, this is not debris. This is what is left of peoples' lives. These are heirlooms, memories, photographs, family histories--all on the sides of the roads. Even on the sides of the interstates where FEMA and the state leave it until they can burn it--BURN IT--just sitting there, where the homeowners have to look at it, their wrecked lives. I could not take pictures of these piles, or the homes, or anything else. These were not my stories to tell. Even going back and forth to our job sites, I felt like a looky-loo just looking at the piles, so I kept my head down. I did stare my first day, just taking it all in, but felt awful for doing it. It was like a train wreck, then you realize exactly what you're looking at.
Just as with the pictures, I could tell you a few stories for the GASP affect, but I can't and I won't. I will share some stories with you, but most I will carry only in my heart.
This was a very emotional week for me. I've worked on several missions trips doing construction work. This was my first deconstruction trip. And when the homeowner is right there, it just makes things even more emotional. You must remind yourself to mind your laughter and your words, to mind where you toss your empty water bottles and the debris as you dismantle their homes, to mind where you step, and how you carry what is left of their belongings, and where you put it as you work around it. While we were working to build the homeowners up, we were also working to tear their homes down. It was a horrible irony.
I'm grateful for the complete strangers who became immediate friends. I will admit, my first day out when I was on my own away from my home team, I panicked a bit--but it's obvious God wants me out of my comfort zone. I jumped in with both (left) feet, and found many others with my (lack of) skill level, but same willingness to learn. I'm grateful to those who made it easy for me to learn, who took me under their wings and taught me alongside them (there aren't any 'little women' on these job sites--if you find the job, you do the work!). There were those I found with similar senses of humor, who joked with me and caught on to my eagerness (but they wouldn't let me have power tools--not even a chainsaw--excuse me, especially a chainsaw!). Humor was a huge part of decompression each evening when we returned to the church where we were staying. The women's dorm was more like a women's retreat every night, and that morning worship--oh, that every morning should begin that way! YES LORD!
Last week was amazing and truly awful at the same time. It was amazing to be with so many wonderful people, volunteers and homeowners alike, and to know we were part of something worthy and good. But awful for the reasons we had to be there, what we saw, and the stories we heard. We should have all met under better circumstances, but we're grateful for all the people who volunteered and gave up so much time from their lives for others. My heart is a little heavier, my prayers are bigger and more fervent, but as I said earlier, we did leave these homeowners better than we found them, and for that, I'm grateful.
It was amazing because I had almost no pain or symptoms at all last week! You have to remember, I have daily pain, and there are things like cleaning my house or going grocery shopping that can lay me out for days at a time. I can get winded just walking up my stairs, or getting my mail. Last week was truly an example of "if God brings you to it, He will bring you through it." It was incredible! I met several others with autoimmune illnesses having similar experiences. We just wanted to dance in the streets and shout from the rooftops--instead, we were pulling off rooftops. It was awful because one of the homeowners we ministered to struggles with her health like I do, but so amazing that we were able to help her and pray with her as she accepted Christ into her heart ("again," she said. I hugged her so hard as we both cried before our team left, both of us saying, "No tears!" I just wanted to hug it all out of her, just hold her until she didn't hurt anymore. My prayer for her is that she knows how beautiful and worthy she is--that she is able to believe it.). It's awful there are still people living in tent cities, others who have not returned to their homes at all, people who are storing what is left of their belongings under tarps after their homes have been torn down, people who are being taken advantage of by clean up crews and contractors. Some homes have just been boarded up and/or abandoned completely just as they are because the homeowners cannot afford to start over. I noticed many of the homes that have been boarded up are still being lived in.
Selfishly, one particular homeowner's home was a turning point for me. She was an older woman, such a sweet, God-loving woman. She kept saying, "I have plenty of questions, I don't have the answer, but I do know God is still good, and you are all proof of that!" She sat outside with her daughter and they watched us, as they went through several boxes of what had survived the flood and the storm. I felt despondent just watching her. We completely gutted her home, and I learned I can do hard work. I didn't have Shawn there to fall back on, and everyone else was doing hard work, so when I found the work, I had to do the work. There were plywood walls that had to be pulled down, carpet had to be pulled up, some tight spaces the drywall had to be removed from, insulation pulled out, there were roaches and other bugs--I did it all. It was good, hard work. I will admit, it was cathartic. It felt good to swing that hammer. At one point, as I was connecting with that drywall, I realized I was yelling at seizures and had tears down my face, but no one could hear me because of my mask and the noise from the machines. Perfect. I might need more construction work. One morning, I found a shiny 2012 penny on her floor. Just a penny. I took it down to her, saying that I know Christians like us don't have much use for luck, but perhaps it will bring her some blessings as she starts over. She became teary, and told me she had lost her husband's coin collection in the flooding, so yes, she could use that penny to start over. Oh, my heart. I spent some time cleaning up her yard, and I scrubbed her bathroom, top down, for her. Everyone deserves a clean potty, even if they don't have walls.
Selfishly, one particular homeowner's home was a turning point for me. She was an older woman, such a sweet, God-loving woman. She kept saying, "I have plenty of questions, I don't have the answer, but I do know God is still good, and you are all proof of that!" She sat outside with her daughter and they watched us, as they went through several boxes of what had survived the flood and the storm. I felt despondent just watching her. We completely gutted her home, and I learned I can do hard work. I didn't have Shawn there to fall back on, and everyone else was doing hard work, so when I found the work, I had to do the work. There were plywood walls that had to be pulled down, carpet had to be pulled up, some tight spaces the drywall had to be removed from, insulation pulled out, there were roaches and other bugs--I did it all. It was good, hard work. I will admit, it was cathartic. It felt good to swing that hammer. At one point, as I was connecting with that drywall, I realized I was yelling at seizures and had tears down my face, but no one could hear me because of my mask and the noise from the machines. Perfect. I might need more construction work. One morning, I found a shiny 2012 penny on her floor. Just a penny. I took it down to her, saying that I know Christians like us don't have much use for luck, but perhaps it will bring her some blessings as she starts over. She became teary, and told me she had lost her husband's coin collection in the flooding, so yes, she could use that penny to start over. Oh, my heart. I spent some time cleaning up her yard, and I scrubbed her bathroom, top down, for her. Everyone deserves a clean potty, even if they don't have walls.
In some areas the damage was almost tornadic in nature. Trailers and RVs and buildings were twisted like tin cans, not just once, but several times. On any given block, one or two homes would have to be completely demolished, but others right next to those only gutted. So many families don't have flood insurance, others don't have any insurance at all. FEMA will guarantee one family the full amount, but the next family won't qualify for anything, and at times, the reasoning seems random. Many families suddenly find themselves living on a floodplain, and have to jack their homes up before they can even begin gutting or repairing. Many of those same families are now required to carry flood insurance they currently can't afford, also before they can begin gutting and repairing, but it does not help them right now, of course. At almost every turn, it seems as though the red tape is built to work against them.
Learning just how much red tape is involved (*cough* corrupt) with the government and businesses during these times, how much these folks are bilked out of, and just all the overwhelming nonsense these sweet people have to wade through makes me glad I've chosen to volunteer with a nonprofit who doesn't charge them a penny. Christ in Action goes in, removes everything, roof to floor, so the contractors have a clean slate to work with. Many homeowners are saved an average of $10-$15000, often even more. It's good stuff.
One afternoon I noticed some papers beginning to blow away from the 'trash' pile on the side of the road, so I went over and bagged them up. I really tried to not look, they were someone else's private papers, but I saw they were children's school papers. They were blowing out of a cardboard box that had been ruined in the flooding, and it looked as though the owner had dumped the box without going through it. I came across a small bible, and pulled it out. I took it to our homeowner, but she didn't recognize it. My hope is to maybe find the original owner--I have two names in it, and a year, so perhaps through social media, I can track the owner down. It was given to "Teresa" on August 9, 1974 but Edith Tomblin (I think I have the last name correct). On the front inside cover is a list of how to be saved, and several bible verses, written in a young girl's handwriting. I would love to find the owner.
We had so many people thanking us. It felt weird, but touched my heart just the same. As dirty and gross and filthy as we were, these precious homeowners didn't hesitate to hug us to pieces. I don't want to be thanked, I just want to do the work, and spread His word. God gives me the chance to do this work--the people allow us into their homes. They allow us into their personal tragedies. We are the ones thanking them. This work is a privilege.
Texas, it was my pleasure to serve you. THANK YOU for allowing me the honor. Fellow Red Shirt helpers--until next time.
Sunday, October 22, 2017
Base Camp
This man of mine.
We've been calling him Base Camp since I started doing disaster and missions work. It's actually a nickname Shawn gave himself.
Someone has to hold down the fort, feed the pets and look after the children when I'm not able to take them with me, right?
We always imagined this would be work we'd do together in our retirement years. But when the opportunities arose for me, Shawn didn't hesitate to start sending me with his best blessings. I keep telling him we'll still do this together. There's plenty more work to be done, still.
A few weeks ago when I heard Shawn refer to himself as Base Camp at church, I just hugged him. It hit me just how much he really is Base Camp in so many ways. I was filled with so much love for Shawn, and all kinds of warm fuzzies.
Shawn isn't just here when I return, having taken care of everything in my absence. He's here when I'm here, helping me take care of everything when life gets to be too much. Shawn is right beside me, on days when life is what qualifies as normal around here. He is my rock, even when he needs to crumble too.
Yes, there are times, days, and even weeks we don't mesh, we don't get it right, we get off track. It's not a bad marriage, just a bad day. And it's okay. We're okay. We talk (we fight), we forgive, we love, we move on.
I love this man. I'm so grateful for him. I'm so grateful I get to do life with him, raise our boys together. I'm grateful I get to come home to him and wake up with him. I'm grateful we get to roll our eyes together at our boys, then roll down our hill with them. I'm so grateful to just be with this man.
I love my Base Camp. I love returning to home base, to Shawn's arms, to his kisses. I love that he's always here and I know I can count on him.
My dearest love, thank you for everything, and all that you are.
Saturday, October 21, 2017
Harvey
Hurricane Harvey hit Texas the same time reality was hitting here with Avery's seizures.
I just wanted to escape. I wanted to run away, far away, as fast as I could, and leave it all behind.
I saw Harvey as a quick 'out.' I didn't say it was realistic.
The kids were upstairs doing chores and playing. I sat on my kitchen floor in tears. Okay, so it was more like a mini breakdown. I told my friend I was going to pack the kids up and head out. I could throw Ezra in a backpack, put the older two to work, and we'd be of some use. We've done it before! I have valuable training and some skills, surely they'd find someplace to put us ("Right?" I heard myself trying to convince myself.). Shawn could hold the fort down here. I had no idea where we'd stay (Our car? Like everyone else in Houston?), but I'd figure it out once we got there. Thankfully, my dear friend had me talked down from my ledge before Shawn got home. Seizures would follow us. Autism would follow us. It would alllllllll follow us.
She was right. Thank God for those good, practical friends who speak with love, huh?
It was silly, anyway.
The next day I was able to help organize rescue efforts for a dog rescue when a levee broke. This group hadn't been effected by the original flooding, but when the levee broke, they needed to leave, and leave fast. For safety reasons, the sheriff's department wouldn't let them back into the rescue facility, and it was a mess. They did not have enough boats, crates and trucks for all the dogs; through social media, connections were made, word spread, and the dogs were saved.
A few weeks later our church sent a box truck sort of thing of donations to Houston. Shawn and I did our part, and my help was enlisted with some other things for the donations.
I figured that was the extent of my help. Grateful for the opportunities, I closed the book on Harvey, took off my Disaster Responder hat, and put my Mom hat back on.
A few weeks after that, it was announced that our church was taking a group to Corpus Christi to work with the group I trained with when I was pregnant with Avery. I tell him disaster response is in his blood.
Shawn and I looked at each other.
"You're going."
"I'm going."
I signed up, paid my airfare, and I leave with my team on Monday. I'm excited (intimidated, scared out of my mind), humbled, honored and blessed. I can't believe I get to do this!
Yes, seizures will be here when I get back. Autism will be here when I get back. It will alllllll still be here when I get back. And I'm sure I will be happy to be back to my own problems. But I'm humbled to be able to serve God and His people in the meantime, and maybe talk another mama down from her ledge, too.
I just wanted to escape. I wanted to run away, far away, as fast as I could, and leave it all behind.
I saw Harvey as a quick 'out.' I didn't say it was realistic.
The kids were upstairs doing chores and playing. I sat on my kitchen floor in tears. Okay, so it was more like a mini breakdown. I told my friend I was going to pack the kids up and head out. I could throw Ezra in a backpack, put the older two to work, and we'd be of some use. We've done it before! I have valuable training and some skills, surely they'd find someplace to put us ("Right?" I heard myself trying to convince myself.). Shawn could hold the fort down here. I had no idea where we'd stay (Our car? Like everyone else in Houston?), but I'd figure it out once we got there. Thankfully, my dear friend had me talked down from my ledge before Shawn got home. Seizures would follow us. Autism would follow us. It would alllllllll follow us.
She was right. Thank God for those good, practical friends who speak with love, huh?
It was silly, anyway.
The next day I was able to help organize rescue efforts for a dog rescue when a levee broke. This group hadn't been effected by the original flooding, but when the levee broke, they needed to leave, and leave fast. For safety reasons, the sheriff's department wouldn't let them back into the rescue facility, and it was a mess. They did not have enough boats, crates and trucks for all the dogs; through social media, connections were made, word spread, and the dogs were saved.
A few weeks later our church sent a box truck sort of thing of donations to Houston. Shawn and I did our part, and my help was enlisted with some other things for the donations.
I figured that was the extent of my help. Grateful for the opportunities, I closed the book on Harvey, took off my Disaster Responder hat, and put my Mom hat back on.
A few weeks after that, it was announced that our church was taking a group to Corpus Christi to work with the group I trained with when I was pregnant with Avery. I tell him disaster response is in his blood.
Shawn and I looked at each other.
"You're going."
"I'm going."
I signed up, paid my airfare, and I leave with my team on Monday. I'm excited (intimidated, scared out of my mind), humbled, honored and blessed. I can't believe I get to do this!
Yes, seizures will be here when I get back. Autism will be here when I get back. It will alllllll still be here when I get back. And I'm sure I will be happy to be back to my own problems. But I'm humbled to be able to serve God and His people in the meantime, and maybe talk another mama down from her ledge, too.
Thursday, October 19, 2017
Not My First Rodeo
When I started this blog six years ago, it was as an emotional outlet. It still is. I have words in my brain and they must go somewhere. I was a stay at home mom with a toddler and an eleven year old, pulling my hair out as I navigated Noah's newly diagnosed life with ADHD and Autism. Drowning in my own depression, I was also homeschooling Noah after a disastrous experience with a private school, knowing I had to put him back in public school. Life was not on an even keel.
I decided to call my blog 'Living in Left Field,' because the day Noah was diagnosed, they handed us a binder full of information and sent us on our way, "Congratulations! Your son has autism, see you in three months!" Shawn and I buckled the kids in the car, then stood in the parking lot just staring at each other (or perhaps into oblivion), shell shocked, even though those were diagnoses we were expecting. We had also expected more support that day. Noah was high functioning enough he didn't qualify for any therapies or support. I'm sorry, what? Finally, I broke the silence and said, "Shit, they just dumped us in left field."
Six years later, we still live in Left Field. I don't know that we will ever live on an even keel, but we know how to navigate it a little better, and laugh with most of the punches.
Six years later, we still live in Left Field. I don't know that we will ever live on an even keel, but we know how to navigate it a little better, and laugh with most of the punches.
Last week, we rode a similar rodeo. As you know, we're now navigating the life of seizures with Avery. Last week I heard, "Yes, your child has seizures. No, we're not treating them. See you in six months!" Shell shocked, I couldn't think of a single question to ask. I couldn't even think to open my notebook to look at the questions I had written down before in the weeks before. I just sat there, next to my child, too dumbstruck to speak on his behalf. I'm sorry, you're not treating my child? Nope. Wait and see. Wait and watch. I felt dumped right back in Left Field, but as I said above, we've never left, so there's that.
Avery and Ezra were happily playing in the hospital playroom, and actually playing with other kids really well, so I let them be while I gathered up the strength for the drive home. Sitting there, I started talking with another mom, and learned more from her than I did the doctors. She held my hand, looked me in my eyes and said, "It's going to be okay. It won't be easy, but it's going to be okay." I've said those very words to countless other moms, and I know both of us will continue saying them.
She told me the difference between epilepsy and seizures (the doctor had already said Avery does not have epilepsy, he has seizures), and why they often don't treat seizures, especially in kids like mine (and hers), especially at first. Avery's seizures are not disrupting his life, or his sleep (that we can tell), nor can any of the tests prove they are happening daily/nightly, or several times a day/night. Also, these meds are heavy duty, and can contribute to the behaviors and sleep issues Avery is already having, and even cause some of their own problems. I also learned these types of seizures are often seen in kids diagnosed with autism, ADHD and other similar behavioral issues. Interesting (okay, but WHY?).
Yes, it still scares the daylights out of me. But, I understand it a little bit better. If only doctors explained things as well as other moms do.
So, we wait and see. We wait and watch.
We wait and pray.
So, we wait and see. We wait and watch.
We wait and pray.
Sunday, October 15, 2017
Oh Mamas, Lean in, Hold On, Press Forward
Precious mamas, have you ever had one of those days for the books?
You know, when your youngest decides to scrap your 16 1/2 half years of veteran mom-ness and make it look as though you're just starting out? No, really, this is NOT my first rodeo, I promise! Ezra has decided to explore his independence recently, and he's become a runner. Thank GOD for the linebacker-sized produce guy in Wegmans who finally clotheslined my kid, while everyone else ignored my shouts of "GRAB HIM" as I ran after him. There have been other incidences that have had me relieved to be in bed at night, and Ezra hasn't been the only culprit.
My heart has been heavy recently, and there is so much on my mind, so much just really weighing my shoulders down. My strength has just been sapped.
I heard a verse on the radio the other day, and the way the DJ explained it, my shoulders just immediately lifted--well, sagged from the lifted weight--and my heart felt a little lighter. It was actually a physical feeling, as I whispered, "Yesssss" to myself in the car. It was such a huge relief to me.
Colossians 3:2: "Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things." Sisters, there are so many things which are upsetting right now in our world and nation. There are days when motherhood just gets the best of us. There are times when it seems life is just too much. These earthly things--they are just mind boggling and strength sapping and shoulder-wearying and heart-heavying.
Set our minds on things ABOVE. Indeed.
Yes, Abba does indeed care so much for us, and does not want us weighed down by these things. He cares so much for us, He is already taking care of these matters. How wonderful is it that we can trust Him so? How amazing is it that He just loves us that much? I can scarcely comprehend it! On our most difficult of days, He has already traveled it ahead of us.
Lean in. Lean in to Jesus on these hard days. He cares so much for you. He cares so much for the things you care about! He loves you so much. Allow Him to lead you. You do not have to do this alone!
Hold on. Hold on to the Cross. Hold on to the Word. Hold on--cling tightly--to Jesus. These are our weapons against the enemy, these are our armor for our children. Use them MIGHTILY.
Press forward. Press forward strongly in motherhood as your ministry. This is perhaps the most important ministry we will ever face. Press forward for our world and our nation. Press forward, and do not back down from the enemy.
These are our days, mamas. Lean in, hold on, and press forward.
It is our time to rise up, and hit our knees.
You know, when your youngest decides to scrap your 16 1/2 half years of veteran mom-ness and make it look as though you're just starting out? No, really, this is NOT my first rodeo, I promise! Ezra has decided to explore his independence recently, and he's become a runner. Thank GOD for the linebacker-sized produce guy in Wegmans who finally clotheslined my kid, while everyone else ignored my shouts of "GRAB HIM" as I ran after him. There have been other incidences that have had me relieved to be in bed at night, and Ezra hasn't been the only culprit.
My heart has been heavy recently, and there is so much on my mind, so much just really weighing my shoulders down. My strength has just been sapped.
I heard a verse on the radio the other day, and the way the DJ explained it, my shoulders just immediately lifted--well, sagged from the lifted weight--and my heart felt a little lighter. It was actually a physical feeling, as I whispered, "Yesssss" to myself in the car. It was such a huge relief to me.
Colossians 3:2: "Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things." Sisters, there are so many things which are upsetting right now in our world and nation. There are days when motherhood just gets the best of us. There are times when it seems life is just too much. These earthly things--they are just mind boggling and strength sapping and shoulder-wearying and heart-heavying.
Set our minds on things ABOVE. Indeed.
Yes, Abba does indeed care so much for us, and does not want us weighed down by these things. He cares so much for us, He is already taking care of these matters. How wonderful is it that we can trust Him so? How amazing is it that He just loves us that much? I can scarcely comprehend it! On our most difficult of days, He has already traveled it ahead of us.
Lean in. Lean in to Jesus on these hard days. He cares so much for you. He cares so much for the things you care about! He loves you so much. Allow Him to lead you. You do not have to do this alone!
Hold on. Hold on to the Cross. Hold on to the Word. Hold on--cling tightly--to Jesus. These are our weapons against the enemy, these are our armor for our children. Use them MIGHTILY.
Press forward. Press forward strongly in motherhood as your ministry. This is perhaps the most important ministry we will ever face. Press forward for our world and our nation. Press forward, and do not back down from the enemy.
These are our days, mamas. Lean in, hold on, and press forward.
It is our time to rise up, and hit our knees.
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
One in Four
Imagine you are standing in line with at least three other women at the grocery store. Now, imagine that if you have not lost a child due to miscarriage, one of those other women most likely has.
I am one of those women.
I am one of the lucky mamas... I've only had one miscarriage, and I have three healthy boys.
My daughter would be about 13 years old.
I did not carry Grace past the first trimester. I hadn't even seen the doctor yet. I don't have a picture of her. It is purely supernatural that I know my child is a girl, and that she has blonde hair. If you'd like to hear the story, Noah and I will sit down with you sometime.
Grace's loss is one I still grieve. I do not believe the loss of your child is one you ever finish grieving, no matter the age of your child, no matter if you met your child or not. In my heart, I know she would have been led a very sick, painful life. I also know God spared her, and she is healthy now. I was so very sick when I became pregnant with her, and I was on so many medications. I carry a lot of guilt for the irresponsibility I had in even becoming pregnant, and for many years I beat myself up for what I felt was my part in my child's death. I've talked a lot in my blog before about the anger and bitterness I carried concerning our struggle with infertility, but I also carried so much towards God for taking my child. For quite a while, even as bitter and angry as I was about our infertility struggle, I felt it was a just punishment for my part in Grace's death. It was a long, hard journey getting to where I am now, at peace with Grace being healthy and happy, even though I do not get to raise her. Yes, it is possible to miss a child I've never met. I miss her every day. I miss the moments I don't get to have as her mom, and I try to not think about milestones (Homecoming prep shopping is hitting me hard this season for some reason). Shawn, and even our boys, have missed out on so much, too. I find myself wondering what she would be like, how we would get along, what kind of things she would like. I also try to not think about her too much, but I'm her mom, so it's what I do.
There is always the inevitable, "Three boys, huh??? You gonna try for that girl?" Sometimes I shut it down quickly, announcing that we already have our girl, depending on how rude the person is, other times I'm more gentle, but I still explain that our little girl lives in heaven. It's a delicate balance, honoring my daughter's memory while also honoring my sons' lives. It's only been within the past year that I now tell people I have four children when they ask how many I have. It's a question I used to struggle with--I usually end up comforting the person if the conversation goes past that and it becomes awkward--I felt as though I was denying Grace's existence. I always heard her little voice asking why I didn't tell people about her. Now, I do. I try to keep the conversation short and simple, unless Grace is the purpose of the conversation.
I do not share this with you for pity or sympathy. I share this with you because our voices need to be heard for the sake of other mamas who feel they are alone. Every day, in every setting, it is socially acceptable to discuss every form of cancer and other illnesses, to discuss every other kind of death, often times right down to the gory details--but no one talks about miscarriage anywhere. Not even our churches are talking about early child loss! It is completely socially taboo. I do not know that I will ever understand why. When I lost Grace, I was so embarrassed and ashamed I even hid it from Shawn for several years. Our marriage was not in a good place when Grace died, and I was so ashamed, I was afraid he would blame me for her death just as I blamed myself. It took me even longer to talk about her with anyone else who wasn't super close to me. Now, I know she is part of my testimony for other mamas. I must talk about her for other mamas who have been told to just move on, to just get pregnant again, they can always adopt, to get a dog or a plant--for those mamas grieving their losses who have heard all the tired lines. Please, PLEASE, do not ever say any of those things to a grieving mother. Do not ever tell her that at least she won't have to deal with potty training, or go through the pain of breastfeeding, or the terrible twos, or to be glad she won't have a moody teenager in her house now (just a few of the things I've heard). Do you have any idea what that mama would do for any one of those problems you take for granted? Word of advice--if you don't know what to say, please do not say anything. Just hug her. Hold on to her for dear life and don't let go. And please, PLEASE, do not ever reject her motherhood; she carried and loved her child, she IS a mother.
Making it even more difficult for me, my doctor dismissed my loss. It was tragic for me, but to my doctor, "these things just happen." I lost my child, and he just dismissed her life! Grace is not just "one of those things,"! Precious love, neither is your child! Much of society also dismisses my loss--clump of cells, fetus, loss of pregnancy, miscarriage, etc. The early loss of a child is not something which shows up in a newspaper obituary, nor is there a funeral held. Unless you've already told others you were pregnant, or you were already showing, no one knows you've lost your baby until you tell them, unlike the death of a person who isn't there at church the following week after he/she dies. This is another reason so many mamas suffer alone.
Precious mama, if you have lost your baby, please--cry. Cry as much as you need to, then cry some more. You lost your child! You lost your dream. You lost a part of yourself, and a part of your family. Grieve. Name your child, even if you don't if your baby is a boy or a girl--give your baby a name. It may sound simple to some--of course you should give your child a name, while to others it may sound strange. Please trust me when I say it does help to be able to refer to your baby by name. And it helps your friends and family when they ask how you are doing, too. A name gives everyone a reference point. You are no longer referring to 'the miscarriage,' or referring to your child as 'it' or 'the baby.' Talk to someone. Anyone. Everyone. Share your story. Do not hold it in like I did. There is nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. There is nothing you did--and I know you are so tired of hearing that. And I know you are just as tired of hearing there is nothing you could have done, but love, it is the truth. Know you are not alone in this. Know you are loved. Allow friends and loved ones to minister to you; there are no burials with early miscarriages, making grieving even more difficult, so allow those meals to come in, allow friends to take you for coffee, or to bring it to you, allow them to take your other children for the day. Allow yourself to be angry. Please remember this, also: Make these allowances, but when it is time, allow yourself to come back up out of the pit. Yes, you will wonder how you can go on, and your marriage may even be rocky, but love, you must allow yourself to come out of the pit.
Precious mama, this is a painful time for you. Allow yourself to be loved. Allow yourself to be held. Allow yourself to know that as painful as it is right now, there will come a morning when you will wake up and hurt just a little less, and you will smile when you say your baby's name.
You are loved, precious mama. You are so, so very loved.
I am one of those women.
I am one of the lucky mamas... I've only had one miscarriage, and I have three healthy boys.
My daughter would be about 13 years old.
I did not carry Grace past the first trimester. I hadn't even seen the doctor yet. I don't have a picture of her. It is purely supernatural that I know my child is a girl, and that she has blonde hair. If you'd like to hear the story, Noah and I will sit down with you sometime.
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| Top Print: "MisConception" by thevisualminimal.com Bottom Print: linktr.ee/letteredhope |
Grace's loss is one I still grieve. I do not believe the loss of your child is one you ever finish grieving, no matter the age of your child, no matter if you met your child or not. In my heart, I know she would have been led a very sick, painful life. I also know God spared her, and she is healthy now. I was so very sick when I became pregnant with her, and I was on so many medications. I carry a lot of guilt for the irresponsibility I had in even becoming pregnant, and for many years I beat myself up for what I felt was my part in my child's death. I've talked a lot in my blog before about the anger and bitterness I carried concerning our struggle with infertility, but I also carried so much towards God for taking my child. For quite a while, even as bitter and angry as I was about our infertility struggle, I felt it was a just punishment for my part in Grace's death. It was a long, hard journey getting to where I am now, at peace with Grace being healthy and happy, even though I do not get to raise her. Yes, it is possible to miss a child I've never met. I miss her every day. I miss the moments I don't get to have as her mom, and I try to not think about milestones (Homecoming prep shopping is hitting me hard this season for some reason). Shawn, and even our boys, have missed out on so much, too. I find myself wondering what she would be like, how we would get along, what kind of things she would like. I also try to not think about her too much, but I'm her mom, so it's what I do.
There is always the inevitable, "Three boys, huh??? You gonna try for that girl?" Sometimes I shut it down quickly, announcing that we already have our girl, depending on how rude the person is, other times I'm more gentle, but I still explain that our little girl lives in heaven. It's a delicate balance, honoring my daughter's memory while also honoring my sons' lives. It's only been within the past year that I now tell people I have four children when they ask how many I have. It's a question I used to struggle with--I usually end up comforting the person if the conversation goes past that and it becomes awkward--I felt as though I was denying Grace's existence. I always heard her little voice asking why I didn't tell people about her. Now, I do. I try to keep the conversation short and simple, unless Grace is the purpose of the conversation.
I do not share this with you for pity or sympathy. I share this with you because our voices need to be heard for the sake of other mamas who feel they are alone. Every day, in every setting, it is socially acceptable to discuss every form of cancer and other illnesses, to discuss every other kind of death, often times right down to the gory details--but no one talks about miscarriage anywhere. Not even our churches are talking about early child loss! It is completely socially taboo. I do not know that I will ever understand why. When I lost Grace, I was so embarrassed and ashamed I even hid it from Shawn for several years. Our marriage was not in a good place when Grace died, and I was so ashamed, I was afraid he would blame me for her death just as I blamed myself. It took me even longer to talk about her with anyone else who wasn't super close to me. Now, I know she is part of my testimony for other mamas. I must talk about her for other mamas who have been told to just move on, to just get pregnant again, they can always adopt, to get a dog or a plant--for those mamas grieving their losses who have heard all the tired lines. Please, PLEASE, do not ever say any of those things to a grieving mother. Do not ever tell her that at least she won't have to deal with potty training, or go through the pain of breastfeeding, or the terrible twos, or to be glad she won't have a moody teenager in her house now (just a few of the things I've heard). Do you have any idea what that mama would do for any one of those problems you take for granted? Word of advice--if you don't know what to say, please do not say anything. Just hug her. Hold on to her for dear life and don't let go. And please, PLEASE, do not ever reject her motherhood; she carried and loved her child, she IS a mother.
Making it even more difficult for me, my doctor dismissed my loss. It was tragic for me, but to my doctor, "these things just happen." I lost my child, and he just dismissed her life! Grace is not just "one of those things,"! Precious love, neither is your child! Much of society also dismisses my loss--clump of cells, fetus, loss of pregnancy, miscarriage, etc. The early loss of a child is not something which shows up in a newspaper obituary, nor is there a funeral held. Unless you've already told others you were pregnant, or you were already showing, no one knows you've lost your baby until you tell them, unlike the death of a person who isn't there at church the following week after he/she dies. This is another reason so many mamas suffer alone.
Precious mama, if you have lost your baby, please--cry. Cry as much as you need to, then cry some more. You lost your child! You lost your dream. You lost a part of yourself, and a part of your family. Grieve. Name your child, even if you don't if your baby is a boy or a girl--give your baby a name. It may sound simple to some--of course you should give your child a name, while to others it may sound strange. Please trust me when I say it does help to be able to refer to your baby by name. And it helps your friends and family when they ask how you are doing, too. A name gives everyone a reference point. You are no longer referring to 'the miscarriage,' or referring to your child as 'it' or 'the baby.' Talk to someone. Anyone. Everyone. Share your story. Do not hold it in like I did. There is nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. There is nothing you did--and I know you are so tired of hearing that. And I know you are just as tired of hearing there is nothing you could have done, but love, it is the truth. Know you are not alone in this. Know you are loved. Allow friends and loved ones to minister to you; there are no burials with early miscarriages, making grieving even more difficult, so allow those meals to come in, allow friends to take you for coffee, or to bring it to you, allow them to take your other children for the day. Allow yourself to be angry. Please remember this, also: Make these allowances, but when it is time, allow yourself to come back up out of the pit. Yes, you will wonder how you can go on, and your marriage may even be rocky, but love, you must allow yourself to come out of the pit.
Precious mama, this is a painful time for you. Allow yourself to be loved. Allow yourself to be held. Allow yourself to know that as painful as it is right now, there will come a morning when you will wake up and hurt just a little less, and you will smile when you say your baby's name.
You are loved, precious mama. You are so, so very loved.
Tuesday, October 3, 2017
Saved by Grace
My Dearest Grace,
If you could only know how much I miss you. We don't even have a picture. I had a pregnancy stick once, with a line that disappeared. We never even met you, yet we miss you with a constant ache. We have a car meant to seat six, a table meant for six, a home meant for six, everything in our lives is meant for a family of six--our hearts are meant for a family of six--yet, you aren't here. Every one of your seats are empty, save for your place in our hearts.
I didn't miss your earlier milestones so much because I was concentrating so hard on Noah's, and then Avery's (and now Ezra's, as well). Knowing how precious life is, I wanted to make the most out of every moment for your brothers. In the process, I need to make the most out of their lives for myself. When you lose a child, you realize just how important and precious the children you have really are.
It's starting to hit home now, though. We've missed out on a lot. We didn't just lose you, we lost moments and memories and dreams.
Watching Noah go to Homecoming a few weekends ago, I realized I'll never have the chance to shop for dresses and make up and shoes with you. How I longed to clasp one of my necklaces around your neck, adjust your dress, help you with your hair. After pictures were taken, with tears cracking my voice and sounding like a crazy lady, I begged the other girls to please send the pictures to their moms, "Things like this are important to them." I won't have the chance to hug you, remind you to be careful and have fun, and send you on your way. It was like ripping a scab off a gaping wound, grief renewed. I was happy for Noah, but oh, the pain ran deep again.
Your dad confessed he misses the chance to dance with you, or walk you down the aisle on your wedding day.
Noah confesses missing the chance to protect you as you grow up. He misses the chance to grill your boyfriends, and be your big brother.
Grace, even in your absence, you've taught me so much. I've never even held you, yet you've made me a better mom, a better friend, and a better person. You've given me a better understanding of so much, a different perspective of so many things, and a greater love for other mamas.
Your loss has taught me how painful questions like, "when are you going to have (more) children" can be, so they are typically topics of conversation I stay away from.
You are one of the reasons we understand how blessed we are. So many couples with miscarriage and infertility as part of their story don't have the opportunity to include three (biological) children as another part of their story. You are one of the reasons your brothers are hugged tighter, and held closer.
You are one of the reasons I pray so fervently for good relationships with my daughters in law, for good wives for your brothers, and if they are God's will, granddaughters (I'll take grandsons, too--now I know what to do with boys, finally!). I want to be part of their lives, part of the moments I've missed with you.
We lost out on so much, but in the end, we have been saved by so much grace. We have been saved not just by God's grace, but by you, our daughter, precious Grace.
Until we meet again, for forever--
I love you, always and forever, forever and always.
Love,
Mom
If you could only know how much I miss you. We don't even have a picture. I had a pregnancy stick once, with a line that disappeared. We never even met you, yet we miss you with a constant ache. We have a car meant to seat six, a table meant for six, a home meant for six, everything in our lives is meant for a family of six--our hearts are meant for a family of six--yet, you aren't here. Every one of your seats are empty, save for your place in our hearts.
I didn't miss your earlier milestones so much because I was concentrating so hard on Noah's, and then Avery's (and now Ezra's, as well). Knowing how precious life is, I wanted to make the most out of every moment for your brothers. In the process, I need to make the most out of their lives for myself. When you lose a child, you realize just how important and precious the children you have really are.
It's starting to hit home now, though. We've missed out on a lot. We didn't just lose you, we lost moments and memories and dreams.
Watching Noah go to Homecoming a few weekends ago, I realized I'll never have the chance to shop for dresses and make up and shoes with you. How I longed to clasp one of my necklaces around your neck, adjust your dress, help you with your hair. After pictures were taken, with tears cracking my voice and sounding like a crazy lady, I begged the other girls to please send the pictures to their moms, "Things like this are important to them." I won't have the chance to hug you, remind you to be careful and have fun, and send you on your way. It was like ripping a scab off a gaping wound, grief renewed. I was happy for Noah, but oh, the pain ran deep again.
Your dad confessed he misses the chance to dance with you, or walk you down the aisle on your wedding day.
Noah confesses missing the chance to protect you as you grow up. He misses the chance to grill your boyfriends, and be your big brother.
Grace, even in your absence, you've taught me so much. I've never even held you, yet you've made me a better mom, a better friend, and a better person. You've given me a better understanding of so much, a different perspective of so many things, and a greater love for other mamas.
Your loss has taught me how painful questions like, "when are you going to have (more) children" can be, so they are typically topics of conversation I stay away from.
You are one of the reasons we understand how blessed we are. So many couples with miscarriage and infertility as part of their story don't have the opportunity to include three (biological) children as another part of their story. You are one of the reasons your brothers are hugged tighter, and held closer.
You are one of the reasons I pray so fervently for good relationships with my daughters in law, for good wives for your brothers, and if they are God's will, granddaughters (I'll take grandsons, too--now I know what to do with boys, finally!). I want to be part of their lives, part of the moments I've missed with you.
We lost out on so much, but in the end, we have been saved by so much grace. We have been saved not just by God's grace, but by you, our daughter, precious Grace.
Until we meet again, for forever--
I love you, always and forever, forever and always.
Love,
Mom
Monday, October 2, 2017
Well, What DOES Autism Look Like?
Ask my children, and they'll tell you what it's like to have to hold me back when someone says, "Well, he doesn't look autistic!" As an autism mom, I feel it is my duty to properly educate this obviously ignorant person about autism, and ask what, exactly, autism is supposed to look to like. Because apparently, once you've seen one kid with autism, you've seen them all.
I'm quite certain my kids have a ready-go distraction plan in place; Noah throws Avery a look while grabbing my hand and saying, "Let's go," Avery asks the easily distracted Ezra if he wants ice cream or a donut, Ezra starts yelling for one or both, I'm then distracted by the toddler's sudden need for a treat, realize that ice cream really does sound good, and away we go! They're good, those sneaky kids of mine.
The problem is, this time, I'm the one who got caught up in this.
I watched Avery like a hawk from infancy, going through his developmental milestones. I watched him so close, I gave a whole new definition to the name Helicopter Mom. I ticked things off in my head, I had checklists for him, and by 18 months, I felt we were breathing pretty easy. I started to relax just a little.
I even remember the day Noah asked me if I thought Avery had autism like he did. It broke my heart for so many reasons, and Noah's reaction to my answer ("No."), "Good, I don't want him to suffer like I do," absolutely shattered my heart. Thank you Jesus, we're past that point.
I did continue to watch Avery, and I picked up on ADHD and some anger issues, we had him tested twice, he's been in counseling, but--autism? It wasn't until the past two months that I've really started looking at him, considering it, and realizing this is the missing puzzle piece.
He's not a difficult child, I was just looking at things all wrong. Avery, please forgive me.
It didn't look like autism to me. Because I was comparing him to Noah.
You have to remember that autism is on a scale, that's why it's called a SPECTRUM Difference (we don't use the word 'disorder' in our house). I forgot that. I was paying attention, but to the wrong things. Just because you've seen one kid with autism, doesn't mean you've seen them all.
So, what does autism look like?
Well, in our home, autism looks like this:
Yep, just your average, ordinary, everyday kids.
I'm quite certain my kids have a ready-go distraction plan in place; Noah throws Avery a look while grabbing my hand and saying, "Let's go," Avery asks the easily distracted Ezra if he wants ice cream or a donut, Ezra starts yelling for one or both, I'm then distracted by the toddler's sudden need for a treat, realize that ice cream really does sound good, and away we go! They're good, those sneaky kids of mine.
The problem is, this time, I'm the one who got caught up in this.
I watched Avery like a hawk from infancy, going through his developmental milestones. I watched him so close, I gave a whole new definition to the name Helicopter Mom. I ticked things off in my head, I had checklists for him, and by 18 months, I felt we were breathing pretty easy. I started to relax just a little.
I even remember the day Noah asked me if I thought Avery had autism like he did. It broke my heart for so many reasons, and Noah's reaction to my answer ("No."), "Good, I don't want him to suffer like I do," absolutely shattered my heart. Thank you Jesus, we're past that point.
I did continue to watch Avery, and I picked up on ADHD and some anger issues, we had him tested twice, he's been in counseling, but--autism? It wasn't until the past two months that I've really started looking at him, considering it, and realizing this is the missing puzzle piece.
He's not a difficult child, I was just looking at things all wrong. Avery, please forgive me.
It didn't look like autism to me. Because I was comparing him to Noah.
You have to remember that autism is on a scale, that's why it's called a SPECTRUM Difference (we don't use the word 'disorder' in our house). I forgot that. I was paying attention, but to the wrong things. Just because you've seen one kid with autism, doesn't mean you've seen them all.
So, what does autism look like?
Well, in our home, autism looks like this:
Yep, just your average, ordinary, everyday kids.
Monday, September 18, 2017
Luck and Blessings
Our last day in Jamaica was spent on an amazing beach with crystal clear water, white sand and blue sky for miles. It was beautiful, I loved watching the teens have fun, it was glorious to wiggle my toes in the sand, and we were able to see some truly amazing fish--but you know my heart was still at the orphanage. This was our decompression day, but it was difficult for me to decompress. Okay, so it's difficult for me to decompress on any given day. Our bodyguard/tour guide/minder extraordinaire had chosen a private beach club of sorts for us. The idea was that we wouldn't be bothered the street salesmen selling their wares as we relaxed. The club had security guards patrolling the stretch of beach to keep street salesmen at bay, but really, there's only so much one can do with open waters.
My best friend swears I stood on the nearest lifeguard stand yelling, "TOURIST WITH AMERICAN CASH!! TOURIST WITH AMERICAN CASH!!! COME AND GET IT" as I waved wads of cash in the air. And the way Noah acted, I really actually did. I bought several things from a few of the salesmen, much to Noah's horror. You have to remember, he was my protector on this trip, and he took that role seriously, especially when I engaged with the locals, and especially when I attempted to haggle with the locals over my purchases. I knew I was getting taken, so to speak, but as I explained to a very frustrated Noah, that's just kind of the role you know you are going to play as a tourist. Each and every one of them pled to me about having to eat and feed families, mon, and well, I just wasn't going to be that gullible.
"Mom, you're going to get both of us shanked."
"Noah, they want my money, calm down."
"Exactly!" *hissed through clenched teeth*
I still think it's kind of funny Noah used the word 'shanked.' Does that make me a bad mom?
One of my purchases was a necklace for Avery. The gentleman I bought it from insisted it was handmade, and insisted even further the beadlike thingamabob on it was some sort of expensive African wood that brings good luck (it looks like plastic to me), therefore I should pay $20 American cash for it. I told him I would give him $10. "A man's got to make a living, mon! $15!" I did get it down to $10; after all, a missionary has to live, too. And, as I explained to him--I'm a Christian. Luck means absolutely nothing to me (Noah hissing in my ear and pulling on my arm: "Moooommmmm......").
Avery wears that necklace almost all the time now. And I hear him tell that story to anyone who will (or won't, as sometimes the case may be!) listen. He even includes the part about Noah telling me I'm going to get us shanked. I'm not sure Avery knows what 'shanked' means. It makes me smile, and even laugh a little. I love hearing Avery tell this story.
"I'm a Christian, so this luck bead is meaningless to me, but it's still kind of cool because it's from Jamaica. Or it's from Africa. I don't know. But my mom almost got shanked over it."
I smile because I know he isn't just repeating what he's heard me say. I know he understands the difference between luck and blessings, and what they mean to us. He corrects me when I say I'm the luckiest mom, "No Mom, you're the blessiest mom! We don't believe in luck!"
So yes, I paid $10 for a luck bead. But my blessings are priceless.
Sunday, September 10, 2017
Avery's Faith
This kid. I'm undone.
I've shared my fear here on my blog, I've shared it with my friends, and I've shared with Shawn. I've done my fair share of crying and yelling at God.
I've also done my best to hide all of it from Avery. Some days I'm more successful than others.
Avery, on the other hand, has remained brave. We've talked about the seizures and he says he's not afraid. He's faced each new test with stoicism and bravery, even as they've torn my heart to pieces and I've wanted to be able to promise him this is the last one. We pray for healing, we talk of miracles, and research the brain.
A few nights ago we were praying for Avery's healing and I couldn't hold it together anymore. Avery reached up, grabbed me in a hug, and reminded me, "It's going to be okay, Mom."
Today on our way to church, I heard from the back, "Mom, when God heals me, I want to call in to Wow God Wednesday and tell people about my miracle."
Miracle. My boy has such hope. He has such faith. He believes. He knows.
This kid. I'm just undone.
I've shared my fear here on my blog, I've shared it with my friends, and I've shared with Shawn. I've done my fair share of crying and yelling at God.
I've also done my best to hide all of it from Avery. Some days I'm more successful than others.
Avery, on the other hand, has remained brave. We've talked about the seizures and he says he's not afraid. He's faced each new test with stoicism and bravery, even as they've torn my heart to pieces and I've wanted to be able to promise him this is the last one. We pray for healing, we talk of miracles, and research the brain.
A few nights ago we were praying for Avery's healing and I couldn't hold it together anymore. Avery reached up, grabbed me in a hug, and reminded me, "It's going to be okay, Mom."
Today on our way to church, I heard from the back, "Mom, when God heals me, I want to call in to Wow God Wednesday and tell people about my miracle."
Miracle. My boy has such hope. He has such faith. He believes. He knows.
This kid. I'm just undone.
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
Perspective, Experience, and Everyone's Fight
We took a drive to put seizures behind us today. One of our ventures took us into one of my favorite antique shops. I didn't feel as though we behaved any worse than usual, but we seemed to be bothering a particular woman every time we passed her. It just struck me as odd, as we really were pretty tame compared to how we can usually be!
Shawn commented on it, asking me what I thought her problem was--I mean, we were really catching some looks from her!
I began looking at us with different eyes, trying to figure out what she saw when she looked at us.
We had our three boys with us. I was proudly flaunting my motherhood, wearing my "#outnumbered: boymom," shirt. We were laughing, having a good time. She didn't know our back story from Adam's (or Eve's, for that matter). She didn't know what we were out to escape today.
Nor did I know what she and her husband might have been trying to escape today, either.
There was a time, before Avery and before Ezra, I was SO. ANGRY. at families like ours. I was SO. ANGRY. at women like me. I hated families and women like them just for existing. Why do they get to have some many kids and I don't? Why do they get to have fun and I've buried a child in my heart and have wanted nothing more than more babies in my womb? Why am only only allowed one child when I want so many more? No one understands me. Everyone sees me, but no one sees the pain I've buried so deep.
I was so bitter. I was so angry. I really had to pray my way out of it. It was not a short, easy journey. I will be honest here--it was not Avery and Ezra who got me out of that hole. It was GOD, who made me whole. It was prayer, that renewed me. I know many think I'm all better because I have Avery and Ezra, and while my gratitude exceeds any imaginable expectation, they are not the reason (the only reasons) I'm all better. There are times I want to wear my testimony on my shirt, you know?
Anyway, I'm digressing.
I said to Shawn: "What if her story is similar to our story? What if we remind her of something she just wants to forget? What if we remind her of her heart's desire? What if she needs the kindness and love we did?"
It changed how we looked at this precious woman, and it changed how we thought of the way she looked at us. When we passed her the next time, we smiled. We didn't judge, we didn't wonder how we'd wronged her, and just did our best to understand that yes, while it was possible we may have just been on her wrong side, it was also entirely possible we reminded her of something she needed to forget.
Kindness and perspective go a very long way.
Shawn commented on it, asking me what I thought her problem was--I mean, we were really catching some looks from her!
I began looking at us with different eyes, trying to figure out what she saw when she looked at us.
We had our three boys with us. I was proudly flaunting my motherhood, wearing my "#outnumbered: boymom," shirt. We were laughing, having a good time. She didn't know our back story from Adam's (or Eve's, for that matter). She didn't know what we were out to escape today.
Nor did I know what she and her husband might have been trying to escape today, either.
There was a time, before Avery and before Ezra, I was SO. ANGRY. at families like ours. I was SO. ANGRY. at women like me. I hated families and women like them just for existing. Why do they get to have some many kids and I don't? Why do they get to have fun and I've buried a child in my heart and have wanted nothing more than more babies in my womb? Why am only only allowed one child when I want so many more? No one understands me. Everyone sees me, but no one sees the pain I've buried so deep.
I was so bitter. I was so angry. I really had to pray my way out of it. It was not a short, easy journey. I will be honest here--it was not Avery and Ezra who got me out of that hole. It was GOD, who made me whole. It was prayer, that renewed me. I know many think I'm all better because I have Avery and Ezra, and while my gratitude exceeds any imaginable expectation, they are not the reason (the only reasons) I'm all better. There are times I want to wear my testimony on my shirt, you know?
Anyway, I'm digressing.
I said to Shawn: "What if her story is similar to our story? What if we remind her of something she just wants to forget? What if we remind her of her heart's desire? What if she needs the kindness and love we did?"
It changed how we looked at this precious woman, and it changed how we thought of the way she looked at us. When we passed her the next time, we smiled. We didn't judge, we didn't wonder how we'd wronged her, and just did our best to understand that yes, while it was possible we may have just been on her wrong side, it was also entirely possible we reminded her of something she needed to forget.
Kindness and perspective go a very long way.
"Be kind; everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." (many authors attributed)
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Fear
Fear: (noun) to be afraid and worried; to expect or worry about (something bad or unpleasant); suggests a strong feeling of not wanting to accept or deal with something bad or unpleasant; painful emotion felt because of danger. (Merriam-Webster)
Fear: Powerful tool of the enemy (Amy Furr)
As the definitions above state, fear is a powerful emotion, as well as a powerful tool of the enemy. It is an emotion I'm feeling a lot of recently. I'm afraid for my boys and everything they are going through. Not just Avery, but Noah and Ezra, also. Fear overwhelms me. It is a darkness that envelopes me, crushes me down and leaves me weak. It attacks me, eating from the inside out, kicking my fight-or-flight response system into high gear. There is nothing about me that exudes peace or confidence at the moment. I feel defeated, completely crushed. It's more than fear, it's a deep groan, a dark foreboding. My mind is constantly working, my body always ready to react, yet I'm exhausted in every sense of the word. I'm on sensory overload and really just want to hide away, and tend to my kids. I want to wake up and realize everything was just a bad nightmare, but I don't sleep because I'm listening for Avery. I am exhausted from fighting enemies I cannot see or hear. I want to get back to 'normal.'
Oh, my soul
Many times, anger is the easier emotion for me. It has always been easier for me to be angry than to be afraid, or sad. Anger makes me feel more in control for some reason, and I really don't like feeling out of control. Fear and sadness leave me feeling too vulnerable. Anger in these situations also makes me feel as though I'm blaming God, and I'm not. Fear is a distrust of God, though--the enemy's handiwork. Two friends and I have wondered if I could be under attack, my fear and anxiety are so great, and we have praying against it. Spiritual warfare is a very real and powerful thing. The enemy does not want to see me succeed--as a mother, as a Christian, as a leader in my church, as a wife, as anything. If I fall and fail, that is a success for him, and one less Christian for him to contend with. I continually say that my full trust and faith are in God alone, He's never let us down before, but my fear and anxiety are very apparent. That is a contradiction, unfortunately. With all the fear I feel, I may as well point my finger at God and say, "He did it!" I don't want to do that because I know in my heart it is simply not true. So, why the fear? I don't believe I have little faith; I believe I have faith that can move mountains, but I also have this intense fear. This is something I truly do not understand.
This morning during praise and worship I was reminded of something. Last year, there was a little girl about Ezra's age named Mirranda Grace. She suffered a medical crisis and I prayed mightily for that precious little girl, just as I would my own child, even though I did not know her. God took her home to heaven to heal her in the end, but I do not believe my prayers were empty or for naught. A line from a song we sing in church became my prayer mantra for her, as she was in a coma, attached to many machines doing the work for her little body: "It's Your breath in (her) lungs," and I added "and Your blood in her veins." This morning, as we sang that song, I realized that needs to be my prayer mantra for my boys. Lord, it is Your breath they are breathing in and out of their lungs, and Your blood pulsing through their veins.
Just as I prayed for Mirranda Grace and her family, I know we have an army praying fervently for us, and for Avery in particular. I am strengthened by this army, and the enemy cowers from the light they make. When I am too worn to pray, many others are praying in my absence.
Fear: Powerful tool of the enemy (Amy Furr)
Lord, I’m weary. My energy is sagging, and my motivation is lagging. And I am so in need of you. I need your strength and your fresh touch. Your Word says the joy of the Lord is my strength. I need your joy to replace all the bone-tired parts of my mind, body, and soul. ~Amen
As the definitions above state, fear is a powerful emotion, as well as a powerful tool of the enemy. It is an emotion I'm feeling a lot of recently. I'm afraid for my boys and everything they are going through. Not just Avery, but Noah and Ezra, also. Fear overwhelms me. It is a darkness that envelopes me, crushes me down and leaves me weak. It attacks me, eating from the inside out, kicking my fight-or-flight response system into high gear. There is nothing about me that exudes peace or confidence at the moment. I feel defeated, completely crushed. It's more than fear, it's a deep groan, a dark foreboding. My mind is constantly working, my body always ready to react, yet I'm exhausted in every sense of the word. I'm on sensory overload and really just want to hide away, and tend to my kids. I want to wake up and realize everything was just a bad nightmare, but I don't sleep because I'm listening for Avery. I am exhausted from fighting enemies I cannot see or hear. I want to get back to 'normal.'
Oh, my soul
Oh, how you worry
Oh, how you’re weary, from fearing you lost control
This was the one thing, you didn’t see coming
And no one would blame you, though
If you cried in private
If you tried to hide it away, so no one knows
No one will see, if you stop believing
Oh, my soul
You are not alone
There’s a place where fear has to face the God you know
One more day, He will make a way
Let Him show you how, you can lay this down
‘Cause you’re not alone...
(Casting Crowns, Oh My Soul)
Many times, anger is the easier emotion for me. It has always been easier for me to be angry than to be afraid, or sad. Anger makes me feel more in control for some reason, and I really don't like feeling out of control. Fear and sadness leave me feeling too vulnerable. Anger in these situations also makes me feel as though I'm blaming God, and I'm not. Fear is a distrust of God, though--the enemy's handiwork. Two friends and I have wondered if I could be under attack, my fear and anxiety are so great, and we have praying against it. Spiritual warfare is a very real and powerful thing. The enemy does not want to see me succeed--as a mother, as a Christian, as a leader in my church, as a wife, as anything. If I fall and fail, that is a success for him, and one less Christian for him to contend with. I continually say that my full trust and faith are in God alone, He's never let us down before, but my fear and anxiety are very apparent. That is a contradiction, unfortunately. With all the fear I feel, I may as well point my finger at God and say, "He did it!" I don't want to do that because I know in my heart it is simply not true. So, why the fear? I don't believe I have little faith; I believe I have faith that can move mountains, but I also have this intense fear. This is something I truly do not understand.
He replied, "Because you have so little faith. Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you." Matthew 17:20
This morning during praise and worship I was reminded of something. Last year, there was a little girl about Ezra's age named Mirranda Grace. She suffered a medical crisis and I prayed mightily for that precious little girl, just as I would my own child, even though I did not know her. God took her home to heaven to heal her in the end, but I do not believe my prayers were empty or for naught. A line from a song we sing in church became my prayer mantra for her, as she was in a coma, attached to many machines doing the work for her little body: "It's Your breath in (her) lungs," and I added "and Your blood in her veins." This morning, as we sang that song, I realized that needs to be my prayer mantra for my boys. Lord, it is Your breath they are breathing in and out of their lungs, and Your blood pulsing through their veins.
Just as I prayed for Mirranda Grace and her family, I know we have an army praying fervently for us, and for Avery in particular. I am strengthened by this army, and the enemy cowers from the light they make. When I am too worn to pray, many others are praying in my absence.
...Here and now
You can be honest
I won’t try to promise that someday it all works out
‘Cause this is the valley
And even now, He is breathing on your dry bones
And there will be dancing
There will be beauty where beauty was ash and stone
This much I know
I’m not strong enough, I can’t take anymore
(You can lay it down, you can lay it down)
And my shipwrecked faith will never get me to shore
(You can lay it down, you can lay it down)
Can He find me here
Can He keep me from going under
Oh, my soul
You’re not alone
(Casting Crowns, Oh My Soul)
Yes, my fear is great. My anxiety is eating me alive. But my God is bigger than both of those. God will protect my--His--boys. God is bigger than seizures, the fear of HIV or hepatitis, and He is bigger than Ezra's SPD. He will make good from all of this. I believe this. I don't know how long it will take, but I know He will see this to end, as He has with everything else. The enemy will not have this, he cannot have my family. We serve a MIGHTY God.
“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Isaiah 41:10
Monday, August 28, 2017
Exhausted Angels
The other day we discovered Avery broke a random key off in the tractor ignition in an attempt to start it. Even though we are all (including his counselor) still in awe of the strength it took to do so, he wound up in a heap of trouble for breaking the tractor.
Shawn and Noah replaced the ignition switch, but the mower still wouldn't start. They fiddled and they faddled, I think Noah might've sworn under his breath more than Shawn swore out loud (I didn't keep track). It still wouldn't start.
Shawn finally just started pulling parts out of the tractor and inspecting them, piece by piece.
A fuse. Halfway in, he pulled out a blown fail-safe fuse.
When Avery cranked that random key as hard as he could, this fuse blew, no doubt, saving his life.
When Shawn went to replace it, it was about $2.
A two dollar fuse saved Avery's life from all the electricity that would have flowed through that random key and into his body.
Seizures aside, this kid has got angels. Exhausted ones for sure.
Someone remind me to leave some wine on the doorstep for them.
Sunday, August 27, 2017
Teenage Wisdom
"Mom, I love you, so I'm just going to say this--You need to take a break before you break."
These were the words spoken to me by my 16 year old son last week. While he was driving home, I had opened up my Instagram for just a quick scroll-through. I saw that Batman, an orphaned newborn pig adopted by one of the rescue farms I follow, had died, and I burst into sobbing tears. There's a lot of that going on lately, and I'm a sensitive and emotional person anyway, but as attached as I had become to an orphaned piglet I had never met, there *may* have been some transference as well.
Noah continued, saying with everything happening with Avery and Ezra, I have such little energy already, and that energy needs to be reserved for them, not wasted on distressing news and social media. "Please take a break from social media and from reading the news, it's destroying you. Life is destroying you. I hate seeing my mom like this."
How, and when, did my little boy become such a wise young man?
No truer, wiser words have been spoken. I am under so much stress that I am pouring from a dangerously nearly empty cup. Sadly, I do not have the time, the patience, nor the energy, to refill that cup. I have nothing left for myself right now, and Noah is correct, I certainly cannot spare anything on sad news and upsetting social media posts. I am doing everything I can to keep myself together in front of my kids, especially during Avery's procedures and Ezra's therapies, when I need to be Mama of Steel and pillowy soft so they panic less and are comforted by me (that's the idea anyway). Once we are home and everyone is settled, that's when I can escape to my closet and fall apart. I fall apart in church, too. My safe place. But when the kids are around, I need to be able to keep it together. With super glue and Xanax.
My cell phone, and everything on it, has always been my escape. A quick scroll through Instagram, a quick check of the news, a fast email read or sent, a text sent here or there. Whether I'm in a waiting room, at home with the kids, in the grocery store--wherever I am, sometimes I just need to check out for a minute or two. I've also used these things for prayer. I see a need in the news, or on Instagram, and as I've explained to my family, someone needs to be in prayer, those in need deserve prayer, even if they don't know a stranger is praying for them. But these things are consuming me. And I just don't have the extra energy to allow for that.
I've taken Noah's advice, and turned my phone into a virtual brick. It is now only good for texting, checking the weather, sending and receiving emails---and, get this, making actual phone calls (What??? A cell phone that makes phone calls? Get outta here!). I can't tell you I feel any kind of relief. Out of habit, I'm still picking my phone up several times a day to check the news or Instagram, remembering they aren't there, and putting it back down. I know I should be filling that time with other things like cleaning the house, prayer or other productive means of passing time, but honestly, I can barely get myself off the couch. I just don't have the energy, so Ezra is getting a lot of tv time (Mother of the Year over here) and mama snuggles! The good thing is I'm not getting distressed by (other) things beyond my control in the lives of other people. I'm plenty distressed by things beyond my control in my own life.
Noah's a smart kid. He's a good, smart kid. I'm beyond blessed to be his mama.
These were the words spoken to me by my 16 year old son last week. While he was driving home, I had opened up my Instagram for just a quick scroll-through. I saw that Batman, an orphaned newborn pig adopted by one of the rescue farms I follow, had died, and I burst into sobbing tears. There's a lot of that going on lately, and I'm a sensitive and emotional person anyway, but as attached as I had become to an orphaned piglet I had never met, there *may* have been some transference as well.
Noah continued, saying with everything happening with Avery and Ezra, I have such little energy already, and that energy needs to be reserved for them, not wasted on distressing news and social media. "Please take a break from social media and from reading the news, it's destroying you. Life is destroying you. I hate seeing my mom like this."
How, and when, did my little boy become such a wise young man?
No truer, wiser words have been spoken. I am under so much stress that I am pouring from a dangerously nearly empty cup. Sadly, I do not have the time, the patience, nor the energy, to refill that cup. I have nothing left for myself right now, and Noah is correct, I certainly cannot spare anything on sad news and upsetting social media posts. I am doing everything I can to keep myself together in front of my kids, especially during Avery's procedures and Ezra's therapies, when I need to be Mama of Steel and pillowy soft so they panic less and are comforted by me (that's the idea anyway). Once we are home and everyone is settled, that's when I can escape to my closet and fall apart. I fall apart in church, too. My safe place. But when the kids are around, I need to be able to keep it together. With super glue and Xanax.
My cell phone, and everything on it, has always been my escape. A quick scroll through Instagram, a quick check of the news, a fast email read or sent, a text sent here or there. Whether I'm in a waiting room, at home with the kids, in the grocery store--wherever I am, sometimes I just need to check out for a minute or two. I've also used these things for prayer. I see a need in the news, or on Instagram, and as I've explained to my family, someone needs to be in prayer, those in need deserve prayer, even if they don't know a stranger is praying for them. But these things are consuming me. And I just don't have the extra energy to allow for that.
I've taken Noah's advice, and turned my phone into a virtual brick. It is now only good for texting, checking the weather, sending and receiving emails---and, get this, making actual phone calls (What??? A cell phone that makes phone calls? Get outta here!). I can't tell you I feel any kind of relief. Out of habit, I'm still picking my phone up several times a day to check the news or Instagram, remembering they aren't there, and putting it back down. I know I should be filling that time with other things like cleaning the house, prayer or other productive means of passing time, but honestly, I can barely get myself off the couch. I just don't have the energy, so Ezra is getting a lot of tv time (Mother of the Year over here) and mama snuggles! The good thing is I'm not getting distressed by (other) things beyond my control in the lives of other people. I'm plenty distressed by things beyond my control in my own life.
Noah's a smart kid. He's a good, smart kid. I'm beyond blessed to be his mama.
 |
| I love this wise man-child of mine. |
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Letting Go
Last week, I declared today Cleaning Out the Garage Day. I'd tripped over one of the kid's toys for the last time! and it was time to clean things up and out!
We are storers of crap, I'll admit it. Alright alright, I'M the storer of crap. When I don't want to deal with it, I box it up 'for later.' Some of it moved with us from our townhouse to our first home in 2001. Then we just accumulated and accumulated over the years in that home. Stuff was boxed and stored away in one attic, then another attic, then decorated with here and there, then boxed away in this shed and another shed and the garage. When we moved here, I threw some of it away, but still, much of it came with us two years ago to deal with 'later.' Yup. Later. Even though they were the kids' toys I was tripping over, it was my stuff that really needed going through.
We started this morning by moving everything out to the driveway (No, sorry, we're not having a yard sale... No, no I'm not interested in selling that anyway....), and I got to work going through all of our storage boxes. ALL. OF. THEM.
Oh my word, the things I've kept! It always amazes me what I think I can't live without, then end up tossing months or years later.
Over the first eight years of Noah's life, I kept everything. E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G. I documented every single second of my only child's life. I found entire bags of baby clothes I had stored away, but really had no specific meaning to me, other than I just wasn't ready to part with anything baby-related at the time. There were Halloween costumes, baby shoes, crib sheets and changing pad covers. I still had all of the cards friends and family sent when he was born, his first birthday cards, and birthday cards from years later. I kept every single worksheet, project, test and paper from preschool forward, all of his VBS projects, and everything he ever created at home. There were all kinds of miscellaneous Noah-related things in those boxes, too, along with daily video recordings from every day for the first year of his life, and other recordings from birthdays, holidays and other special days, and even random days over the next eight years. Again, much of it really had no specific meaning, other than Noah was destined to be an only child, and I just wanted to hold on so very tight to every single moment.
I remember the days of saving things "just in case," then the devastating, tear-filled day I officially gave up after one of my doctors appointments, and donated the bigger items to a residential pregnancy center for teens. I still remember everything about that day, right down to what I was wearing, and how angry and jealous I was with the teenage mothers.
I let go of so much today, physically and emotionally. It was incredibly cathartic. I donated all of the clothes I thought I couldn't ever part with, the Halloween costumes, and even those sweet little baby shoes. I saved two of my favorite maternity shirts, then donated the rest of my maternity clothes. Those things will better serve someone else than they will sitting in a box in my garage (Okay, who wants to remind me of this when I finally get around to going through Ezra's closet????). We saved a few of Noah's cutest projects, and tossed the rest. And on it went.
Today led to a lot of reminiscing, laughter, a lot of tears, and a little bit of laughing so hard I cried. I hugged Noah hard, and I really hugged those two little miracle boys of mine for whom I saved the smaller "just in case" things for. Most of all, today led to a lot of letting go, and best of all, prayers of gratitude for everyone, and everything, I've been gifted. Thank you Jesus, for so much. Thank you for giving me the privilege of being their mama.
Oh, and I have a clean garage now, too!
We are storers of crap, I'll admit it. Alright alright, I'M the storer of crap. When I don't want to deal with it, I box it up 'for later.' Some of it moved with us from our townhouse to our first home in 2001. Then we just accumulated and accumulated over the years in that home. Stuff was boxed and stored away in one attic, then another attic, then decorated with here and there, then boxed away in this shed and another shed and the garage. When we moved here, I threw some of it away, but still, much of it came with us two years ago to deal with 'later.' Yup. Later. Even though they were the kids' toys I was tripping over, it was my stuff that really needed going through.
We started this morning by moving everything out to the driveway (No, sorry, we're not having a yard sale... No, no I'm not interested in selling that anyway....), and I got to work going through all of our storage boxes. ALL. OF. THEM.
Oh my word, the things I've kept! It always amazes me what I think I can't live without, then end up tossing months or years later.
Over the first eight years of Noah's life, I kept everything. E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G. I documented every single second of my only child's life. I found entire bags of baby clothes I had stored away, but really had no specific meaning to me, other than I just wasn't ready to part with anything baby-related at the time. There were Halloween costumes, baby shoes, crib sheets and changing pad covers. I still had all of the cards friends and family sent when he was born, his first birthday cards, and birthday cards from years later. I kept every single worksheet, project, test and paper from preschool forward, all of his VBS projects, and everything he ever created at home. There were all kinds of miscellaneous Noah-related things in those boxes, too, along with daily video recordings from every day for the first year of his life, and other recordings from birthdays, holidays and other special days, and even random days over the next eight years. Again, much of it really had no specific meaning, other than Noah was destined to be an only child, and I just wanted to hold on so very tight to every single moment.
I remember the days of saving things "just in case," then the devastating, tear-filled day I officially gave up after one of my doctors appointments, and donated the bigger items to a residential pregnancy center for teens. I still remember everything about that day, right down to what I was wearing, and how angry and jealous I was with the teenage mothers.
I let go of so much today, physically and emotionally. It was incredibly cathartic. I donated all of the clothes I thought I couldn't ever part with, the Halloween costumes, and even those sweet little baby shoes. I saved two of my favorite maternity shirts, then donated the rest of my maternity clothes. Those things will better serve someone else than they will sitting in a box in my garage (Okay, who wants to remind me of this when I finally get around to going through Ezra's closet????). We saved a few of Noah's cutest projects, and tossed the rest. And on it went.
Today led to a lot of reminiscing, laughter, a lot of tears, and a little bit of laughing so hard I cried. I hugged Noah hard, and I really hugged those two little miracle boys of mine for whom I saved the smaller "just in case" things for. Most of all, today led to a lot of letting go, and best of all, prayers of gratitude for everyone, and everything, I've been gifted. Thank you Jesus, for so much. Thank you for giving me the privilege of being their mama.
Friday, August 18, 2017
Prayers for Avery
Good morning everyone--
This is a tough one to write, but Shawn and I decided it's time to open up about something our family is going through, and ask for prayer. Please bear with me.
Back in May, in an effort to find more answers to the issues Avery is having, Avery had a sleep study. One of the things the sleep doctor found was occipital lobe seizures on his right side (under/behind the ear and over a little bit). The advice was it was most likely nothing to be concerned about, but go ahead and see a neurologist just to clear things up, as this was just a sleep study, and not an actual EEG.
Through a friend, I found THE neurologist to see, a pediatric neuro who specializes in seizures. His next available appointment was two months away, the week after I was set to return from Jamaica. Speaking of Jamaica, I started to wonder what kind of mother leaves her child like this to go tend to other children. My SIL and one of my best friends were huge blessings during this time, both of them saying, "GO," and taking over in my place with the littles. I knew he would be watched like a hawk, so off I went.
We met with the neurologist; based on everything we told him, an exam, and what he saw in the sleep study, he didn't see any reason to be concerned. Could've been a loose lead or just a glitch in the original study. He scheduled an EEG to cover our bases, recommended a screening for Aspergers (which we have been wondering about), and sent us on our way, telling us to not bother with scheduling a follow-up. Shawn and I high-fived each other on our way out, kissing Children's Hospital goodbye: Alright! We know Aspergers, we do not know seizures. Whew!
Avery was able to sleep through the 30 minute EEG, and even though I was impatient for the results, I didn't feel the need to worry--nothing to worry about, right? Just a loose lead or a glitch in the original study, right?
We received the results this Wednesday that showed Avery had multiple seizures throughout the test. I didn't see a thing, not even when the tech was trying to provoke seizures. This is what frightens us the most: We don't see them, and we don't hear them. How are we supposed to fight them, and protect and comfort our child when he has them? It's a very helpless feeling.
The next step is an MRI to make sure Avery's brain is structurally okay, and there isn't anything there that shouldn't be there. He will also have a 24-48 EEG to see when (and possibly why) the seizures are occurring naturally. Avery will have to be admitted to the hospital in order to be sedated for the MRI, but we are hoping our insurance will allow an in-home EEG company, as opposed to being in the hospital for the long EEG (not only due to ADHD issues, but because we need him in as natural a setting as possible). From there, it's all given a name and treatment is decided. I can't even talk about the reasons for the MRI, and I crumple talking about the rest. This looks like a months long, not weeks long, process.
If there is to be any good in this, it is that this will be the missing puzzle piece to Avery's sleep and behavioral problems. This will hopefully lead us down the path to health for him, and for our family.
Ironically (or not), the satellite building for the hospital is right next to Ezra's former cardiologist, as though God is reminding us how He took care of us then, and that He still has a tight grip on our family.
As always, our hope is in God alone. I have a lot of mixed up feelings and emotions, I'm scared out of my mind, I'm angry, but I'm human (I'm escaping to my crying closet a lot). Avery seems to be doing okay, but I don't know he fully understands it. When we explained ADHD to him, we said his brain works differently, and sometimes kind of misfires, so when we explained seizures, we explained it much in the same way, sometimes his brain is misfiring. That could be why he isn't afraid. We do know that when we begged for a child, God answered our prayers with Avery: He put Avery on this earth for a purpose. God has not, and will not, abandon us. This will be God's victory, not the enemy's. As a family, we have seen too much to put our faith anywhere but fully in God. We are believing in miracles, but know God works in many ways, and always, always, works things for His good.
During this time, we would ask you to please understand that we fully trust Avery's medical team. They are the ones we need to listen to. We are not asking for advice or stories about others who experience seizures, we are asking for prayer and support. We are grateful for your understanding, prayers and friendship during this time.
With love,
Amy, Shawn, Noah, Avery and Ezra
This is a tough one to write, but Shawn and I decided it's time to open up about something our family is going through, and ask for prayer. Please bear with me.
Back in May, in an effort to find more answers to the issues Avery is having, Avery had a sleep study. One of the things the sleep doctor found was occipital lobe seizures on his right side (under/behind the ear and over a little bit). The advice was it was most likely nothing to be concerned about, but go ahead and see a neurologist just to clear things up, as this was just a sleep study, and not an actual EEG.
Through a friend, I found THE neurologist to see, a pediatric neuro who specializes in seizures. His next available appointment was two months away, the week after I was set to return from Jamaica. Speaking of Jamaica, I started to wonder what kind of mother leaves her child like this to go tend to other children. My SIL and one of my best friends were huge blessings during this time, both of them saying, "GO," and taking over in my place with the littles. I knew he would be watched like a hawk, so off I went.
We met with the neurologist; based on everything we told him, an exam, and what he saw in the sleep study, he didn't see any reason to be concerned. Could've been a loose lead or just a glitch in the original study. He scheduled an EEG to cover our bases, recommended a screening for Aspergers (which we have been wondering about), and sent us on our way, telling us to not bother with scheduling a follow-up. Shawn and I high-fived each other on our way out, kissing Children's Hospital goodbye: Alright! We know Aspergers, we do not know seizures. Whew!
Avery was able to sleep through the 30 minute EEG, and even though I was impatient for the results, I didn't feel the need to worry--nothing to worry about, right? Just a loose lead or a glitch in the original study, right?
We received the results this Wednesday that showed Avery had multiple seizures throughout the test. I didn't see a thing, not even when the tech was trying to provoke seizures. This is what frightens us the most: We don't see them, and we don't hear them. How are we supposed to fight them, and protect and comfort our child when he has them? It's a very helpless feeling.
The next step is an MRI to make sure Avery's brain is structurally okay, and there isn't anything there that shouldn't be there. He will also have a 24-48 EEG to see when (and possibly why) the seizures are occurring naturally. Avery will have to be admitted to the hospital in order to be sedated for the MRI, but we are hoping our insurance will allow an in-home EEG company, as opposed to being in the hospital for the long EEG (not only due to ADHD issues, but because we need him in as natural a setting as possible). From there, it's all given a name and treatment is decided. I can't even talk about the reasons for the MRI, and I crumple talking about the rest. This looks like a months long, not weeks long, process.
If there is to be any good in this, it is that this will be the missing puzzle piece to Avery's sleep and behavioral problems. This will hopefully lead us down the path to health for him, and for our family.
Ironically (or not), the satellite building for the hospital is right next to Ezra's former cardiologist, as though God is reminding us how He took care of us then, and that He still has a tight grip on our family.
As always, our hope is in God alone. I have a lot of mixed up feelings and emotions, I'm scared out of my mind, I'm angry, but I'm human (I'm escaping to my crying closet a lot). Avery seems to be doing okay, but I don't know he fully understands it. When we explained ADHD to him, we said his brain works differently, and sometimes kind of misfires, so when we explained seizures, we explained it much in the same way, sometimes his brain is misfiring. That could be why he isn't afraid. We do know that when we begged for a child, God answered our prayers with Avery: He put Avery on this earth for a purpose. God has not, and will not, abandon us. This will be God's victory, not the enemy's. As a family, we have seen too much to put our faith anywhere but fully in God. We are believing in miracles, but know God works in many ways, and always, always, works things for His good.
During this time, we would ask you to please understand that we fully trust Avery's medical team. They are the ones we need to listen to. We are not asking for advice or stories about others who experience seizures, we are asking for prayer and support. We are grateful for your understanding, prayers and friendship during this time.
With love,
Amy, Shawn, Noah, Avery and Ezra
Tuesday, August 15, 2017
Jesus is Weeping
Hatred put a little city in Virginia on the national, possibly world-wide, map this past weekend. It was horrific and tragic to watch. Three people died needlessly, dozens were injured.
I don't live far from Charlottesville. We shop there, my kids have doctors at the university there. I've been going there for well over twenty years for different reasons. It's an area I know and love.
What I saw made me sad for this little city. What I saw made me fear the hatred and anger would spread to my little town, endangering my family. What I saw made me so sad for humanity. What I saw made Jesus weep for his children.
I wanted to react with the same "end of times" attitude many others had. For a little while, I did--but what good did that accomplish? I shook my head and hurried the front page of my newspaper out to the recycling can before Avery could see the picture: The car slamming into human beings, bodies flying, a woman dying. It was so graphic, and it made me think, again, about what society has become. Instead of jumping in to help, someone was thinking, "Oh! This would make a great shot! I should be taking photos of this tragedy! I bet I can make money from it!" My shoulders sagged from the weight of it. Am I guilty of hiding hate from my child, rather than using someone else's tragedy as a teaching moment? Yes, I am. The teaching moment will come another time, when it's not at the expense of someone else.
I wanted to be silent; but the church our church helped plant in Charlottesville did not stay silent. They rose up and prayed over their city, over GOD'S city. I could not be silent.
I needed to change my attitude. I needed to remember who I am.
This is not what Jesus died on the cross for.
Brothers and sisters, we know what hate can do.
So, my question to you is: What can love do?
Love reminds us that God is still all powerful. He is the God of Charlottesville, and He will make good from that evil. Over the next few weeks, we will hear testimony of His faithfulness. We will hear stories that will topple the evil and hatred that happened there.
Love reminds us to lift our shoulders, stop shaking our heads, hug each other, and reach out. We are not alone, we are not separated. Christ makes us one body.
Love reminds us that good triumphs over evil.
Love reminds us that GOD always triumphs.
I don't live far from Charlottesville. We shop there, my kids have doctors at the university there. I've been going there for well over twenty years for different reasons. It's an area I know and love.
What I saw made me sad for this little city. What I saw made me fear the hatred and anger would spread to my little town, endangering my family. What I saw made me so sad for humanity. What I saw made Jesus weep for his children.
I wanted to react with the same "end of times" attitude many others had. For a little while, I did--but what good did that accomplish? I shook my head and hurried the front page of my newspaper out to the recycling can before Avery could see the picture: The car slamming into human beings, bodies flying, a woman dying. It was so graphic, and it made me think, again, about what society has become. Instead of jumping in to help, someone was thinking, "Oh! This would make a great shot! I should be taking photos of this tragedy! I bet I can make money from it!" My shoulders sagged from the weight of it. Am I guilty of hiding hate from my child, rather than using someone else's tragedy as a teaching moment? Yes, I am. The teaching moment will come another time, when it's not at the expense of someone else.
I wanted to be silent; but the church our church helped plant in Charlottesville did not stay silent. They rose up and prayed over their city, over GOD'S city. I could not be silent.
I needed to change my attitude. I needed to remember who I am.
This is not what Jesus died on the cross for.
Brothers and sisters, we know what hate can do.
So, my question to you is: What can love do?
Love reminds us that God is still all powerful. He is the God of Charlottesville, and He will make good from that evil. Over the next few weeks, we will hear testimony of His faithfulness. We will hear stories that will topple the evil and hatred that happened there.
Love reminds us to lift our shoulders, stop shaking our heads, hug each other, and reach out. We are not alone, we are not separated. Christ makes us one body.
Love reminds us that good triumphs over evil.
Love reminds us that GOD always triumphs.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13:13
Wednesday, August 9, 2017
My Cane and My Pain
Year ago, before this blog existed, and before Avery was conceived, I used a walker. Yes, I as that sick. As the meds began to work, I graduated to a cane, but one or both legs still insisted upon dragging along behind me. Due to pain in my back, pain in my legs, pain pain pain, my body just not wanting to cooperate, the cane became an extension of my arm.
Praise the Lord, I've not used the cane in years. We gave the walker to Shawn's grandmother and when she died, did not inquire as to its whereabouts. The cane has been collecting dust in the garage; from time to time I know I still need it, but I've been too proud. I lean on Shawn, Noah, the stroller, grocery cart, whatever else I can get my hands on, sometimes falling and making a fool of myself, but still too proud. I refuse to dig that wretched thing out and clean it up. Okay, so I'm five years old.
Two of my biggest fears are that people will think I'm looking for attention, and that people will give me that attention. Two churches ago, I was The Sick Girl. I hated it. I prayed constantly for healing. This was when I was using the walker, and had only Noah. I wanted more out of life, but I had no idea how to grab it. I wanted other people to fix me. I understood the basic principle of God and His healing ways, but still had no true grasp of being in a truly safe, nonjudgemental place, of laying it ALL down at His feet, and walking away healed and forgiven. I did experience healing when Avery was born, before he was conceived. It was a healing of a different kind than I expected and had been praying for, but a healing none the less, and it allowed me to have Avery. This healing also gave me an incredible reprieve of pain and symptoms. It was glorious! We were at a different church later on, but I was still Sick Amy. I know that much of it I perpetuated; again, I looked to other humans to heal me and make my life better. I had it all wrong.
We were at church number three (now our home church) with Ezra's conception and pregnancy. God had worked so much in us, and we had allowed so much work! The same happened with Ezra as with Avery: Healing, reprieve of pain and symptoms! It was God, and this time I knew to look straight at God for this healing and reprieve. I know that this is was where my eyes always belong, where my heart always belongs.
For whatever reason, the pain and my symptoms have come back. I haven't spent any time wondering "why me," or bemoaning my bad luck. 'Tis life, so please don't pity me. I've had a good reprieve! Really, it's okay! I was able to have two more babies! It happens. It has nothing to do with not staying the course, with not remaining faithful, not reading my Bible, or anything else some other Christians might tell you. I do believe it has to do with not taking care of my emotional and physical self properly.
This past weekend has been horrible for me. One of the worst flare ups of pain and weakness I've had in quite a while. I have my theories for it, but I won't bore you with those. 😊 Anyway, I cried, begging my doctor for a pain medicine stronger than he usually gives me (something I haven't done in over two years). I cried when I couldn't turn my body to reach my meds which were right next me, less than a foot away, on my night stand. I cried when I couldn't get out of bed, cried when I couldn't stand or walk upright, cried when I couldn't walk, sit, lay down, play with my kids--you name it, I cried.
When Shawn brought my cane in from the garage, cleaned it up and left it in the middle of the room (he knew better than to put it within reach, he wasn't being mean by putting it there), saying, "I'm not saying anything, not trying to start a fight, just putting it where you can reach it in case you change your mind, okay?," all I wanted to do was scream at him and the cane.
I glared at the cane. I may have called it names. I growled at Shawn. I may have also called him names.
I immediately blamed it all on God. Earlier in the week, I had spoken with our pastor's wife, telling her how much I hated to use my cane around people I know. I want to avoid the questions and just be myself. Yes, God was humbling me. It was lesson teaching time, girlfriend.
I didn't want to have to take it to church. Embarrassing. Nosy people.
God took me to task straight away. "What if they aren't nosy people, child? What if they genuinely care?" Alright alright. Grumble. You know some of them are still nosy, right God???? God is very patient with me. He has to be. "Child, give them a chance. Give ME a chance. Let Me show you how very loved you are by your friends and church family."
I had to take the cane, there was simply no way I could function without it. Leaning on Shawn and hobbling around would have made an even bigger, more ridiculous scene.
I had barely hobbled in when I heard, "Girl! You need PRAYER!" And so it went. I was covered in so much prayer on Sunday, it was unbelievable, and it Felt. So. GOOD.
They weren't asking questions. They weren't nosy. They were family, just plain loving on me.
I'm grateful to my church family for covering me in so much prayer. I'm grateful to my husband for (putting up with me...) digging my cane out of the garage. I'm grateful I was open to God showing me the way.
I woke up Monday feeling as though I might bound out of bed... erring on the side of caution, I decided it was best to slowly creep out of bed just to be sure, and I'm grateful to all of those who made it possible.
Praise the Lord, I've not used the cane in years. We gave the walker to Shawn's grandmother and when she died, did not inquire as to its whereabouts. The cane has been collecting dust in the garage; from time to time I know I still need it, but I've been too proud. I lean on Shawn, Noah, the stroller, grocery cart, whatever else I can get my hands on, sometimes falling and making a fool of myself, but still too proud. I refuse to dig that wretched thing out and clean it up. Okay, so I'm five years old.
Two of my biggest fears are that people will think I'm looking for attention, and that people will give me that attention. Two churches ago, I was The Sick Girl. I hated it. I prayed constantly for healing. This was when I was using the walker, and had only Noah. I wanted more out of life, but I had no idea how to grab it. I wanted other people to fix me. I understood the basic principle of God and His healing ways, but still had no true grasp of being in a truly safe, nonjudgemental place, of laying it ALL down at His feet, and walking away healed and forgiven. I did experience healing when Avery was born, before he was conceived. It was a healing of a different kind than I expected and had been praying for, but a healing none the less, and it allowed me to have Avery. This healing also gave me an incredible reprieve of pain and symptoms. It was glorious! We were at a different church later on, but I was still Sick Amy. I know that much of it I perpetuated; again, I looked to other humans to heal me and make my life better. I had it all wrong.
We were at church number three (now our home church) with Ezra's conception and pregnancy. God had worked so much in us, and we had allowed so much work! The same happened with Ezra as with Avery: Healing, reprieve of pain and symptoms! It was God, and this time I knew to look straight at God for this healing and reprieve. I know that this is was where my eyes always belong, where my heart always belongs.
For whatever reason, the pain and my symptoms have come back. I haven't spent any time wondering "why me," or bemoaning my bad luck. 'Tis life, so please don't pity me. I've had a good reprieve! Really, it's okay! I was able to have two more babies! It happens. It has nothing to do with not staying the course, with not remaining faithful, not reading my Bible, or anything else some other Christians might tell you. I do believe it has to do with not taking care of my emotional and physical self properly.
This past weekend has been horrible for me. One of the worst flare ups of pain and weakness I've had in quite a while. I have my theories for it, but I won't bore you with those. 😊 Anyway, I cried, begging my doctor for a pain medicine stronger than he usually gives me (something I haven't done in over two years). I cried when I couldn't turn my body to reach my meds which were right next me, less than a foot away, on my night stand. I cried when I couldn't get out of bed, cried when I couldn't stand or walk upright, cried when I couldn't walk, sit, lay down, play with my kids--you name it, I cried.When Shawn brought my cane in from the garage, cleaned it up and left it in the middle of the room (he knew better than to put it within reach, he wasn't being mean by putting it there), saying, "I'm not saying anything, not trying to start a fight, just putting it where you can reach it in case you change your mind, okay?," all I wanted to do was scream at him and the cane.
I glared at the cane. I may have called it names. I growled at Shawn. I may have also called him names.
I immediately blamed it all on God. Earlier in the week, I had spoken with our pastor's wife, telling her how much I hated to use my cane around people I know. I want to avoid the questions and just be myself. Yes, God was humbling me. It was lesson teaching time, girlfriend.
I didn't want to have to take it to church. Embarrassing. Nosy people.
God took me to task straight away. "What if they aren't nosy people, child? What if they genuinely care?" Alright alright. Grumble. You know some of them are still nosy, right God???? God is very patient with me. He has to be. "Child, give them a chance. Give ME a chance. Let Me show you how very loved you are by your friends and church family."
I had to take the cane, there was simply no way I could function without it. Leaning on Shawn and hobbling around would have made an even bigger, more ridiculous scene.
I had barely hobbled in when I heard, "Girl! You need PRAYER!" And so it went. I was covered in so much prayer on Sunday, it was unbelievable, and it Felt. So. GOOD.
They weren't asking questions. They weren't nosy. They were family, just plain loving on me.
I'm grateful to my church family for covering me in so much prayer. I'm grateful to my husband for (putting up with me...) digging my cane out of the garage. I'm grateful I was open to God showing me the way.
I woke up Monday feeling as though I might bound out of bed... erring on the side of caution, I decided it was best to slowly creep out of bed just to be sure, and I'm grateful to all of those who made it possible.
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