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.
Sunday, October 15, 2017
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)
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