Beauty from Ashes

at the plastic surgeon's office

2012-02-15T13:21:00.000-08:00

When my three year old lovey screamed that scream which makes a mother's heart go thud, I fly down the hall and gather her up from my bed, all pink and red in her Valentine's outfit. She writhes in my arms, still screaming. I turn my head to kiss her hair and out of the corner of my eye I see a smudge of red on my shirt. I speak her name and for a split second she lifts her wet eyes to me-- across her smooth olive forehead I see an angry gash. She plunges her head into my shoulder, her arms and legs thrashing.
Hours later, we sit at the plastic surgeon's office in downtown Amman. We parked along a crowded narrow street passing building after building of medical offices. The concrete steps lead up a dusty hall with smudged windows. After searching the second, first and third floors, poking our heads into where receptionists wearing hijabs sit in lonely waiting rooms, we find Dr. Jarrar's office.

"Carmen? You are Carmen?" the receptionist asks. She speaks English, which is good. Her dark hair is pulled back into a tight bun. Otherwise, she wears form-fitting black pants and a modern long sleeve shirt.
"No, Shore. Abigail Shore."
"Shore? Not Carmen?"
"No. Is Dr. Jarrar here?"
"Yes, yes. Sit, please!"
She makes a phone call, then returns to us with a confused look.
"Your appointment is at five, yes?"
"No, four'o'clock. I think the Embassy nurse talked with Dr. Jarrar earlier today."
She smiles apologetically. "It is five'o'clock. Dr. Jarrar comes here at five. Okay?"
I smile and look at my watch, then down at the small child leaning against my shoulder. She is quiet, having just fallen asleep in the car on the way. We have a thirty-minute wait. "Thank you," I say. For the next half hour, we play matching games on my ipod, her head laying across my lap and her feet propped up on the side of the couch.
At five, a Jordanian man in his sixties enters, pauses to greet us before walking into his office. We are ushered in a moment later. Abby jumps onto his couch, her feet wiggling in front of her.
"Hello, Abby! I am Dr. Jarrar. Do you see this?" He holds out a pair of eyeglasses with magnifying lens attached to the front. "These glasses help me to see little things SO BIG. Would you like to try them?"
She nods her head, smiling. He places them on her head. He has won her over. He leads her to the examining table and within five minutes, is administering lidocaine into her wound.
Ten minutes later, Abby's wound is closed tightly with three neat stitches. She sucks on the stick of her chocolate Valentine's lollipop which I brought, just in case.
The steri-strips he uses to cover her wound form the shape of a cross, three up and down and one long piece across.
On the way home, Abby and I talk. We don't often have this time together, without older siblings and her baby sister to occupy my attention.
"Mommy, remember how I didn't like God and now I like God?"
"Uh-huh, I do, honey. And He loves you so much."
"I want to go home now, Mommy."
"Me, too."
I breathe deeply. Traffic in Amman has started to clear, and I cruise along the dark city streets that lead us back to our apartment.
My days are planned out by increments, school subjects spread throughout the day, punctuated by snacks, breaks, lunches, activities and playdates. I get so used to my routine that I often feel as if I am speeding along a busy highway, hands on the wheel, from one known location to the next.
Then something happens that propels me out of the routine and I find that I on unmarked streets without a map.
And the feeling comes back, the one that is persistently with me here in Jordan. I am out of the place where I feel comfortable, self-confident, assured of my familiarity and understanding of my place, my community, my role. Some days, I feel that I am not sure of anything and wonder when I ceased being the "put-together," "in control" woman that I prided myself in at one time.
Thank God that I am not there any more.
But it is scary, to not be her anymore. To allow myself to be the woman that I was meant to be means first acknowledging my need, my lack. To be truly "poor in spirit," as Christ defined up on that mountainside long ago means to be okay with the reality of my weakness, my utter dependance on Him who alone is sovereign.
And when things happen that turn our world upside, I can learn to say, alongside the hymnwriter,
"It is well with my soul...."
I park the car in our carport and we walk, hand in hand, up to our apartment. It is good to be home.

soli deo gloria

israel

2012-01-16T12:45:00.000-08:00

Excavations, Pool of Bethesda, Jerusalem

Women at the Wailing Wall, Jerusalem

By the water's edge, Sea of Galilee at Capernaum

Our first view of the Sea of Galilee...Glory!

Fishing Boat on the Sea of Galilee before the burst of red

More to come....

the quest for christmas in jordan

2011-12-16T13:25:00.000-08:00

Steve waited in the car while I ran into Zain and Zatar, the grocery store just a few blocks from our home. Though it is small, I can usually find mostly everything I need to fill in between big trips to the larger groceries like Cozmo and Safeway. With a clientele that includes a majority of foreigners, Z&Z also stocks imported goods.
Like candy canes.
I have been searching for candy canes for weeks. When I saw them on the shelf, I grabbed up six of the hooked candies. Two for each of the kids, or one for each and enough to make peppermind bark.
"One JD each," declared the cashier after eyeing the candy canes on the conveyor belt. A quick mental calculation brought the total amount to almost $9.00.
Ouch.
I quickly took three away and decided that the kids would be satisfied with one each and no peppermint bark this year.
(But I did buy the $12 bag of pecan halves to make candied pecans.)
I'm trying so hard to make Christmas seem "christmas-ier," cozier, more like home. When I took out my boxes to decorate, I discovered that all of my ornaments and most of the nicer (ie. non-broken) decorations didn't make it into the shipment. (I'm praying that they are in storage, not lost!) The lights didn't make it either, so I went out and bought three strands of LED Christmas lights for $42. Both of my boys got shocked when they tried to string the new lights on the tree and in inspecting the strands, we discovered exposed wires fanning out of the string. A trip to the Ace Hardware in a nearby mall (yes, in the mall!) and a coating of electrical tape did the trick. The intense blue-ish LED lights just don't seem cozy to me.
What is it that I want?
What am I longing for?
I have been surprised to see Christmas lights strung around small ornament trees outside of houses in my neighborhood. At least two stores in our little cluster of shops are devoted to the selling of extra-decadent Christmas chocolates and rococo-inspired decorations (I didn't know that elves wore taffeta and lace?). A nearby florist actually looks like it has icicles and snow adorning its roof. Certain pockets of Jordanians enjoy the marketing of Christmas.
Amid all of this, I feel an emptiness in my heart.
We have been sitting together at night as a family for an advent devotional and talk about making Christ the center of the season. We teach our children that He is why we give gifts, decorate a tree, celebrate Christmas.
Yet in this season, I strive for the wind, grasping for a feeling that really isn't at all what Christmas is about. I run around trying to fill the void in me with candy canes, pecans and Christmas cookies. I want to be comfortable, cozy and happy.
Mary, over nine months pregnant, making the trip from Nazareth to Bethlehem, certainly was not comfortable. Having to give birth amid the stench of animals and hay was not cozy. God coming to earth with a cry and a rush of blood and water wasn't neat and tidy. It was messy, uncomfortable and more unlike home than I could ever imagine.
Yet it was Glory-filled, it was Joyous and it was Divine. And the only reference I could find to Mary's response to the events that took place in her and through her were this:
"But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. " (Luke 2:19)
What it is I am longing for? To meet Christ this season, to have Him chip away at the hardness I have been feeling for so long. To hear His voice, be it ever so softly. Am I willing to stop striving for the wind? Will I quiet my thoughts enough to stop and treasure up all that Christ has done for me, taking time to ponder these things in my heart?
Lord, by Your Grace alone can I do these things. To stop striving and know that YOU are God.

soli deo gloria.

necessity

2011-11-06T13:43:00.000-08:00

Necessity does the work of courage
- George Eliot, Romola

In the States, I would not have blinked once at the prospect of taking the kids to church by myself, going to a soccer game or showing a friend around town. Yet with Steve traveling last week, I found myself in the mildly uncomfortable place of peering into the face of doing these things alone and having little choice but to act. What George Eliot missed in the little quip I typed above is that small, but meaningful stepping stone from urgency of felt need to performing a significant act that requires courage. The step forward almost always includes a bent knee, empty hands and a realization that in some minute but pivotal way I have come to the end of myself.
Am I short-changing myself? Maybe. But I am speaking as one whose natural bent is to view life through perceptions and through intuition. What else can move me beyond what I think I can handle, besides self-will and my mind? Yet I've tried telling myself that I can do it! and to think positively and I falter in this. There lacks a certain sense of meaning when all of life is merely just me stepping forward to the logical next step, trusting in my own human strength and will.
The bent knee, the empty hands, the understanding of weakness, bring me out of myself, out of the self-absorption that I usually find myself wallowing in, and to Grace (Which is not a THING, but a PERSON).
I am relational and I was made for relationship.
So when I found myself without my husband, being asked to move forward in things that I have not done alone, I came to Grace Himself and He walked me through the work that was courageous.
Yes, I know that going to church, taking the kids to soccer and driving around town sound so mundane, but when you're in the Middle East and you contemplate driving the four most valuable treasures you have been given through the jungle that they call traffic to a location that is at best fuzzy in your mind, you feel that you've been tasked to find the New World or something heroic like that :).
And when the embassy asks you to sponsor a family who just arrived in Jordan and you end up driving them to different schools so that they can register their two kids as quickly as possible (even though you still perceive that you are NEW to Jordan), you say yes because you remember how Terri had made the beds in your home before you arrived and Amy brought you grocery shopping and Kristen dropped by two bags of books because your kids had only brought one or two each and were bored out of their minds. And it was okay that you ended up getting to dizzyingly lost trying to find the American Community School that you were literally driving in circles around circle seven trying to determine whether to drive toward the two black towers or away from them...because you were stepping outside of yourself.
And in doing this, that you were allowing Him to grow you beyond what you thought you could do, could be.
Because if I was left to my own devices, I would stay where I was comfortable. In my routine, predictable day. In what I know.
I would stay in a small, small place.
But what, then, of this?
¹⁰ Now he who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will also supply and increase your store of seed and will enlarge the harvest of your righteousness. -2 Corinthians 9:10
or this:
You let people ride over our heads; we went through fire and water, but you brought us to a place of abundance. - Psalm 66:12
So this week, I will stop at the gas station and ask, in Arabic, for the attendant to fill up my tank with octane 90 gas, then I will drive to the airport to pick up my hubbie with four kids in tow.
I will continue to make my house a home here in Jordan.
I will reach out to those God puts in my path.
I will trust Him with our future.
This is grace.
All is His grace,
and all this for His glory,
soli deo gloria.

aqaba

2011-10-11T12:26:00.000-07:00

Desert views driving south from Amman

Along the Dead Sea Highway

Our hotel on the Red Sea, with view of mountains on Israeli side

In the summer, a friend of mine here in Jordan took a short vacation to Aqaba, the only port city in Amman. At the time, there was some instability across the border in Israel and I expressed my concerns about her going during that week. "Oh, if it's my time to go," she said with a smile, "I'd choose to go from Aqaba- it's as close to heaven as you can get!"

My love and I decided to get a "slice of heaven" this past weekend during his Columbus day break. After three years of sightseeing in Florida without him, even having a one night get-away as a whole family left me giddy with excitement. We packed on Saturday morning and headed south towards the airport, away from the traffic and from the crowded streets of Amman.

My friend warned me that pretty much the only thing between Amman and Aqaba is desert. And unlike the States, there are no rest stops, no fast food restaurants, no billboards. Just miles and miles of sand with an occasional herd of goats, a few ramshackle desert towns and electrical wires strung like fine thread on needles punctuating the monotony.

In the back of the van, we packed the cooler with sandwiches, fruit, snacks and several liters of water. After jumping excitedly into the car, the older kids pulled out books and drawing pads, the most good-natured travelers I've ever been with. My three-year old snuggled her lovey while perusing the books she crammed into her small backpack. Even the baby settled down for the three and a half hour ride, contented to watch her older siblings.

As the compact civilization of the capital waned down to a few run-down shops, then to mere sand, it was as if I could also leave behind the business of school that week, running a household of six, doing my usual daily Internet surfing for things we need.

We talked and listened to music, then enjoyed quiet. As I gazed out the window at the vast plains of sand, I felt that my mind could actually rest. Though I prefer shades of green, signs of life, there was something comforting, even soothing, about the gentle slopes of sand and rubble that continued on for miles and miles as we drove south on the King's highway. Clouds stretched out thin and wispy in a pure blue sky. A Bedouin man led a flock of black and white speckled goats across the sand. Then, more of the same desert sand.

After about two hours, we pulled over to the side of the road where we made a makeshift screen with car doors so that we all could "relieve" ourselves. ( It is interesting what you are willing to do in the face of necessity!) The kids ran along dunes of small rocks and dust while chewing the flatbread sandwiches I had made for them. Cars and trucks whooshed past us every now and then, breaking the quiet.

The landscape became more dramatic the further we drove. Craggy rock faces rose up around us, becoming more shadowy with time. The gentle slopes of sand were replaced by large outcroppings of reddish rock that rose and fell continuously. Thin, spindly trees and other bushes dotted the rocky terrain. "This looks like Indiana Jones!" shrieked my tall girl. We laughed, excited that even the kids were captivated by the scenery.

By the time we reached Aqaba, the rise and fall of the small mountains gave way to the sea, the Red Sea. Awed by it's prominent place in Scripture, the very place from which God chose to deliver His people, we marveled at the blue jewel that spread out for miles before us. At it's widest point, the Red Sea stretches about 220 miles and reaches 2000-3000 feet deep. Seeing the vastness of the sea made the miracle even more amazing to reflect on.

We passed several industrial ports where Jordan's store of phosphate and potash are brought for export, then finally reached our hotel. Unfortunately, I have no pictures of Aqaba proper or of the hotel, since we were too busy swimming and enjoying the time away. All I can say is- WOW- it was like a second honeymoon (minus the four kids). The series of swimming pools, each with a distinctive feature like a waterfall, a lazy river, a waterslide, jacuzzi jets kept us occupied for most of the two days we were there. At night, we walked across the small stretch of beach in front of the hotel to the Marina, which housed several large yachts.

Across the sea, we could see lights from Eilat, Israel's port city and cities on the border of Egypt. At dusk, the mountain ranges along the Israeli/Egyptian border became shadows along the glittering sea.

On the way back to Amman, we drove a different way: on the Dead Sea highway. Another breathtaking landscape, this time with mountain ranges on both left (Israeli) and right (Jordanian), with varying shades of green from the Jordan River valley. Then patches of irrigated land where farmers could actually grow something: bananas, tomatoes, cucumbers. When we reached the start of the Dead Sea, we stopped to peer down at the salt encrusted coastline. The jagged, craggy cliffs were another amazing sight. We passed Safi, which purportedly houses "Lot's cave," where Lot and his daughters fled when God rained sulfur down on their home city.

We ended up at Reem Al'Bawadi, a traditional Arabic restaurant in Amman where most of the tables sit under Bedouin tents. The kids watched a woman throwing a disc of dough from hand to hand until it stretched paper thin and about two feet in diameter. Then, she threw it onto a flat, rounded oven to bake. The dinner of shish ta'ook (roasted chicken kebab), hummus, flatbread, Arabic salad and tabbouleh, finished off a memory-making weekend.

disconnect

2011-10-02T14:00:00.000-07:00

My account manager for our internet service here in Jordan is named Mohammed. Every day for the past five days, I have rung his number with my mobile and have literally pleaded with him to help me.
Who can remember what it was like to be offline, to be blissfully ignorant about the world wide web, search engines and electronic mail? Between my laptop, my iPod touch and my skype phone, technology that enables me to connect and interact with the outside world is like a thread running through the routine of daily life.
For better or for worse....?
I joked with my hubbie that I was on a forced "fast" from the internet. This was more true than I first could comprehend and as the first day with no connection led to the second, then third and fourth, I found myself moping about the house, restless and frustrated.
Each time I spoke with Mohammed, he would assure me with great generosity of expression, "Yes, yes, I will call you back in....maximum of one hour" or "OKay, I am coming at 1 pm today!"
Hours later, the phone remained silent and Mohammed did not show up at my door that afternoon or the next.
My politeness wore off by the second day and gave way to a firm, yet controlled desperation, "Please, don't hang up. I've waited all day. When can you send someone out?"
To which he replied, "Okay, okay, so sorry. I will call the technician and he will call you this afternoon."
Another day wasted.
My American pragmatism churns over the facts, the simplicity of my need and the hypothetical ease in which a professional company could resolve what seems to me a common, easily-managed problem. Replacing a modem could not be that difficult?
Or perhaps they are busy, then why could he not tell me that and schedule an appointment for two or three days from now. At least I would know what to expect.
As it was, the feelings of helplessness and futility increased with each day. I would continue to call until Mohammed stopped taking my calls. And I know that at least once, he hung up the phone after hearing my voice.
A friend who has lived in Jordan tells me that this kind of response is typical. "He wants to honor you so he doesn't want to say no." She is being generous. Another friend advises me, "They're just trying to "save face." He doesn't want to tell you that he can't make it or admit when he's messed up. Arabs live in a "dual reality," and have no problem with lying to you."
Sigh.
Yet even in this, grace?
I sit on my recliner with my lovely Hanna as I put her to bed. Instead of checking my e-mail or reading a book on kindle, I hold her hand, savor the softness of her skin and how very small she is...for the moment. I take a minute to thank Him for this extravagent gift, these gifts numbering five that I often take for granted.
At night, I sit with Steve and take time to read a book that has sat on my bookshelf for months instead of searching the net for school books, clothes or diaper cream.
I've lost the discipline of quiet, the space so necessary when one wants to hear from God, to truly commune with God. The small margins of my life can be times to rest my heart and my mind and instead, in my restlessness and need for instant connection, I turn to the phone, the internet, the iPod. These things are helpful, give resource and entertainment, but do poorly to really feed the heart's true needs. And given too much freedom, they make a poor counterfeit god.
So at the peak of my crisis, in a fit of tears, I realized that no matter how many times I called, cajoled, pitched a fit to poor Mohammed, he was not going to come.
And at seven at night on Thursday, Yousef showed up unannounced at the door and installed a new modem.
And that was that.
So now that I have the internet again, have the capacity to call the States and check my email while sitting at the table with the kids, do I really need to? Or do I need to put it aside, breathe in the quiet, and let myself just be?

soli deo gloria

umm qays

2011-09-10T14:01:00.000-07:00

So we packed the kids up in the car, loaded several gallons of water and some snacks in the back and then head north on route 35. The city landscape of Jerusalem stone buildings, empty lots and construction rubble opened up to larger stretches of craggy rock cliffs, valleys dotted with deep green olive trees and bedouin tent camps.
Flocks of dusty sheep milled close to the stretch of highway where trucks loaded with crates of pomegranate and cactus fruit crowded in on rusted-out Mercedes-Benz and other cars stuffed with passengers. In these cars, toddlers pressed their noses against the back windshield, waving, while their older siblings hung out of open windows. Trying not to let my mother hen instincts get the better of me, I smiled and waved back.
Just after the last day of Eid, the time of feasting after the month of Ramadan, we decided to drive to Umm Qays. A city of almost five thousand, Umm Qays has also been known as Gadara. For those who know their New Testament, this was the very place in which Christ called demons out of two men. Matthew 8 records this event and says that Christ sent the demons into a herd of pigs which immediately rushed down a cliff and drowned in the water. The place was Gadara and the water was the Sea of Galilee.
When Rome ruled the world, Gadara was also counted among the cities of the Decapolis (six are in Jordan, the rest are elsewhere in the Middle East).
Another layer of history that we were excited about seeing was the Ottoman village built atop largely unexcavated Roman ruins.
When we arrived in Umm Qays, a high limestone wall bordered the parking lot. We ate a quick snack then headed up the stone steps to the small ticket enclave.
Ahmed, a tall, dark-skinned Arab, offered to give us a tour for 2 jordanian dinars. I looked at Steve and with a nod, we decided that for two dinars, it was worth it. Turns out that Ahmed's family had lived in the Ottoman village until 1976, when the Tourism authorities paid off the scores of Jordanian families who had been living there and proclaimed the site a historic and tourist area.
Ahmed led us along the black basalt road and pointed out where he had lived as a young boy, among other comments about the area's history and features. The houses were simple-- squares of basalt and limestone, in places almost like a checkerboard, with cutouts for doors and windows.
We climbed up stairs to the top of a Roman amphitheater and sat at the stone-backed chairs that were specially designed for patricians and other noble families. The amphitheatre could hold about 3,600 people. At the bottom of the steps, where politicians gave speeches and musicians wove melodies, Ahmed showed us the very place where our voices would carry through the whole place. I watched as my eldest shouted out, "Hello, my name is --------!" and shyly smiled as his voice echoed against the stone semi-circle theatre.
We walked along the path to see the series of Roman vendors, square shops beside the street that once served a vibrant city, the "Athens of the East." The kids sat inside one of the shops, out of breath and away from the incessant heat. They hooted and giggled as echoes bounced off the cool stone.
Ahmed led us off the Roman road for a few minutes to climb up the concrete pill box, a remnant from the 1967 war with Israel. From the top of the box, we gazed over the two cities at the very edge of Jordan and saw the fissure that is a part of the Rift Valley on the border of Israel. Sweeping our eyes upward, the Golan Heights spread out before us, reminders of the conflict that still remains between Israel and the rest of the Arab World.
To the left, Lake Tiberius, or in Biblical times, the Sea of Galilee lay quietly. It was truly breathtaking.
The kids ran down into the pill box, then climbed up iron rungs in a chimney-like structure to the top, only to run downstairs again. Ahmed took my son aside, trying to engage my active boy, by sharing a story from his childhood.
"When it rained, we would run along the roads to search for old coins and mosaic tiles. I have a whole collection of ancient Roman coins from when I was a boy."
My son listened for a moment, turned his head as if to ponder a moment, then ran off to play again.
The rest of the afternoon was exploring-- a newly excavated Roman villa; the Nympheum, a place where women would take baths and showers; a Byzantine church; Temple of Zeus; a cistern and then imagining hundreds of meters of aquaduct which brought fresh water into the city.
When the tour ended, I gave Ahmed his money and then some. We had been given the gift of seeing relevent history-- Umm Qays through the eyes of a man who had once lived there-- and who was keeping his story alive by sharing it with tourists like us.
We parted at the Resthouse, a beautiful stone building atop the highest point of the city (which also was Ahmed's school when he was a child). We sat down for lunch with a view overlooking the lake, the Golan Heights and Syria. Twisted vines and bright pink Bougainvilla flowers trailed over our heads at our table in a quiet corner of this terrace restaurant. I looked over at my kids, faces lightly dusted with hours of playing in the remnants of three layers of history, and smiled.
We are so privileged.

Soli Deo gloria.

starbucks

2011-09-10T06:47:00.000-07:00

"This is my lovey!" my growing girl flings her beloved blanket at the unsuspecting gentleman sipping coffee at Starbucks. He deftly catches plush elephant with the fraying pink blanket and tosses it back to her, a delighted smile on his face.
I am still getting used to the attention that grown men pay to children here. In the most innocent way. Apparently, my third child has realized the resource of attention that she now can command. When we first arrived, she shrunk away from the attention, playing at my side with wide, concerned eyes.
I've been told that shop keepers give candy to children. I'm not quite ready for that. Yet when a couple stops beside our stroller and cluck at Hanna with smiles that relish her every move, it is quite sweet. They ask her name, and repeat it back, "Ha-na?"
Abby now seeks out our gardener and runs up with a big smile, waving. "Hello, Mommed! (Mohammed)" He returns with a big smile and reaches for her hand and kisses the top of it, touseling her hair.
Arabs delight in children.
*****
When I was a college student traveling in Europe, when we needed a slice of America, we could find it at the nearest McDonald's. In the 21st century, we find that familiarity at Starbucks. Our first stop at Starbucks in just about two months of living here. It wasn't just that I wanted the sense of home. With the older two at a friend's house, I planned a special outing with Abby. Third children, as I experienced firsthand, can get quite lost in the shuffle of everyday life.
We arrived at the coffee shop after a two block walk from our apartment building. Colorful prints of contemporary cafe art adorned the walls, the same type as we found in Florida, Tennessee, Connecticut. We ordered two frappucinos: one with coffee, one vanilla flavored. Besides having to silence my financial sense in paying out fourteen dollars for two drinks, we had a wonderful time together. We slurped our drinks as we played "I Spy."
On our way out, Abby showed the gentleman her lovey again and he smiled and waved. Me, I was just happy to have time with my lovely girl who is three going on thirteen. And in the meantime, taking one step forward in living in this small patch of desert called Jordan.

a season of quiet, part 1

2011-08-22T12:48:00.000-07:00

In a new country, each day holds the possibility for countless new discoveries. Just stepping outside the door of our home brings opportunities to engage in something out of the ordinary, to be arrested by a new smell, new tastes or new patterns to life.
My nature, however, is to work at making everything seem familiar, predictable. Before we left for Jordan, we shipped our kids' special sheets and blankets for their beds, their snuggly animals to sleep with, and picture frames with photos of friends and family. In the kitchen, the refrigerator is already dotted with the kids' recent masterpieces, favorite photos and Bible verses scribbled onto index cards.
Color, for me, creates comfort. To break up the monotony of brown and beige in the house, I shipped our bright couch pillows and bought a plant with large glossy green leaves and bright fuschia buds.
It is my desire to make a home, wherever we are. Some have commented that this is a special gift, an ability. For me, however, it is a necessity. After living in four different countries and in nine different homes throughout the span of the last thirteen years, having a home where our family can grow, create, live, learn and love together has become a core ideal.
A sense of home lies not just in the material surroundings, but in the rhythm of our lives together. With my best friend in a job where he is called out to duty for days, months and even a year, I have had to learn to keep this rhythm of home life going. To "do the next thing," as Elisabeth Elliot once said about continuing after her loss. Mine is a loss of community, of the predictable, the familiar. This is my load to carry, as a military wife. Others have financial burdens, extended family issues, career choice issues. My husband has a steady income (for now), a steady career (for now) and I don't have the stress of trying to keep good boundaries with extended family (I wish they were closer!)
Having said this, at this point in my life I have to work at stepping out of this resolve to keep things the same, to stay in the old order of things. After living in four different countries, in nine homes during the span of thirteen years, I have few things that remain constant. Every time we move, we remind our kids that when we move and leave friends, their siblings will always be there for them. I know, however, that even in this, there is change. My kids change, go through different seasons. Marriages go through seasons.
The one constant in my life is the One to whom I direct much of my angst, my railings about having to confront so many changes and uncomfortable situations. For now, I'm seeming to be stuck-- emotionally. Not ready to quit mourning what I've lost- for I've just come out of a season in which I needed quite desperately to regain a sense of control, a sense of comfort and routine. The last two years of loss, mourning, constant separation from my hubbie and then the joy of having a fourth child with all of its inherent transitions and adjustments have left me needing quiet.
And perhaps this is just what I have, though I have yet to fully embrace it for the extravagent mercy that this season holds. Without a vehicle, in a new community of friends, cloistered somewhat by my reticence to venture out into Jordanian culture, I have some emotional distance from things.
I just want to lose myself for a while. In this anonymity, this lack of a specific role outside of my home, distanced by the cultural majority, like I'm hibernating. Resting. Preparing.

side walking in Amman

2011-08-03T12:55:00.000-07:00
Before we left for Amman, we e-mailed a few families with younger children and questioned whether the double jogger stroller we planned to buy would be appropriate for city walking. Steve had mentioned that Jordanians tended to plant trees in the middle of sidewalks and so we wanted to get a second opinion before we invested another arm and leg in the aforesaid baby vehicle. The response was the same- that it would be better not to get a stroller that wide and bulky. We opted for a smaller version with big wheels and hoped for the best.
In America, we assume that the construction of sidewalks is primarily, if not chiefly, for safety and ease of pedestrian travel(especially in cities). In America, form and function, practicality and usefulness, are important qualities. To say that cleanliness (orderliness!) is next to godliness is not a stretch, but a proverb well-grounded in our culture.
After spending a month in Amman, I feel it is safe to say that sidewalks in Amman have little to do with practicality or function. There is little continuity of form or uniformity in appearance. Steve was absolutely correct in saying that Jordanians plant trees in the middle of sidewalks. We are not talking about those exceptional times when a hundred year old live oak needs to be preserved by constructing a road or sidewalk around it. I have seen evergreen topiaries (large bases cut into a corkscrew at the top, Dr. Seuss-esqe), Saw Palmettos (reminiscent of FL!), and other ornamental trees given center stage in the middle of a lovely paved sidewalk. In one instance, the tree had begun to push up the pavers around it. In most instances, the trees have grown to large around the base that a pedestrian is forced to step off the sidewalk and into the road. This is almost always at the peril of the pedestrian, as cars are usually parked on either side of the street and moving traffic seems to obey no limits on speed or pedestrian rights.
Another feature that I've noticed is a rather high and steep decline where a sidewalk intersects a driveway. Thankfully, as I mentioned earlier, we opted for the "monster truck" wheels. So Hanna only hangs forward out of her stroller a small bit when we come down off a sidewalk.
The adjustment to life is laden with countless thought processes in which I realize an expectation, hold it up next to the reality of what I encounter in this new place, then face a decision about whether to stay with my previous reality or accept this new one. It would be easier if the new reality included something that fit within my comfort zone. However, as in the case of the sidewalks, I keep falling back on the overarching reality that I have four children, two of which are very small and rather vulnerable. The other two are relatively independent, though one tends to hop, skip and veer off in frequent distraction. This results in my stress level being raised out of my normal comfort range every time we walk somewhere. It also means that I yell more often: "Stop! Now go--fast--stay together everyone! Watch out for the car! Get out of the road! Stop smelling the flowers, let's go!!"
Sigh.
A new friend suggested that we go to the Children's Museum together. I thought it was a great idea, since my kids have seen a lot of the inside of our house lately. She offered to drive us, since our minivan is somewhere in transit. She also has four children and a helper. We counted up the number of people that would need to fit into her seven passenger van: 11.
"The only ones who really need car seats are Hanna and Josephine (her 20 month old," she says casually as we make arrangements over the phone.
I have visions of the other six chidren, ranging in ages from 3 to 9, piled on laps and in the aisles of the car as my friend swerves in and out of Jordanian traffic. Oh, and did I mention that Ramadan just started on Monday, which means that Jordanian drivers are tired, hungry, thirsty and nicotene-deprived?
Sigh.
Sidewalks are not the only thing I need to adjust to here in Amman, but it is a start. I keep hoping that the more I walk with the kids, the more I will adjust to the weaving in and out, up and down from the high curbs, enjoying the scenery. The sidewalks may not be the epitome of urban planning, but they sure are beautiful.

climbing mount nebo

2011-07-31T13:09:00.000-07:00
"I don't think I like this, Mom!" My son shouts as we veer around a hairpin turn up a steep slope. Several feet away from the side of the road, the ground drops off into a sheer cliff, giving way to a spectacular valley of muted earth tones. Majestic slopes of tan and gray with shadowy contours spread across our view. Occasionally, our eyes are relieved with cool green-- a wide-spreading tree, a few scrub bushes dotting what appears to be the remains of a riverbed long ago.
We are climbing Mount Nebo.
My sweetheart deftly turns the wheel as the road takes another hairpin turn. Now the ground around us grows in breadth, craggy, white sandstone outcroppings spreading out in this desert place. The car's temperature gauge reads 107 degrees. We pass a makeshift tent of light tarps spread taut across a broad frame making a rectangular tent. The front is open, but no one appears to be home. Outside the Bedouin dwelling, a loose crowd of goats and sheet shuffle about the dusty earth.
Every now and then, tufts of grey-green scrub brush crop up. Then a camel or two. We slow down to gawk at the animal, having never before seen one out of the confines of a plush zoo habitat. This one seems curious and starts to lope towards our car. We are on a blind turn and so we leave before the creature makes it to us.
Are we really here? Are we really in the very same place where the Israelites, God's beloved people, wandered aimlessly for forty years in pursuit of His best, the Promised Land?
Our destination is the very place Moses ascended as a consolation prize, having been disqualified from entering the land himself. This time, God told him to speak to the rock and it would gush forth water. Perhaps Moses, tired and agitated from years of wandering and still sore from the first incident when the people complained so much that God had him hit another such rock, just defaulted to what he knew best. But it wasn't he who would provide the water for the people. And God told him to speak to the rock, not hit it.
Now, a church sits upon the place where ascetics have, for hundreds of years, commemorated the place where the great prophet Moses saw the land of milk and honey from a distance, then died. A part of me feels that this was too harsh. After all, Moses was called God's friend. He was even given the privilege of seeing God-- if even from the back. Yet it says in scripture that even when he died at age 120, his eyesight was strong, as was his body.
God took him home, to Himself.
And so we walk up the paved path towards an excavated mosaic floor dating to the 4th century A.D. and see a bronze snake in the shape of a cross. Created by Italian sculptors in preparation for Pope John Paul II's visit, the bronze snake again reminds us of those who, in seeing so much of their lack, their discomfort, lost sight of what would give them life. Look up, out of your misery, away from the ache of empty stomachs and unfulfilled dreams...look to the One who Himself is living water...and you will live!
I look down at my tall girl's sandaled feet. They are covered with a thin film of greyish-white dirt. My three year old shuffles along the trail to the view that we have climbed this mountain, by car and by foot, to see. The day is hazy, so as we perch along the wall and take cues from the placard showing distances to Jericho, Jerusalem, the Dead Sea-- we need to use some imagination. It is enough. The pale glow of the sea spread across much of the left and Jericho is now a modern city.
Later, we can see across the plains to the two tall, black buildings that stand near our new home in Amman. We are that close to Mt. Nebo. On the way down, we recall that we are walking in what was once Moab, home of Ruth, later wife of Boaz, whose blood line continued down to Christ.
Soli Deo Gloria...

hijabs, cigarettes and gucci bags

2011-07-14T12:52:00.000-07:00
We are here. Finally. After months of preparation, clearing out of our home, spending a week in a hotel suite, we are making our home here in Jordan. It is now two weeks since we arrived, and yet I need to include some brief snapshots of our trip here.

After spending twelve hours on a Royal Jordanian jet from Chicago, we arrived in Jordan on the first of July. Here are some snippets from our trip:

+ Walking up to join Steve at the boarding gate in Tampa and seeing Hanna in her stroller staring up at a man in front of her- Hulk Hogan. Yes, he is as big as he appears on TV- and was wearing his signature sunglasses and handkerchief. Wish I had my camera to capture the awe on Hanna's little face.
+ Abby spinning and dancing across terminals, while singing, “This is the day the Lord has made… I’m going on a trip…I’m putting down my backpack…I’m going on a plane…I'm spinning around...” She had no idea of the stress her parents felt at that moment- yet somehow I feel that her way was the better one…having chosen the one thing that kept her in His peace…
+ Hanna standing up on one of the soft toy suitcases in the kid’s playground, grinning from ear to ear with her two-tooth smile.
+ Nate and Lydia tromping through the airport with backpacks packed and ready to go. So excited that they were almost quivering.
+ A surprise visit by Joanne and BJ at Chicago O’Hare- eating McD’s together and them seeing us off at the gate- bittersweet goodbyes and blessed to have friends see us off on such a big trip.
+ The absence of a real line as we boarded RJ Airlines. Feeling in the minority for the first time not wearing a hijab.
+ Hanna sleeping twenty minutes at a time, for twelve hours.
+Arriving in Jordan at dusk and feeling the characteristic Eastern cacophony of sounds and movement.
We were met by a group of co-workers who helped us gather our nine bags plus three car seats, one double jogging stroller and seven carry-ons.
When we walked out of the terminal, I felt the first of an evening breeze. The air was dry and warm- lovely! The next was not so lovely- cigarette smoke wafting through the air. This is something that will be hard to get used to. There are no real smoke-free zones here in Jordan. The next two observations were of the women here. Many wear the hijab, the customary head-covering. However, what is most interesting is that the rest of their outfit could be a tight shirt, skinny jeans and ballet flats. Oh, and a Gucci bag. The juxtaposition of conservative Islamic symbols mixed with stylish Western elements is everywhere.
We rode into Amman from Queen Alia International Airport during possibly the most beautiful time of day. The sun, just setting, turned the landscape golden. The sky almost seemed pinkish gold, if that is a color. Perhaps it was the dust in the sky that created such a color. We passed dry, dusty hills speckled with small trees, clusters of whitish-tan square buildings that comprise Amman’s city architecture. They call it “Jerusalem stone,” and the city has a homogeneous feel to it with virtually every building created with the same stone. We also passed by a lot of rubble- Jordan is a developing country- and it seemed that we saw many “works in progress.”
Lydia, from the back, gave a running commentary on her initial observations of Jordan. She noticed the tall spires that rose up from the several mosques we passed- minarets that looked like ancient castles.
“Mama? See that hill? That would be fun to hike up and have a picnic on top!”
“Mama, even the telephone poles look different.”
“Look, Mama! Goats!”
When we finally arrived at our home, we had already been captivated by the beauty of the foreign, the unfamiliar. Amman is not beautiful in the same way that Paris is beautiful. There are piles of rubble, dusty, empty lots and half-finished buildings dotting every large area. Yet at the same time, as we drove into our neighborhood, seeing fuschia bougainvilla cascading over stone white walls and graceful arches at the end of the streets creating the feeling that we were entering into a place very different than Florida, than any other city I’ve visited. Perhaps it is the presence of beauty in the context of the other aspects that characterize the middle east- strife, hostility, violence.
Perhaps this beauty is the presence of grace amid this all.
More to come.

in His hands

2011-06-26T19:42:00.000-07:00
"See mama?" she throws back the curtains and we gaze into the deep black sky outside our hotel window. From the sixth story, we can see the glittering lights of the Tampa skyline stretch across the horizon.
"See mama? This is how God holds us!" my second child opens her slender arms wide and then curls them back to meet each other. Her embrace surrounds the whole of the skyline, the whole city.
I am speechless.
And in my heart, these words echo...
You have taught children and infants
to tell of your strength,
silencing your enemies
and all who oppose you...
And I murmur, "And Lydie, our house, too?"
"Yes mama..."
"And does he hold Jordan, too?"
"Uh-huh..."
I stand at the window, my heart convicted by the faith of a child. She leaves the room quietly, returning a few minutes later with her drawing pad. On it, a green and blue globe drawn in marker.
"See mama, He holds the whole world just like this!" She circles her arms around the drawing, hugging it tight.
"Yes, hon, He does!" I affirm her, yet I know deep down that I am the one who needs to hear this truth.
Our home sits empty, just freshly cleaned, re-painted, touched up. I didn't think it would turn out this way. According to my plans, we would have it sold by now. Instead, we have put it up for rental and I am so afraid. Anxious. Insecure.
I don't know how this part of our story ends. That makes me so fearful.
Our furniture has been crated, stored and everything else is on its way to the middle east. This part of the story also waits to be told.
And in spite of my fear, He holds it all in His hands. He knows the rest of the story, He knows it from start to finish.
Do I believe this? Can I believe this?
And He speaks to my fears,
Can a mother forget her nursing child?
Can she feel no love for the child she has borne?
But even if that were possible,
I would not forget you!
See, I have written your name on the palms of my hands.
Yes, He holds it all,
our home,
our children,
our family,
our belongings,
our new home,
everything...
in His hands...

to be continued...

the flower umbrella

2011-06-21T12:04:00.000-07:00
"Wanna share my flowah, Mama?" She holds a plush posable flower up to me, her eyes shining. "It's rainin' an' you need to get undeh the flowah so you won't get wet!"
I look down at the pile of toys that I'm sorting and then to my precious three year old. She extends the pink sparkly flower up to me, gesturing to lean my head closer.
I feel a softening in my spirit as I lean into her, the flower lifted carefully above my head. For a moment, we sit, cheek-to-cheek under our flower umbrella.
It is one of the moments when suddenly, things come into focus. In the next room, movers pack our things into tidy cardboard boxes. Piles of clothes, toys, hangers, odd and ends from closets and cupboards fill each room. The landscape of our home has been thrown into controlled chaos-- and my spirit tightens, feeling the loss of control, order, predictability.
Yet in this moment, I sit with her and enjoy this peace. I look at her face and see joy.
At the end of the day, when all of our things are packed away onto a truck and we walk through a house all empty and echoey, we are still together.
And we are together with Him, the One who makes the house a home and sets the lonely in families.
More to come...

i remember you

2011-05-30T08:53:00.000-07:00
I bend down to pick up a stray hair from the floor, then see gobs of pink sparkle toothpaste clinging to the side of the baseboard. I quickly sweep the washcloth across the baseboard, also picking up small clumps of dust and hair. Who sees these things? A buyer might, then concede that what, the house is unkempt? From a few clumbs of dust, a glob of pink toothpaste?
Still, my insides tighten, feeling the weight of countless known and unknown messes waiting to be cleaned up. Standing up, I scan the room for anything that needs wiping in the last few minutes before I leave the house.
Lights are on, shades open.
The house is perfect.
Or is it?
Baby screams in the seat, having been sitting waiting for over thirty minutes while clean-up was in full swing. Brother and sister shriek at one another in the back, hands grabbing for the desired game. Toddler refuses to buckle her seatbelt without my help.
I am done.
How can I continue doing this, every day? The expectation that with one call, I will have my home cleaned and looking as if no one had slept in the bed that night, no child spilled red juice all over the table that morning or placed sticky peanut butter hands on the dining room mirror while making silly faces? I shout at my children to help, angrily thinking how typical it was that I am here doing this by myself. I usher self-pity and desperation into my thoughts.
Once in the car, I sit quietly at the wheel for the first time that day, turn on the car and start to drive. In the quiet, I hear Him say, "Remember me..." and in a moment, all that seemed real and so urgently important fades away. I am ashamed, revealed. My heart and thoughts so fixed on strands of hair, globs of toothpaste and my own lack that I fail to hear Him whisper, "I am with you always..."
Which is what I remind the kids every time they feel the sharp edge of the night's darkness and are afraid of being alone, of being left alone. And He is not just with me, but actively at work in me. His hand of blessing, laid gently on my head, not because of what I do or don't do, but because I am his Beloved Child, created in His image.
Yet Jerusalem[c] says, “The Lord has deserted us;
the Lord has forgotten us.”
I forget His words, my spiritual amnesia daily inflicting my heart. Yet He never forgets, which is something I need grace to wrap my arms around...
15 “Never! Can a mother forget her nursing child?
Can she feel no love for the child she has borne?
But even if that were possible,
I would not forget you!
16 See, I have written your name on the palms of my hands.
My name, written on Christ's palms, a loving reminder of His sacrifice for me, His commitment to loving me.
The reminder of His constant commitment to me leads me to the only place I can go to receive His grace: the place of thanksgiving. Where I offer up a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving and so acknowledge Him and His power at work in me.
Outside of this, I would be a practical agnostic, living day to day wondering where He was, what He was doing, if anything.
Then Isaiah, even Isaiah, wonders if his work was in vain:
I replied, “But my work seems so useless!
I have spent my strength for nothing and to no purpose.
Yet I leave it all in the Lord’s hand;
I will trust God for my reward.”
And I repent of my short-sightedness, my anger, my lack of trust.
Then I thank Him for...
globs of pink toothpaste
a house appointment this weekend
a week in orlando
quiet hour to write
lego constructions on the table
hanna lifting her tummy off the floor on all fours
pancakes for breakfast
daily mercies
bringing the right buyer at the right time
His perfect timing...

captivate

2011-04-03T07:17:00.001-07:00
"Captivate"

You say, strength is found in weakness
Peace in incompleteness
So why do I hold on?

You look, For a heart that's open
For beauty in the broken
So why am I withdrawn?

[pre-chorus:]
My soul's screaming out
To be found in You

[chorus:]
Spirit draw me to my knees
Captivate all of me, all of me
Here before You honestly
Captivate all of me, all of me

I'm so messy and distracted
Undisciplined and tactless
Here on the inside

I thought age would tell the secrets
But the secrets are still secret
And the years are passing by

...
Teach me to wait in the moments of my need
Teach me to hear the melodies of peace

words by Starfield

thanksgiving

2011-03-08T17:45:00.000-08:00
#161 one dimple on her sweet, soft cheek
#162 boy quietly bent over his book
#163 azalea petals flushed pink as spring enters in
#164 red tea soothing on sore throat
#165 counter clean for 4 hours
#166 texting with far away friend
#167 my tall girl skipping, smiling, free
#168 absence
#169 hungering for mercy
#170 decluttering

super mom?

2011-03-06T11:48:00.000-08:00
I sent out an email to a few prayer warrior friends, an S.O.S. of sorts. It was almost midnight and I tapped away at the computer keys in the dark, the screen my only light.
Why is it that I wait until I am drowning, the slow-churned outcome of a tight situation colliding with my flesh? I wallow in self-pity, self-absorption, self-righteousness. Why me, Lord? It's so hard on me! I have a right to be complaining, don't I?
My friend writes to me later of her own feelings of self-absorption on a certain day, her griping to her friends and then, the Spirit-led conviction of sin. She asks for forgiveness, according to James 5: "Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you will be healed..." The irony? That I had not sent her my aforementioned plea for help because I didn't want to expose the muck of my own heart.
Further irony? That in this letter I had not confessed my sin to these prayer warrior friends, who most likely have seen through my veneer of self-righteousness ("My situation is so hard- my anxiety and fear are warranted!")- I did, however, ask them to pray as they felt led and already one has written back acknowledging that my situation reveals a "heart issue."
What is it that God asks of me in this season, when the demands of family, schooling, preparation for selling a home and an overseas move find me in a place of total physical and emotional overwhelm-ment (yes, I just made up a word- it fit!)?
Is it to be "super-mom," to rise up to the challenge with all of my own grit, determination, strength? To submit to the constant strivings of my perfectionist bent until my children, my home and my future bend to fit this idealism?
I am spent. I am utterly exhausted. All of these strivings have not only stressed my heart and spirit, they've led to a disappearance of joy and peace. They've caused my relationship with my family to be strained, to say the least.
We were not meant to live like this.
I am not super mom. I am self-absorbed and I have made an idol out of duties and perfection.
Forgive me, Lord. Forgive me, friends.
"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me..."
Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in the Lord, for I will yet praise Him, my Savior and my God..."
I am praying for eyes to see outside of myself and for a concentration that turns away from navel gazing to a focus on the One who is Sovereign over my life, my family, my marriage, my home and my future.
And my efforts? To focus on being close to Him and giving thanks in all circumstances, even in the ones that just seem wrong, seem utterly incomprehensibly difficult...then to receive the end of this outward-reaching, Spirit-inspired focus-- His presence. The joy and peace that comes from being attached and in close fellowship with Him. That is real living. This is what I long for...

Thank you, sister-friend, for being more honest with me than I have been with you. In your weakness, God used you to convict and inspire me.

"How my eyes see, perspective, is my key to enter into His gates. I can only do so with thanksgiving. If my inner eye has God seeping up through all things, then can't I give thanks for anything? And if I can give thanks for the good things, the hard things, the absolute eerything, I can enter the gates to glory. Living in His presence is fullness of joy-- and seeing shows the way in." Ann Voskamp

the boy and his dog

2011-02-20T18:45:00.000-08:00
He cries. My eldest son, my first baby, brushing away lonely tears on the eve of losing his first dog. I stand by his bed, the upper bunk, reaching a hand up to smooth his hair, just like I did when he was sleeping in my arms as a newborn. His cowlick, ever unruly and refusing to stay kept except with water (we have not ventured yet into gel products!), feels coarse under my hand.
He sniffles and I hear the hot tears course down reluctant cheeks. "It's going to be so lonely without her, Mama..."
I wait a moment, allowing his words to have time to resonate value. "Yes..." And I fight the urge to fill in the blanks with logic, with reason void of understanding. My son, who only begins to unfurl his true thoughts at bedtime, needs to be heard. Not silenced.
As a mother, it grieves my heart to see my children grieving. To watch them suffer. And we are so early on in the game. We have yet to confront the pains of a broken heart, of rejection, of injustice. Or have we? Perhaps we are practicing now, in the quieter, petri dish of life, for those seasons later in life when the unimaginable, the inescapable part of living in a fallen world hits home.
It is a moment for me to practice not trying to cover over his pain, fill it with platitudes or distractions that would keep him from feeling what he needs to feel right now. Because in feeling pain, feeling that emptiness, that lack, he may turn to the Only One who can truly redeem and fill that empty place.
So now, I listen. And I pray that this would grow my family to the Comforter of our hearts.
*****
Now she is gone. The 13 pound caramel-colored puppy that crawled into my lap at the shelter with eager timidity and won us over with her gentleness. The now 50+ pound older puppy that turned my world upside when I had just found out that I was pregnant for the fifth time. When Steve took a job that has stretched our family's fabric with its long hours and frequent trips.
I am at once relieved and sad. Relieved that I can open the refrigerator without getting a dog nose stuck into the cheese drawer looking for handouts. Relieved that I have one less "person" to care for with just three weeks until our house goes on the market. Relieved that I can start to re-build my backyard without fear of a dog uprooting bulbs and tearing off branches out of sheer puppy boredom.
As an adult, you come to understand that most decisions are not black and white. One decision rules out a thousand others, remarked Elisabeth Elliot. The decision to put Emmy up for adoption did not come without tears, without inner and outer wrestling in our family. She had come to be a part of our family, to take up physical space and emotional space in each of our hearts. But for our sanity, for the sake of a harmonious marriage, the dog had to go.
It helps that Emmy was adopted by a wonderful family with four children, two of which are teenagers. They are animal lovers and loved Emmy (now Maggie) from the first day they met her. Today is day one in her new home and she is doing great.
And in this, I thank God-- he knows what we-- and Emmy-- need.

...but God

2011-02-09T20:12:00.000-08:00
It is seven-thirty in the evening on Sunday and I am standing at the counter of Lithia Urgent Care, a clinic just five minutes from our home. My hand shakes as I scribble down numbers, letters, scrawl out my signature.
Just outside, my four kids play in our minivan which I have parked within vision of the counter where I sign in. As I finish writing, the horn blares, long and loud.
"My kids," I say to the attendant, apologetically. Resigned. Four restless children trapped inside a small space for thirty minutes. What could I expect?
"Don't touch anything," I said earlier, prepping them for the visit. "Not the chairs, the doors...nothing! Okay?"
"Can I have gum?" A asks, not missing a beat.
Sigh. "Not yet. After we see the doctor. I don't want your hands in your mouth."
"But she already has gum, Mama!" N shouts.
"Mama, I put some in her backpack. I didn't think she would open it!" says L.
I look in the rearview mirror. Small child in carseat chews, slowly and thoughtfully.
"Can we have gum, too, Mom?"
"Yeah, it's not fair that she gets gum now and we don't!"
I take a deep breath. I need to choose my battles.
"Fine, have a piece."

Thirty minutes later, we are ushered back into the patient rooms. I lead the pack down the hall, carrying baby in the carseat. N pushes my toddler, who vehemently protests against her lack of freedom of movement. My tall girl jumps, leaps, and touches just about every piece of furniture in the room within minutes of arriving. I sign quietly, breathing out a prayer for their protection.
The rapid test shows positive for strep. L had been down with it a week earlier and now it was apparent that all of my nurturing had cost something for me. A recurrence of a childhood illness I thought I had overcome. That is, until I so stretched my immune system with two months of sleepless nights and a general burning of the candle at both ends.
We leave the clinic, a parade of sorts, leave a trail of tears, shrieks and general noisyness in the otherwise sterile clinic.
Next stop-- Walgreens.
*****
It's in these moments that my faith hits the road. Or rather falls flat on the road and gets run over by an eighteen wheeler. Or...takes flight. In these moments, I have a choice, as in every other moment of my day, whether to stand in the truths that I profess to live by or to let the situation define my interior person. Will I stand? Lay down and play dead? Will I trust? Will I beat the air? Will I sink into my emotions?
It's my perspective, my view of my situation and ultimately of God Himself. It is the age-old crucible of sorts that Adam and Eve found themselves in when they wandered. They found themselves in a place where they questioned God-- Is He good? Does he wants what is best for me? Is He withholding something from me? Does He really care for me?
Now I wasn't thinking about all of this three nights ago when I had to drag my four kids to the walk-in clinic with me while my husband was gone on the second of two two week ventures overseas. I was simply just trying to take the next step forward out of necessity. But I was keenly aware of my lack, my entire bodily weakness and following that, my utterly decreased strength of mind and will.
In this moment, I was so beyond myself that relying on my own strength or finesse was not even a felt option, as it had been throughout the week before I fell sick. My thoughts made a beeline to God. My heart and flesh may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever...Psalm 73:26.
Yes, I fail, but God...
Yes, I can hardly lift my head off the pillow, but God...
Yes, I am alone with four kids, but God...
I am not strong. I don't know how I have made it these past four weeks, tending to my little flock. Homeschooling. Cleaning a home. Prepping it for the housing market. Cooking. Caring for a dog. Etc. I'm not saying this to make myself look good. I've dropped many balls. I've cancelled activities. I've failed.
But God is good. Yes, He is very good to us.
My kids have clothes on their backs. They have had a hot dinner every night. We have a home that is safe, clean (enough) and spacious to play. We have friends. We are part of a community. We are a family, even though we are apart. And we have a Father in Heaven who loves, loves, loves us.
Which I am just learning to live. That He loves me, in the middle of this very dark and uncomfortable season of felt need, of abbreviated time together, of overwhelming puppy antics and punctuated sleep cycles.
I am learning, oh, I am learning His love.

Soli Deo Gloria
He tends his flock like a shepherd:
He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart;
he gently leads those that have young.

Isaiah 40:11

now we are six

2011-01-09T14:30:00.000-08:00
Welcome Hanna Grace!
Born on Saturday, November 27th, 2010 at 4 a.m.
7 lbs. 12 oz

Five weeks later, I sit at my kitchen table to tap out a few words, remembrances and thanksgiving for the coming of our fourth child, Hanna. She is a doll-- reddish-brown hair, eyes beginning to turn a deep brown, a sweet smile at week three-- we are in love.
A friend asked to put her birth story up on my blog. So here I go, memorializing for the first time one of my child's entries into the world-- for my dear friend Beth.

Every child that comes into the world is a miracle. Through our brief time parenting Evelyn in the womb, praying for her healing, having to say goodbye, I am so aware of the myriad of complications that can arise pre- and post- delivery.
Every child, no matter how small, is a gift. We are truly blessed with this fourth child, whose uncomplicated coming was a gentle, healing breeze in a time when we were still shaken by the reality of loss.
The hardest part was waiting, and of all my children, Hanna was the only one who came after her due date. Passing the first due date, November 22nd, was disappointing. I had already begun to receive the expected comments: "You look like you're ready to pop!" and "You haven't had your baby YET?" Urgh. Then we passed the second due date of November 25th, Thanksgiving Day. Steve's mom and I had shopped a few days earlier and had, just in case, bought a small turkey breast, a can of cranberry jelly and a box of stuffing mix. On Thanksgiving Day, we cooked up a delicious and simple meal, complete with a pumpkin pie!
Across the table, I laid a long sheet of paper and the kids and I drew pictures of what we were thankful for. I drew five flowers of different sizes and colors with each child's name inside. The last and smallest was a daisy with a yellow center: Baby (We had still not decided on a name).
I woke up on Friday morning after Thanksgiving with a deflated feeling in my stomach-- still no contractions. Let me clarify-- I had been feeling Braxton Hicks contractions since week 30, sometimes so intensely that I had to stop because it felt like someone was squeezing the air out of my chest. The kids and I had been sick that week and for the first time, I was not coughing up phlegm. I had joked that week that God was holding Hanna inside me so that she would not have to come into a germ-infested house. In all seriousness, I believe that He was protecting her, and that the trade-off for me was having to wait a few days more. It was worth it.
By the afternoon, I started having regular contractions, spaced ten minutes apart. I retreated into my room and left all childcare, meals and household stuff to Steve and my mom. I don't tend to dilate fast, and the adage about the more active you are the faster you will go has never worked for me. Starting with Abigail, I chose a different route-- go to a quiet place to rest, dim the lights, then get in the bath tub.
With each of my kids, I have used the Bradley method of childbirth. It's a natural childbirth method that encourages natural breathing through contractions and the idea that you need to work with and not against the pain. It has been a process for me to accept and visualize pain as something positive and productive, rather than negative. The best image for me has been picturing myself riding over the crest of a wave (the contraction) and coming down again into calm water. I love the feeling of being in the water and so soaking in the tub both relaxes and calms me. It also took away the stress on my back. However, our tub here in Florida stinks. It is only 14 inches high and it has a drain that starts to suck the water away when it reaches a certain height. So in order to get even a portion of my humongous belly covered, I had to lay on my side or pour cupfuls of warm water over my stomach.
By ten thirty at night, I had progressed to contractions every 5 minutes. I was disappointed because I had hoped to be further along by then. Steve and I went to sleep, hoping that my body would continue its work while I slept. In reality, I couldn't even fall asleep because the contractions hurt and I was afraid that I might get too far along if I slept and not make it to the hospital. So at midnight, I shook Steve awake and told him point-blank, "We need to go NOW!"
By one in the morning, we had left the house, after letting Steve's mom know we were off to the hospital. My brother in Oregon was the only one who I knew would still be awake at that time and I texted him: "We're off to the hospital!"
Once we made it to the hospital, we were put in triage to check whether I was far enough along to stay. I was-- at five centimeters. Again, I was disappointed that I wasn't further along. They moved us to a laboring room and got everything hooked up-- a monitor for my contractions and a hep-lock for an IV.
Steve started right away with his coaching, encouraging me and helping me through the contractions (in the absence of medicine, he was my intervenus!). My nurse was surprised to find out that we were doing Bradley-- she told us that we were the first ones in her ten year tenure at the hospital who used that method. She asked me to let her know when I was contracting. I guess I was so intensely concentrating on working through the contractions that she couldn't tell!
After about two hours, I decided to lie down again because I was so tired. It was three in the morning and I had been up all night. As I did, the contractions started slowing down. Fear and uncertainty began to creep in. I had no idea where I was in my dilation and so I asked the nurse. I was so afraid that I was only 7 or 8 cm. She measured me and discovered that I was 9 cm! Wahoo! That gave me the psychological lift that I needed.
In the next hour, things progressed quickly. I realized that as I allowed each contraction to do its work, I could begin to feel the back strain letting me know the baby was on its way towards the birth canal. Within a half hour of when the nurse measured me, I began to feel the need to push. Things got a lot louder then. I had been quietly laboring for hours, but at the end, without medication, I was really feeling it and needing to release a lot of the tension and response to the pain.
The doctor came and the room suddenly got busy-- nurses preparing carts and detaching the bottom of the bed, putting up the stirrups. I was still trying to manage the pain, but it was truly excruciating. Steve said later that he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing because when I was trying to puff out the desire to push while waiting for the doctor, I did this "head thing" (kind of like Stevie Wonder).
One big, two puff-push later, our fourth came whooshing out into the world. Per my birth plan, they placed a slightly bluish, slimy baby on my chest. Still feeling the aftereffects of the pain, I took her in my shaking arms and held her. Her skin was so warm and she was so slippery that she kept sliding off me as the nurses helped me wipe her off with a towel. I was so relieved that she was finally here. So relieved.
And grateful.
Every child, no matter what the circumstances surrounding their birth, is a miracle.
Every child.
I held her and I saw how beautiful she was.
Once the nurses had left and we were alone, I told Steve that her name would be Hanna Grace. It was what he had wanted and I pushed against it for so long, thinking of other names I thought sounded more graceful, more like our family. Yet in the days leading up to her birth, as I prayed and thought about the baby growing inside of me, Hanna seemed to be right. Just right.
"Hello, Hanna Grace," Steve whispered, smiling.
She is our Thanksgiving Baby.

Soli Deo Gloria!

waiting...

2010-11-21T04:11:00.000-08:00
"Mama, only four days until the baby comes!" My second child beams, her light brown eyes hinting at the excitement-- and some apprehension-- that we all feel. As a family that knows transition, we are at the edge of yet another glorious transition. The sixth member of our family will soon make her way into the world.
A silken white ribbon hangs from one cabinet knob to another in our kitchen. Four lonesome paper hearts dangle from this strand, just waiting to be plucked over the span of the next 96 hours (but who's counting). My daughter has made it clear that she is expecting to meet her new sister at that time. We had made the chain together, several weeks ago, to give my six-year-old a tangible way to prepare for her sister's coming. Yet since then, a follow up by Mama-- "She will come when she's ready."
My first chimes in, "Mama, I thought you were going to the hospital when Grandma came."
I chuckle softly, "God knows when it's time for the baby to come. And He already knows her name."
He knows her, just as He has known and knit together each one of our precious five children. He knows their hearts. He knows the length of their days. And He loves them.
After this conversation with the kids, I realize that my heart, too, is anxious for her coming. I am straddling the equally strong desires of wanting to be over with a long, uncomfortable pregnancy and then cherishing the time I have with my three kids which is known, familiar, more predictable in its routine.
With each season of life, it becomes clearer to me that waiting is not a rarity or an anomaly in life, but more of a part of the life that God has designed for me. In waiting, the object of our desire or the goal wished for becomes more valuable, more precious to us. Or else, we realize over time that it was not at all what we had hoped for and see its importance fall away like dust. Sometimes, we gain understanding that it is not for now, but for later.
In each of these situations, faith enables me to see God's goodness, His love and His faithfulness. In everything, when I place Him before Me fully, whether or not I receive what I'm waiting for becomes irrelevent somehow. My desire is to be content in Him.
Yet I grumble at how uncomfortable I am. I pine away for a smaller body, though I try so hard to be immune to the images of thinner women that the media plasters all over the T.V. and newstands. I both long for time to fast forward and then fear the changes that foresee taking place in the very near future.
I am naval gazing again.
Lord Jesus, set my heart on You, so that in this new season, amid all of the changes and uncertainties, I can be free to experience the joy of the life you are bringing into the world. You are so good, so faithful, so loving. Help me to set You before me always and to bring to You my every care. Usher our family into this time of joy with hearts that believe.

Amen.

now is the time

2010-10-11T19:27:00.000-07:00
Every friday, I drive the kids to Miss Ping's house. They tramp across her living room to the back porch where unnumberable canvases and sheaths of paper have been transformed by color. They sit, side by side, along a row of tables facing an easel where this quiet, sunny Chinese woman teaches them to paint, sketch, create.
I watch from behind the class, in wonder at how silent and attentive my two rambunctious kids become when they pick up a pastel stick. Today, they are drawing a cat and my girl's eyes are shining. She cannot stop smiling and each time she sees me watching her, she waves and points to her work in progress. An hour later, they are adding fuschia flowers to the background. Though they draw as Miss Ping draws, each of their pictures has their own personal touch. My redhead draws his cat's eyes round and bold, while my girl's kitten has smaller, more tender peepers. His flower pot has a camouflouge pattern, while hers rests on pink and blue.
At home, I carefully tape the pictures up to my glass cabinets. Each time I walk into the room, I am met with these bursts of color and joyful expression.
Every act of true creation reveals His glory.
He is the Creator and we co-create with Him.
In creating, we experience joy in the present, in the process. I am so inclined towards planning, agonizing over what might be, worrying about how things will work out-- that I miss His grace, His gifts, in the present. What a gift it is to be content with the now, leaving the future and the outcome to the Only One who has the power and foresight to hold it and shape it perfectly.
A baby stretches out her limbs inside me, creating a wave of movement along my belly. In seven weeks, she will come to us, beginning her life here outside the womb. But for now, I am content to be a haven for her, to nurture her and quietly prepare my heart for her coming (though I still am beginning to feel very ready to have her come sooner!).
In the meantime, choosing gratitude for the now is a daily discipline, one that I am still quite young and weak in, yet growing. Learning that gratitude is much more than just a nicety, a social grace. It is the framework from which all of our perspective on life hangs upon. No wonder Paul exhorts us to be thankful in all circumstances. It creates the lens through which we view ourselves, our marriage, our families and friends-- even God.
Psalm 100
A psalm. For giving thanks.
1 Shout for joy to the LORD, all the earth.
2 Worship the LORD with gladness;
come before him with joyful songs.
3 Know that the LORD is God.
It is he who made us, and we are his;
we are his people, the sheep of his pasture.
4 Enter his gates with thanksgiving
and his courts with praise;
give thanks to him and praise his name.
5 For the LORD is good and his love endures forever;
his faithfulness continues through all generations.

#145 small hands grasping paintbrushes
#146 smiles
#147 unexpected gifts
#148 new cell phone!
#149 daily calls from overseas
#150 emmy
#151 coupons
#152 lesson planning
#153 son's excitement about writing
#154 reading the Bible aloud together
#155 mama oak
#156 de-cluttering
#157 choosing a name
#158 spiritual birthdays
#159 clean floors
#160 a new painting

don't give up

2010-09-27T19:04:00.000-07:00
Nathanael keeps his legos in a shallow, under-the-bed rubbermaid box. During the day, you can hear the scratching of blocks against plastic as he rummages through to find a windshield, a wing, a lego man head. As his pile grows through birthdays and Christmases, finding the right piece has gotten more and more challenging.
Seeing that it was time for an organizational change, we headed to Target to find a more suitable home for his ever growing collection. We came back with a souped-up five drawer organizer on wheels.
That was the easy part.
He decided that he wanted to group the legos by color-- blacks and greys, whites and tans, reds, then blues, greens and yellows. Which left one small drawer for the very special, all-important pieces that he didn't want to lose.
The kids and I sat on the floor of his room next to his current Lego box. Taking a few handfuls at a time, we each chose a color and started sorting. Piece by piece, the handfuls began to disappear. Then another one scooped from the "mother pile." We soon discovered that blacks and greys outnumbered the other colors hands down and that blue often took the form of a miniscule sized piece.
This project continued over a number of days, with each pile seeming to disappear slower than the first as our energy waned. Sometimes, it seemed like the big pile was not decreasing a bit. Though it took some prodding on my part, the kids good naturedly continued, though not without stopping often to stack lego heads or to collect "gems" for their collection.
We finally finished, after a week of sorting. His collection now stands in a very organized, five-drawer rolling cart, ordered by color.
It was worth the time.
Yet how much of a mom's life is life that-- continuing on, day by day, in sometimes miniscule details of life. Most of the time, it doesn't even appear that our efforts are having effect. Or else, what we've spent time doing is "undone" the next day. Another dish to stack. Another shirt to fold. Another toy to put back in the "put away later" basket. (Oh, how I love baskets!)
In Galatians 6:9, Paul talks about continuing on in the business of sowing seeds. And who are we as mothers but seed planters? We are called to daily sow seeds of truth, grace, love, among others, into the hearts of our children. We are also called to care for our household, which is composed of a myriad of time-consuming, repeating tasks.
I become weary.
When there come days, weeks, when my efforts seem to be accomplishing nothing. Kids bicker and my efforts to calm, instruct, teach seem to be bouncing off of their hearts. Or when I get mired in self-pity over having another load of laundry to do, another muddy pawprint to wipe off my white kitchen tile.
I feel ready to give up.
Then the words come in, the Truth rushes in, God gently cautioning me not to be so rash. "Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up."
God knows what it means to be patient. His patience is infinite, for it has to be with such reluctant, stubborn followers as we are. And he has never once given up on us.
Sometimes walking by faith means just being willing to put one foot in front of the other. To continue even though everything and everyone around tells you to stop, to give up.
Sometimes there is no great victory to report, no news of a trophy won, a mountain climbed or a goal attained. Sometimes, our praise is that we've taken another step in the right direction. That we haven't given up.
By His grace.

#133 having the kids in bed by 9 pm
#134 ice cream sundaes after dinner
#135 Lydia's alphabet soup creation
#136 snuggling with Nathanael, reading a book about bugs
#137 a china bowl full of crepe myrtle blossoms
#138 chubby hands making marker creations, on paper and face
#139 grace pouring out of sadness
#140 grocery shopping alone today
#141 nose nuzzles with abigail
#142 bath bubbles
#143 good morning text from my love first thing in the morning
#144 forgiveness releasing His light

give thanks

2010-09-12T18:54:00.000-07:00
#122 sipping tea out of dainty china cups
#123 baking with lydia
#124 laugh lines
#125 potty training by leaps and bounds
#126 small hands creating something new and beautiful
#127 emmy getting easier, digging and chewing up toys less :)
#128 quiet sunday
#129 snuggling on the couch, small head pressed into my side, being quiet
#130 fresh-picked roses
#131 telling stories at tea time

september 5

2010-09-10T18:53:00.000-07:00
It was hot on the morning we stood facing rows and rows of white gravestones on the field where she was buried, just a lean year ago. Clutching a bouquet of deep pink roses and orange lilies-- our family's pick-- I instructed the kids in how to fill the plastic vase with water from the tap. Nathanael swatted at his feet and began to complain about the heat. It was sweltering.
Steve walked ahead as I searched my bag for a knife to cut the bottoms of the stems. My mind was fixed on the next thing, as I am used to doing. Not finding a knife, I gathered the girls together and we walked through the dirt patch that would soon become grass-filled and occupied by other gravestones. It was oddly silent.
Nothing distinguished one marker from the next, unless you slowed down enough the read the carefully engraved names, dates and pithy remembrances. Here was a retired Colonel, a war veteran and beloved father; there, a wife and mother, possibly killed in Iraq combat; here, a son.
Now here, a beloved daughter. Our Evelyn Grace, "held in the arms of Jesus."
Flowers had been placed next to her grave, probably by the cemetary and a stench arose from the decaying stems. We carefully emptied the vase and poured in fresh water with our new bouquet. The kids laid their flowers in front of the grave.
We had not planned on what to do, to say, other than to place the flowers, but Steve now opened his Bible. Psalm 139, "Lord, you have searched me and you know me..." He reads on, his voice cracking.
I stare at the rows of stones, like bright teeth gleaming in the sunshine. I feel nothing in these, nothing of the pain or hope or life I once held that day a year ago. Her body lies below the newly sodded ground, wrapped up with her pink blanket and stuffed lamb, but even that is just a shell.
I look up at the clouds, layers upon layers of brilliance. The cemetary is set on acres of flatland dotted with live oaks, truly a serene setting. But is this more for us, who need to find some connection, some way to remember, when the memories become dim?
Earlier that morning, I sat in bed with my journal, scratching words onto the page about her, to her. It is hard to believe that a year has passed since I brought her, unmoving, into a world where her body would be ushered away so soon. We had precious hours to be with her, light feather of a thing, before she was gone. No chance to really make memories, though we had months with her in the shelter of my body.
What is there to remember, to commemorate? Or to mourn? I feel the swell of my belly now and the kicks of this new life we have been afforded.
"Maybe you've moved on," Steve says later, when I struggle over not feeling. While he read the psalm, tears streaming, I stood quietly, puzzling over her grave. Abigail ran and wove around the stones, grabbing plastic flowers and trampling over the fresh ones we had just put down. Our son, the most easily overheated one, voiced loudly his discomfort at being there.
We took turns kneeling in front of the grave. When it was my turn, I felt like I was acting in a movie-- doing what I was supposed to do, putting my hand on the grave and being silent. Yet I had no connection to that signpost, to that place. I yearned to be in my room, with my pen, writing about her brief life and my love for her. That is where I can remember best and feel closest to her.
Yet coming here, to Bushnell National Cemetary, was important-- like all ceremonies, graduations, parades, recitals. Perhaps it is a visual, tangible sense of what we are remembering or the experience of coming together as a family.
I know that she has not been forgotten, even as this new little seed of a child is forming inside me. She has a different name (not chosen yet!) and a different place in our hearts.
Evelyn Grace, we will remember you always, our beloved child. Your life, though brief, changed our lives forever. Our hearts are quieted knowing that you are truly safe in the arms of Jesus.

soli deo gloria!

every little girls wants to be found

2010-08-29T13:19:00.000-07:00
Raindrops splatter on the windshield as she turns her head away, wiping tears away with the back of her hand. He offers her a tissue.
"What's wrong?" he asks, turning to her as they stop at the light.
"Nothing."
"That's not true." The light turns green and he pulls the car out onto the main road.
She feels like a child again, wanting to be small, unseen. Her words fail her, betray her. Fear and insecurity wrap around her. She needs to hide.
She hides from her beloved. Yet as her heart throbs inside her, Grace finds her, lifts her head. A startling realization comes over her, washing over her. Oh, how you love me. No matter what I have done, what I have said, what I have broken. In spite of my wretchedness, my sin. You love love me. Oh, how you love me!
The rain continues to pelt down, drumming on the windows with a hollow persistence.
It breaks into her thoughts. She cannot look at him. Their words divide them, as they stand on opposite sides of a chasm. The space between them is too much for her to bear.
Once home, she runs upstairs, up and away, to the furthest place she can go. There is no bed to hide under now, as she did as a child. Back then, the darkness and quiet would calm her and she'd lay staring up at the bed frame. And wait. She'd count the staples on the wooden frame, one by one, and wait to hear footsteps coming up the stairs.
They never came.
She stands now, leaning against the bathroom sink.
His shadow falls across the open doorway.
"You didn't have to come," she says.
"I know," he pauses, standing up straight. "But every little girl wants to be found."
Her eyes widen, then shut as the tears well up from a deep spring within her. Shoulders heaving, she is undone. Arms encircle her, strong arms of love.
And the healing begins.

like a weaned child

2010-08-27T18:02:00.000-07:00
The thing is, God cannot steer a boat that is not moving. Nor a car sitting in the parking garage. And if I am sitting on the sidelines, watching life swirl in seemingly incomprehensible ways or waiting for things to just happen, I am no longer living in faith.
It is still making a choice when we've not made a choice, but allowed time to swallow up the days and minutes of opportunity. It is a passive choice, but a choice nonetheless.
How do we know God's will, when we hear opposing voices, lack the peace and "clarity" that we suppose that God should give us when we seek His purposes? Do we wait for the writing on the wall? Do we wait for peace? Do we follow the advice of godly mentors? Is lack of peace indication that the answer is no? And if it is no, is that a definite no or a no for now?
But I have stilled and quieted my soul;
like a weaned child with its mother,
like a weaned child is my soul within me.
Psalm 131:2
In the haze of hormonal, prenatal bliss, I am finding decisionmaking more challenging than before. From what to make for dinner to what to pray towards our future plans, I am conflicted with emotions and fears and physical stress.

Lord, quiet my soul within me...give me the heart of a child to singularly and wholeheartedly trust You with my life...
amen, and amen.

a new delight?

2010-08-25T11:30:00.000-07:00
A month has passed and summer vacation has slipped by us again. August came with visits from a dear friend and parents, trips to the pool for swim lessons and times of play and fellowship. Now September is only a turn of the page away.

I have found myself confronted with decisions, one after another. Some I make while talking on the phone: yes, you can have crackers. no, it's not time to play outside. And others I have taken months to make:do I continue homeschooling? I write lists. I attend conferences. I listen to lectures. I read. I pray. I pray some more, facedown. I reflect. I talk to friends. I listen to what I think He is saying, listening to the voices in my life-- I listen to His life in me. I am strengthened, affirmed, in my passion. I pray for vision. For a new revelation. And it is this:

The answer is yes. A quiet yes, which is how it seems I always receive answers, not with big, bold brushstrokes, but with nuances, with subtle shadings and yet with a definite and recurring theme. Yes is my answer and with it, the revelation that I have made this decision differently than many others. Not in strength, at least my own human, illusional strength, but in weakness. My own frailty, my awareness of inadequacy and the understanding that it is not by my performance that this road will be traveled wisely and victoriously. It is the quiet, yet definite revelation that I go forward in homeschooling by faith. By daily leanings in the Right direction. By continuous dependence, not on my own drive or will, but on His own.

Many of those opposing faith will say that it is just like a crutch. I used to despise this reference to faith as a kind of weak dependancy. I grew up trying to hide my weakness, to wipe away my tears and to mask my struggles as something that would make others see that God was somehow not real in me. And I liked the feeling that others would think I had it together, that I was strong. ?If this is so, what do I make of 2 Corinthians 12:9: "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."
Faith in God is dependency. But instead of a crutch, we lean on a Person. We were created to live in relationship and in reality, all of us lean on someone, whether it is ourselves, a spouse, a friend, a parent.
Paul chose to delight in weakness. This has been long in coming for me, a daughter of a Korean father. Yet as the daughter of the King first, I can permit myself to be weak, to recognize my failings, so that I can be strong. I used to think that I was meant to come to God to ask for strength and He'd just fill me up with this strength that would carry me on until I was depleted and I needed it again. I was using Him.
He is asking me to lean on Him, to find His strength as I am daily connected to Him, relying on Him for wisdom and grace to teach and love my kids. I know I can't do this while relying on myself.
So I begin this year of homeschooling facedown. By His grace, I will remain there and see what He will accomplish-- exceedingly and abundantly more than I can ask or imagine.

soli deo gloria!

#111 painting paper mache globes
#112 tea parties
#113 lydia's picked flowers in dainty vases
#114 abigail chasing puppy around the yard
#115 a quieter week with Steve
#116 a new start
#117 tummy jiggling with fierce baby kicks
#118 three months to go!
#119 starbucks with dear sister friend
#120 gift of a weekly meal
#121 grace to let go

perspective

2010-07-26T15:01:00.000-07:00
Our seventh day in southeastern Oregon, days marked only by length of play, quiet sunshine and late night talks. Even in a home inhabited now by ten, seven of which are under the age of twelve, I am refreshed.
What is so invigorating about departing, if only temporarily, from the very routine and schedule that I thought was so comfortable, so familiar? Routine becomes something predictable and safe when all around you things are in constant change. Even folding laundry and doing the dishes makes you feel as though you are able to control something, predict the outcome and restore order.
This trip, taken by all but one of our family, was planned in faith. Unable to depart from his work and even unable to assist our family to the airport, I had to plan the three modes of transportation for our cross-country trip by myself. Yet as I packed, I couldn't help but feel the exhilaration of being on the verge of an adventure.
Little did I know how much of an adventure we would have getting to our destination. I thought I was being stretched taking a two flight, coast-to-coast trip with three children while pregnant.
We awoke at 4 am in the morning. Kids slept in their plane clothes, so all they had to do was put on shoes and haul their backpacks on. Realized on the way there that I had forgotten the stroller. Checked in and boarded the plane on time. Then a voice on the intercom: problems with the seal on one of the doors. An hour later, still on the runway. No way to get to our connecting flight with just a forty-five minute stopover in Atlanta. Re-booked on another flight, four hours later. De-board plane with kids, stop to get meal vouchers, thirty minutes re-booking. Kids spinning each other around across the carpeted floor, flinging themselves onto one another. Abigail, stroller-less, begins to wander. We discover a playground just beside the gate. Perfect. Kids meet other waiting little ones and start to play "spy kids." Thank you, Lord!
Four hours later, our flight cancelled. Stand on line to re-book, get another round of meal vouchers, kids playing on playground. Abigail wanders off. I panic, collide into a TSA officer who points me toward the agents at the gate. Then I circle around, finally coming back around to where several moms have ushered my little renegade back to me. She is unruffled, her gait confident, arms swinging at her sides.
Our time at Tampa Airport: 8 hours. Board a plane to Atlanta. Stop for dinner. Board plane to Portland. Five hours later, we land. Both girls asleep, I'm holding Abigail all the way to the baggage claim then plunk her down with the kids near the window. I find out about our luggage, then hear Abigail screaming. When I return to the window, she is clinging onto a woman with dark hair and glasses. She hands Abigail to me and then helps me with my luggage, which arrived perfectly on our flight.
We arrive at my brother's home at midnight, eighteen hours from when we started our trip. Fall into bed.
Halfway through the day, I asked God, "Why is this happening? Wasn't it already too much for me to take this trip alone as it was?" He answered me with a story from 2 Judges. When I had the time to look it up, these verses stood out:
"The LORD said to Gideon, "You have too many men for me to deliver Midian into their hands. In order that Israel may not boast against me that her own strength has saved her, announce now to the people, 'Anyone who trembles with fear may turn back and leave Mount Gilead.' " So twenty-two thousand men left, while ten thousand remained."
God whittled the Israelite army to 300 men, down from 32,000. There was no way, in human terms, that a victory was possible with the odds so highly stacked against them. Any victory could not be explained away by human strength or strategy-- the Israelite people would know that it was only by God's hand that they could look back on that day with celebration and not total despair.
My life is not as grand a stage as that, but I felt that God allowed the stakes to go so high in order for me to see what He could do to deliver me and my family and to care for us. He didn't take us out of the troublesome situation, but He guided and provided for us through it-- through the playground, other children, meal tickets, peace, protection that we could not see...the list goes on beyond what I can perceive.
Leaving my routine means leaving my illusory sense of control and relying on my own daily energy reserves. Leaving my comfort zone places me in a situation where I perceive my total need for relying on God. Leaving familiarity gives God the opportunity to reveal His power and provision for me in ways I may not see otherwise.
He is faithful.

Soli Deo Gloria

thanks...

2010-07-10T11:06:00.000-07:00
#105 sweet butterfly kisses all over my face as I put my baby to bed
#106 coming home
#107 eruptions of laughter over a new game
#108 an extra hour of sleep
#109 quiet talks
#110 my big boy losing his 6th tooth

blessings

2010-07-07T18:27:00.000-07:00
#93 Five year old arms snuggled around me, quietly soaking in bedtime cuddles,
#94 First flutters
#95 Ice cold water
#96 Ripe Peaches
#97 Big boy's front teeth growing in
#98 Quiet moments first thing in the morning
#99 Voracious new readers
#100 Running through the rain, laughing
#101 Three day weekend with my love
#102 Countdown to cross country trip
#103 Needing Him
#104 Sleep

facedown

2010-07-04T12:51:00.000-07:00
We talked for hours, but still our hearts are far from reaching one another. Tears stream. Arms fold across the chest. Friends had given us the advice as newlyweds to hold hands whenever we discussed something difficult. Eleven years later, we sit apart, our hearts separated by a difference in the ways we think, process, respond to the many stressors in our lives. More than that, we have placed walls of separation, defending ourselves from further pain, more hurt. It is as if we are speaking different languages.
Where does the language of grace originate? I speak with words that I know best, natural words of stark honesty, originating in my felt needs and hurts and wants. I think that I am making a good case here. Yet he doesn't respond how I had imagined. He is now on the defensive, ducking from my accusations and complaints. He hears that he is not a good husband, father. That is not my intent. I only wanted him to understand where I am coming from.
I stop, out of words to say. It is as if I have come to the end of a very long pier and there is no where else to go.
I am all alone.
How is it possible to connect when you are living in two different realities each day? One, serving his country within the framework of protocol, policy and national security. The other, serving in her home, teaching and nurturing three kids through daily living. We meet at night, sometimes for thirty minutes, sometimes for a few hours. Sometimes we have weekends. Sometimes we don't. Often, I am parenting on my own. I struggle with my expectations of what I thought marriage would be like, what I thought parenting would be like.
I stop, realizing that instead of building up, I am tearing down. Something needs to change. And it is my heart.
I spend the next week facedown. Literally (which is quite a feat considering the size of my tummy). You begin to see very differently when your nose is pressed to the carpet. It is the position of servanthood. And it is a good place to start over.
The perspective you gain facedown is the realization that apart from God, you really have nothing good. It is understanding that when I retire my expectations of my marriage, my life as a parent and ask Him to give me His expectations, that my emotions do not fly all over the place.
I am steadied.
When I am facedown, I realize that I do not have to walk alone. He goes before me. If I receive this truth, I can accept from my husband what he is able to give. I don't place demands or conditions on love.
When I am facedown, I stop wrestling with God and with myself. I learn to trust, day by day. I learn to let go.
And next time we talk, I am reaching for his hand first.

held

2010-06-11T12:38:00.000-07:00
Two months is too little
They let him go
They had no sudden healing
To think that providence
Would take a child from his mother
While she prays, is appalling
Who told us we'd be rescued
What has changed and
Why should we be saved from nightmares
We're asking why this happens to us
Who have died to live, it's unfair

[Chorus]
This is what it means to be held
How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive
This is what it is to be loved and to know
That the promise was when everything fell
We'd be held

This hand is bitterness
We want to taste it and
Let the hatred numb our sorrows
The wise hand opens slowly
To lilies of the valley and tomorrow

[Chorus]
This is what it means to be held
How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive
This is what it is to be loved and to know
That the promise was when everything fell
We'd be held
[Bridge]
If hope is born of suffering
If this is only the beginning
Can we not wait, for one hour
Watching for our savior
[Chorus]
This is what it means to be held
How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive
This is what it is to be loved and to know
That the promise was when everything fell
We'd be held
We'd be held

This is what it is to be loved and to know
That the promise was when everything fell
We'd be held

This is what it means to be held.....

words by Nathalie Grant
for my dear friend, in her sorrow and tears...

florida summer

2010-06-04T13:42:00.000-07:00
It's hot outside.
And it's only the beginning of June.
That means we have five and a half months of summer left, or about 165 days, until the humidity breaks.
The temperature reads 96 degrees, but with the humidity, who knows...
I've drunk two large glasses of ice water and I still feel as if I haven't drunk anything all day. Where does this thirst come from? The central air running all day, all night. The intense sun beating down on us as we walk the day, rush in from the car to grocery store, go to the YMCA for some kind of refreshment (we don't get out much in the summer).
My spirit is dry. I need a long, cool drink of water. So much running around in this body I call home for a time- it is tired, worn down--
He is the Source, the Living drink of water, the Eternal Spring-- fill me with your life, Lord...

convention

2010-05-31T08:19:00.000-07:00
I went to the homeschool convention on Saturday needing rest. Strangely enough, I hoped to find solace in being among the thousands that milled around vendor booths and attended workshops designed to encourage, support and inform homeschooling moms and dads.
Without kids and without responsibilities, I could just be. Just be, I thought. That is what I have needed.
So I rose before the sun came up, drove to a friend's house where we all piled into her four door sedan and began my day of listening, watching and waiting for direction.
Where do I go with this, Lord?
What is the right choice for my family?
I need you to speak.
I am not a crowd person. I would rather meet with a few friends in a small group, have one on one conversations.
I walked through currents of people as if I were alone, just being quiet, reflecting, praying, singing to myself. I soaked in the anonymity, the absence of sleeve-tugging and attention-dividing needs.
In the vendor hall, I walked straight into the first row and happened to find the one booth I had put on top priority- one that sold writing curriculum. After a long conversation with the exhibitor, a small flame was kindled in my heart. Teaching my children how to think well, write well, express themselves and their ideas in a way that was effective. Having fun with writing, not as a drudgery, but a joy to be able to convey to others what is on your heart and mind. That is my passion.
Then a seminar on raising our kids in a culture that consistently comes against the idea of absolute truth, seeking instead to make them by-products of a system where all truth, all beauty, all goodness is in relative terms. I want to raise my kids to walk confidently in who they are, what they believe, where they are going...
Another walk through the vendor hall, not allowing the vastness of resources to overload my senses (by Grace alone!)- just stopping when something caught my eye. Finding a geography curriculum that takes students around the world, connecting on the way to literature and ideas that give meaning and context to basic mapping skills and directions. All education is about connections, about relationships.
Then anothe seminar. This one is for me. How to keep homeschooling when you are exhausted. We have always gone year by year, praying and deciding through each season whether or not to continue. This season has brought variables and conditions into our family life that I hadn't expected. Seemingly insurmountable odds that are against wanting to educate our kids at home. Friends and family tell us to check out other options, that it's okay to put the kids in school. Yes, it is. But is it the best choice? I really don't know.
I walk up to the podium at the close and exchange a few words with the speaker. She has educated her five boys, now teenagers and young adults, at home with only one exception. I ask her if she ever took a season off. I explain to her my situation. She says two things to me that impress my mind. I don't know how God is leading you. But the second speaks to my heart: You probably are placing demands on yourself that are too high.
I walk out of the hall feeling as if God really spoke a very simple, yet poignant word to my heart. I struggle with my own need for perfection, with the relentless drive of performance and with needing to please others. Homeschooling has taught me probably more about myself than any other, save my marriage. As much as I have taught my kids, the experience has taught me.
I haven't yet made my choice. I don't feel like I need to make it right now and I still plan to tour a few schools around the area. But either way, I am praying for a fresh vision, a larger view of raising kids and family that will guide my decisions about their education. Thankfully, Steve is supportive either way.
This process has tapped into the larger aspect of my life and faith-- who do I rely on? when times are difficult, how do i thrive? how do i make decisions?
I am so thankful for a day of walking, listening and just being. When I arrived home, my kids and husband had decorated the house for my birthday. I just hugged and smiled and enjoyed them. Being away for a time made me long for home. I needed that.

#84 mint tea in cheerful mugs with my kids
#85 a long, lingering weekend with Steve
#86 praying redemption into the past
#87 eating cherry italian ice
#88 emmy ignoring the toys on the floor instead of chewing them
#89 pink and purple streamers
#90 finding books that inspire and encourage
#91 God waiting for me
#92 rest

memorial

2010-05-31T08:15:00.000-07:00

In memory of those who have
given the ultimate sacrifice
for their country

the solace of friends

2010-05-17T18:56:00.000-07:00
I needed a friend today. Not just any friend, but the kind that I can just sit down and have a cup of coffee with, talk about any such thing, no matter how trivial or how deep. It was a hard night, tossing about, wrestling in my mind through things that I was not meant to carry. Over and over, trying to figure things out, come to some understanding...I was senseless and ignorant; I was a brute beast before you...
I awoke to small fists knocking on the wall behind my bed. Mama? Mama? I had played this game before, trying to gain a few extra minutes of sleep-- now she knows I'm just a knock away. I knock back. Coming! I hear Emmy whining from her crate, pawing away at the plastic bottom as if she's trying to dig a hole out of her cozy space-turned -ell at this later morning hour. Mama? Lydie pads into the room, her freshly cut hair bobbing around her slender neck. I think I wet my bed.

The day had just begun.

Yet I am always with you. You hold me by my right hand...

I pick up the phone after breakfast. Chat with faraway sister/friend. I am pouring out my heart, which is so full to the brim of thoughts and emotions I cannot carry. We talk, we pray. She understands. She speaks into my situation with an honesty so sharp, it cuts into my heart. It is all grace. You guide me with your counsel... We pray together, sweet fellowship unfolding with feeble words made whole by grace.

Another call, just when kids go bezerk, needing a stretch after an inside morning while rain pelts our Florida home. Canadian sister/friend, walking a parallel life. I look up and see my baby sitting on the floor next to an empty gallon of orange juice. Her dress is slowly turning a shade of tangerine, soaking up just a smidge of the lake that pools around her chubby legs. She holds in her hands her prize: a whole cup of juice she has just poured for herself.

I look. I stare. Laughter erupts from deep within, almost like a sob coming from a place that needed release. I laugh so hard I cannot speak. When I share with my friend this latest development, we laugh together. After cleaning up the spill and my sticky baby, I sit down to fold laundry. Then, I see it: a small child streaking across the room, as naked as when she came into the world, squealing and dancing as if the whole world were joy. Again, peals of laughter. I so needed to laugh.

In the afternoon, another sister/friend calls. She's making plans to fly here in August to see me, leaving four of her five kids behind with hubbie. Seriously? Four days of girl time? Another ray of sunshine, His comfort to me in a day when my heart felt so exhausted and worn down. I feel such gratitude, for her willingness to travel just to spend time together. We both need it...

Later, as we whiz down the road after gymnastics and karate, a talk with my sister over the cell. Sharing moments together, frustrations and being able to just...be. I love her for just letting me be.

...and afterwards you will take me into glory But for now, I hear His voice in their voices, His love in their hugs from afar, His grace in their counsel, the prayers, their support.

I am truly blessed...

soli deo gloria

Psalm 73

laughing with tears in my eyes

2010-05-14T12:03:00.000-07:00
A good friend once remarked that sometimes it's hard to eat the food on the plate that God's offered you. "No thanks, God. I'd rather not eat this. The food looks dry and unsavory. I'd rather have one of those, please. What she's eating over there. It looks much tastier, easier to digest. What, God? That's not for me? You prepared this plate just for me?
About six weeks ago, Steve was offered a job. It wasn't just any job, but one that would give him experiences relating to the Middle East, and most of all, he'd be working for a man that Steve respects. We asked for prayer, we prayed ourselves and with each round of interviews (he even interviewed the wife of his boss), God seemed to be opening doors. We took that as confirmation that this was his will.
At the time, we had concerns about the job. Steve would be working as an aide to the deputy commander at Centcom. We knew that his boss is a family man, but we also knew that the job would be demanding, both on him and on our family.
Steve took the job by faith. He finished his interviews and then Steve was on the job the next day. We couldn't have predicted what kind of change his job would have on our family life, but after a week, we felt shell-shocked. The kids were asking when Daddy would be home. I was just hoping that they'd even get to see him that night. Some nights, he doesn't get home until ten. I fell to pieces emotionally, crying almost every night, though I wasn't sure why I was so emotional.
A week later, we found out. We are pregnant. God, why now? How is this going to work?
So explains my silence. I have not had much time to think, reflect on, take in or be quiet in the idea of being pregnant again. More emotions have surfaced, some sadness in remembering our sweet Evelyn, but also fears that have crowded out and around the joy that we feel in having another chance at a fourth child.
God is good. If I believe that, I need to believe that what he gives is good. I think it was Elizabeth Elliot who said that everything we receive into our days has been filtered through his Sovereign Grace (paraphrased). The job, the baby, is not my timing. But God's ways are higher than ours, according to Isaiah.
At twelve weeks, the initial ultrasound shows that the baby is healthy, free of any defect. My uneasiness has continued, however, and I realized that my fears extend to virtually any chance of loss, defect, sickness. It could happen at any time.
During our time with Evelyn, Steve and I talked a lot about hope. What was our hope? Why do we have hope? How can we have hope in such difficult times?
My hope is in Christ, not in a perfect baby. We are praying for a whole, healthy little once, but if God chooses differently, our hope is still intact. He is good. He loves us. He is faithful to equip us and provide for all of our needs (Philippians)
I am in a season that is harder on my body and heart than almost any other time, except the time Steve was deployed for a year. I am seeing things rise up in me that I do not like (anger, fear, self-pity) and I feel such a need for God. A desperation to be held by Him, led by Him, comforted by Him. I know in my head that this is where I need to be (in a place of utter dependence), but my heart kicks and screams against this tedious trial. Every day is a challenge to care for the kids, the puppy, my body.
Verses come through scripture and I know that I am not alone:
8We do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about the hardships we suffered in the province of Asia. We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired even of life. 9Indeed, in our hearts we felt the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead. 10He has delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us, 11as you help us by your prayers. Then many will give thanks on our[a] behalf for the gracious favor granted us in answer to the prayers of many.
So this is a story without an ending. I am stuck in the middle, but I am stuck also with His glorious grace. Like laughing with tears running down my face.
And so by His grace, I say thank you, Lord, for,

#71 A chance to "see" Steve and talk with him on Skype while he's in the middle east.
#72 Zerberts
#73 Abigail belting out "Jesus Loves Me" from the backseat of the car
#74 Evening walks with Emmy
#75 Music
#76 Kids waking up late this morning
#77 the counsel of a wise woman
#78 Lydia's cartwheels
#79 Nathanael running like the wind to first base
#80 laughing with tears in my eyes
#81 a card from a special friend, joy to walk the journey together...
#82 a little hand waving up on the screen, "Hi mom!"
#83 each new day, Your grace never gets used up

forgiveness

2010-03-27T19:50:00.000-07:00
I am holding my resentment in my hands, turning it over and over. Each thought that I allow to remain continues to build, simmer, crowd out His life in me. I remember a gesture, a word spoken and it re-opens the wound. Is this self-defense? self-preservation? self-justification?
When I hold onto my anger, I am choosing not to forgive. When I review the past, I allow myself to be stuck in the past. I choose not to move forward. When I set my heart on my offended thoughts, I magnify them.
I want to magnify Christ in my life. My inner thoughts, the ones I think when no one else is looking, translate into my attitude toward my family, my world. The enemy wants me to believe that taking each thought captive is too difficult. The reality is that it took only one thought at a time to get me into this fix. It will take only one chosen thought at a time to get me out of it.
The reality is that only in Christ can I hope to forgive as Christ forgave me. And that is what I am called to do. Not only for the other, but for my heart. Forgiving releases me from the vice grip of anger, bitterness, resentment. It enables me to be controlled- not by the other, but by Christ, whose yoke is easy and light.
Only then can love freely come, not bound or constricted by some kind of rationalized care. I forgive, even if forgiveness is not asked for. That is how Christ forgave, even as He hung on a cross. This forgiveness is not earth-easy; it is the stuff of the Divine. It is His heart, His hands, His enabling that allows me to place a peace lily at the doorstep of the one whom I have offended.
"We demolish arguements and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God and we take every thought captive to make it obedient to Christ" (2 Corinthians 10:5).
Amen. Thanks be to God for His rich mercy!

and for...

#60 Emmy rolling over on her back so that we can pet her tummy. This is the
closest I've seen to a dog grinning.
#61 Abigail asking for "woo-hoo tisses" before bed (doggie kisses!)
#62 Watching Nathanael growing into becoming his puppy's young master
#63 Friday mornings munching on donuts and bagels with Lydia and Abigail
#64 God's sovereignty and care for us amid new laws that will affect
lives greatly, for good or bad.
#65 Lydie making new friends, growing up and blossoming as a "big girl"
#66 Steve's new job and chances to grow professionally
#67 Reconnecting with a dear friend this week; walking together even though
we're countries apart
#68 Nathanael getting the team ball for three solid hits
#69 Phone talks with fellow oaklings
#70 Lydia's love for reading; Her countless "I love u momy!" notes.

life with dog

2010-03-20T09:37:00.001-07:00
This morning, the kids and I gave Emmy, our new puppy, her first bath.
"Just go outside and hose her down. That's what my family did with our dog," Steve had advised me.
That sounded simple. Hoping for the best, I led Emmy outside to the side of the house to the outdoor hose. Nathanael held her by the leash while I took the hose and turned the spray on to a low setting. As soon as she heard the hose hiss, Emmy jumped and whimpered. I should have heeded that cue.
Nope, I was on a mission: get the dog clean. Her fur, having been exposed to daily rolls in the mondo grass and other patches of dirt, was beginning to smell strongly.
I slowly moved the spray over to her tail and back, as my puppy book had advised. Emmy jumped as if shocked by an electric current and began a series of yelpings that made it seem like we were torturing her.
Lydie and I, armed in our rubber gloves, rubbed the oatmeal and baking soda shampoo into her tan coat, creating lather and I, still driven by my mission, yelled to Nathanael, "Fill the watering can with water. NOW!"
A minute later, with puppy yelping and pawing upwards to get away from the water, we heard our neighbor beyond the fence shout, "Take care of your dog!" I grimaced, but chose to say nothing. This is the neighbor who's dog occasionally barks through the night hours at regular intervals.
We took the watering can and began to lightly pour the water over Emmy's soapy back. I realized it was not just the spray, but the temperature. Even though the air temperature was in the 80s, the water was ice cold. Our puppy, only just three months, was trembling, shivering as I draped a towel over her wet ears and began to rub. I wrapped her up and picked her up, like a big wet baby, and brought her back to the lanai. We cuddled for a few moments and then I brought her in.
Within minutes, she had shooken herself out and, with tail wagging, was padding happily around the house.
Phew.
Life with dog has altered our sense of normal. Since we brought her home from the Tampa Humane Society three weeks ago, separating her from her mother and two siblings, Habanero and Jalapeno (her former name was Pepper), Emmy's presence in our home has changed everything.
On Friday, the morning that I am just able to get the kids up, dressed and fed in order to make it to Nathanael's Lego Robotics and Science classes, Emmy chose to poop all over Abigail's rug. I ran for the steamcleaner and ran it over the rug, set the fan and grabbed the Publix re-usable bags in preparation for our weekly friday shopping trip. "Nathanael, take YOUR dog outside to pee! Lydie, finish your cereal! Abigail....Abigail? Where is Abigail? Abigail! That dog food is NOT for YOU!"
We made it out the door, dropped Nathanael off for his classes, and made our weekly trip to Duncan Donuts for some mommy time. Then off to Publix with the girls in the race car cart, speeding down the aisles, back home to drop off the groceries, then off to pick up Nathanael.
Back home, it's time to take Emmy out again. Having been in her puppy gate for a few hours, she is full of puppy energy. Nathanael takes her out as I call my mom. As I chat, I suddenly am aware that the dog is barking hysterically as Nathanael shouts out to me, "Mom, you need to come! Emmy's scared!"
I quickly say, "Gotta go, need to get the dog, bye!" and run outside to see Emmy shooting across our skinny yard with the retractable leash holder trailing behind her. She is freaking out. I open the door and she rushes in, yelping frantically. It's the leash holder. It's chasing her and she has no idea what to do. I grab the leash as she streaks by me. It is covered in dirt, having been dragged indiscriminately through our tiny backyard.
I find out later that Nathanael had decided to climb the tree while holding Emmy by the leash. He climbed up to the first branch, then dropped the leash holder by mistake-- right onto the puppy.
She is panting, trembling- our sweet, sensitive Emmy. When we brought her out of her cell at the shelter, Emmy stood with her tail between her legs. Yet as we continued to speak gently to her and give her rubs and scratches, we knew that she was just shy. She is more of a shy dog that tends to be frightened by loud sounds, quick advances and new situations.
During her first weekend at home, she experienced life with two active kids. Lydia was on the couch and decided to play. She crouched down and popped up, shrieking as she came up (this is just normal behavior that all of us are used to. These days, Abigail trails along beside and behind her, mimicking her antics). What to us was normal was extremely unsettling for our new puppy, who flew across the room. It was the first time that our kids saw a dog poop out of fright.
Having a puppy is like having a newborn. Emmy sleeps in her crate in our room (at least for now). I still have mother's hearing and tend to wake when she yawn, scratches or snores (which is often!).
Our schedule has assimilated Emmy's needs into our own. After waking, peeing, eating, playing and peeing again, Emmy goes into her crate for her morning nap. This is when we do most of our school. By the end of the morning, the kids are begging to take her out of her crate. Once she does, the cycle begins again: pee, eat, play, pee and rest.
Abigail and Emmy have the most interesting relationship. I think that Emmy actually thinks she is another puppy. In the beginning, Emmy would paw-up on her, knock her down and begin to crawl all over Abigail as she shrieked and lay on her tummy. Abigail, however, finds her joy in grabbing Emmy's tail and dragging her across the floor. Recently, they have become more accustomed to each other. Emmy has ceased jumping up on her and Abigail has asserted her dominance by grabbing Emmy around the back and pulling her into her lap. "Sit-eh, Eh-mah! (sit emmy!)"
Steve was right. Our kids love their puppy. She loves them. Having a puppy has been harder than we expected, but I keep feeling like it is going to get easier. It already has. Emmy is a smart dog and she already is sitting by the door when she wants to go out and potty. Just like anything else in life that is important, Emmy takes the investment of time and love. So begins yet another adventure, one that I can only enjoy and imagine one day at a time.

goodbye gracey!

2010-03-03T18:14:00.001-08:00
She won my heart. Forty pounds, tan coat, white tummy, big brown eyes. Floppy ears. For someone who recoils at the sight of dog drool and cringes at the thought of tongue contact, I even surprised myself. We sat on the ground in front of her kennel at the Hillsborough County Animal Rescue Center, petting her from the other side of her barred cage.
On the flip side, thoughts brood in my heart: How will I care for a dog when most days, I feel as if I'm struggling to care for my three kids? What will we do with her when we move? What if she has a past history that we can't foresee?
Worry has a strange way of entering into our hearts. I like to say that I am thinking realistically, trying to explore all of the angles or being careful. I am learning that there is a fine line between being wise and discerning about making a decision and worrying. To worry is to strain to see beyond what I am meant to see. To worry is to want control over things which are far out of my reach. To worry is the opposite of knowing I am loved, fully cared for and provided for by the only One who sees everything, knows everything and is fully in control. Worry is fear. And fear cannot exist with love.
As of now, Gracey is not ours. She may never be ours. We visited her again today, fully knowing that her owners have contacted the shelter and would be on their way to claim her tonight.
We are disappointed. Even I, who have struggled and worried over the very decision to go and look for a family dog, felt that deflated, sad feeling when I had to say goodbye to her. Her nose was pressed against the bars, tail wagging, tongue licking anything we pushed up to her, whether is was a hand or a nose.
I am not in control. The dog I worried about being able to keep is not unavailable to us after all and I feel sad. The reality? God loves our family and knows the best dog for us. Gracey will be reunited with a family that has probably been in anguish over her absence.
As for me, I see now that I have a place in my heart for a dog. If I could warm up to Gracey, there just may be another little canine that will win our family's heart.
If we find her, I will choose to live in the moment that I am given, knowing that I don't have to see around the corner. I will care for this one with the belief that we are called to be stewards of all of God's beautiful creation. And I will trust that the responsibilities of being of a pet owner will be far outweighed by the blessings of a new companion, playmate and friend.

soli deo gloria!

#50 big brown eyes, floppy ears, sweet dog
#51 watching lydia stop at each kennel to let the dogs lick her hand
#53 flip videos of baby olivia cooing and swatting at toys
#54 laughing with sweet friends over a bowl of pasta
#55 planting new seeds with kids
#56 our history, our legacy, our freedoms
#57 comforting another with the comfort I have received
#58 the courage of those who stand in faith
#59 God's quiet leading

2010-02-22T12:25:00.000-08:00
A new week ushers in warm breezes, replacing the damp chill that had been blowing through our region in the past several weeks. I am thankful for these days, bringing in a lightness and freshness that is much needed.
I have not written in several weeks, have not felt able to write. Family visiting, blur of activity, old wounds revisited. My heart shuts down. Why is it that relationships can have such effect on my heart?
Just when I think that I am strong, I am brought down by a single word. A look. The fear of rejection, subtly wrapping straps around my heart. Losing freedom. I let it go and give room for despair. I need to preserve myself.
In this, I hide myself from the One who gives me true life-- and true freedom. I go mute, shamed into hiding from Him. Funny thing is, He always waits for me. "Love is patient..." begins the long list of the attributes of Love in 1 Corinthians. The attributes of God. Longsuffering. Why does He wait? For the same reason that He brings the sun up on everyone, whether or not they recognize that it is He who set the universe in motion.
I come out into the sunny day with the kids. It's as if we have been missing something-- the fresh air and the warmth releases new energy-- and life. Lydia runs to the rope swing that Steve tethered to the big tree next to our house and begins swinging, her body upside down and leg up. Abigail runs around the field, stopping to pick up leaves and bits of grass. Nathanael finds a stick and it becomes his light saber.
Lord, I'm back. Breathe your life in me.

#40 nathanael punching and kicking the air with a great big smile during his first karate class
#41 abigail jib jabbering non-stop on the phone with grandpa
#42 chats with my sister about motherhood, night wakings and breastfeeding
#43 deep pink dianythus buds coming back after the cold spell
#44 nate hitting on the first pitch of his first baseball game
#45 lydia thanking God for helping her to "figure out how to write..."!
#46 letters from penpals
#48 God's gentle voice
#49 remembering that He is carrying my children

fairy tale castle

2010-02-08T18:38:00.000-08:00
I lay next to her small frame, her hand playing with the drawstring on my pants as she chatters about her day.
"Mama? Mama?"
"Yes, honey?"
"Mama, I really want to play Fairy Tale castle with you tomorrow. I just-- I just feel like I need mama-lydie time. Mama? Did you hear me?"
"Yes, I did..." I smile in the darkness as I smooth the hair on top of her head. Even at bedtime, her mind is whirring. And I just want to be quiet. Rest. "I would love to play with you tomorrow, sweetie." I think about tomorrow-- making breakfast, changing diapers, cleaning up the kitchen, rushing to start a load of laundry, pulling a brush through my hair, splashing water on my face, sitting down to do school, and on and on...now when do I play Fairy Tale castle?
I remember once being told that we make time for what is important. Many things in my life carry a certain urgency-- A stinky diaper needs to be changed right away. hungry tummies need filling.
Yet what is true? "Seek first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all of these things will be added to you as well." (Matthew 6:31). Do I believe that?
Spending time with God can be pushed aside. It can be avoided. Skipped. My powers of procrastination can effectively whittle down time with the Lord to the husks at the bottom of my time barrel. The last five minutes of my day-- "I'll just go to sleep in prayer, Lord!"
What is important in my life competes with the urgent and if I'm not tracking this, all that is important gets pushed aside, trampled on and left on the outskirts of my day.
I don't want to look back on an empty room and regret that I did not fight for more mama-lydie time. Will I look back and be satisfied that laundry was always done, rooms were dust-free? Not a chance. My girl's days flow swiftly into the next seasons-- and I want to cherish these moments of younger girlhood. They are so precious, just like every season I've experienced up until now.
So I will play fairy tale castle tomorrow, though it may nudge aside a load of laundry. Maybe we'll even get a tea party in after school.

#30 another round of cool, windy days
#31 an unexpected extra day with Steve before he left for his second trip
#32 a gently used, beautiful new dining room table
#33 grandpa sitting next to abigail as they share a cup of cheerios
#34 watching a manatee do backflips in the water
#35 finally putting pictures up on my walls
#36 seeing evelyn's tile at the hospital garden
#37 mugga mugga with the kids
#38 cozy couch time
#39 nathanael offering to push abigail in her stroller

one thing

2010-01-27T18:53:00.000-08:00
In the spiritual life, the word discipline means ‘the effort to create some space in which God can act.’

Discipline means to prevent everything in your life from being filled up.

Discipline means that somewhere you're not occupied, and certainly not preoccupied.

In the spiritual life, discipline means to create that space in which something can happen that you hadn't planned or counted on.

~ Henri Nouwen

glimpses of grace

2010-01-27T18:12:00.000-08:00
A family bike ride/run. Nathanael biked alongside me the whole two mile route, chatting happily, dodging clumps of spanish moss and zooming by fire hydrants. He's my little buddy.

"Momma, you ride behind me. I want it be a little scary!" We were at Busch Gardens, in line at the Sandstorm ride. We sat in two separate booths. I gave her a thumbs up. She leaned forward and gave me a high five and a huge smile. My five year old. Adventurous. Brave. I was so proud of her- and a little sad. She's growing up so fast...

A long, lingering hug after a morning when communication failed, fallout from careless words and assumptions. Remembering forgiveness is a choice, not a feeling. Trusting in His ability to redeem what we have broken, break again.

Looking down from this hug to see two little ones sitting at our feet, under the tent we make from our embrace. A glimpse of grace: peace in marriage = comfort, security for our children. Thank you, Jesus, for your grace...

and for this and many other daily blessings, we thank you, Abba,

#11. a day off to play
#12. long, lingering hugs after an emotional morning
#12. unexpected victories
#13. God's Sovereignty
#14. learning to speak our kid's love languages
#15. watching Lydia learn to read
#16. tea with honey before bed
#17. Abigail's two pigtails
#18. God holds me in the palm of His hand
#19. remembering where we came from
#20. nathanael biking beside me

a stone of hope

2010-01-18T13:00:00.000-08:00
"I have a dream today. I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together. This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day."
Martin Luther King Jr., 1929-1968

A few thoughts. Everyone needs to read this speech, in its entirety. Check out
http://www.summit.mccsc.edu/mlk2k6/Martin%20Luther%20King.htm.

King saw something that very few in his generation dared to dream. He had hope that was rooted in God's truth-- that all men are equal in God's sight (Gal. 3:28). His faith enabled him to fight for biblical truth without bitterness and he saw despair as an enemy.

I have long understood why King has been a mentor and an inspiration to many black Americans. Yet after reading this speech, I am truly encouraged and inspired by his vision, hope and trust in God. He was a passionate, educated and godly man who loved his country in spite of the injustice he saw. That more of us would have the courage and faith to dream as he dreamed.

Fast forward to the earthquake relief in Haiti. Thousands have died, many are wounded. The country's infrastructure has been destroyed. The government is effectively paralyzed. Despair is looming.

Yet we see help pouring in, often times faster than they are able to receive it. World Vision, Samaritan's Purse, Red Cross, even a fund set up by former presidents are few in many organizations that are providing medical support, clean water, shelters and other care. In this dark moment for Haiti, we see the rest of the world rallying to care and to help.

I'm sure that there are political interests that motivate many. Yet I believe and pray that the outpouring of prayers, support and help would be so abundant that the whole world would remember that are hope is not in money or material success or even in our comfortable lifestyles. Our hope is in God and He is the One whose heart is broken over the fatherless, widows, orphans and those who are brokenhearted (Ps. 68:5; Ps. 34:18).

My prayer is that through this tragedy, a stone of hope would be hewn and that God's glory would be revealed, even in the deep sadness of loss. As we live in a fallen world where even the earth itself is broken, our hope is in God. Aid workers can re-build homes and restore potable water. Only God can re-build a heart.

Soli Deo Gloria!

On this Multitude Monday, I praise God for...

1. A day off!
2. Learning to listen
3. Going to a bible study again
4. Freedom
5. Being able to support from afar
6. Beauty
7. Our founders
8. Olivia, my new niece!
9. Blowing kisses on Abigail's tummy,
10. Re-building

gratitude

2010-01-11T17:51:00.000-08:00
...Abigail pushing her grocery cart in a fairy skirt and beads,
...quiet couch time reading with the kids,
...the privilege of being able to teach our kids at home,
...the little things he does,
...this week's cold front...cool air, breezes...winter!
...promise of life,
...the ability to empathize,
...buying seeds in hope of spring,
...hope of heaven,
...the God who sees,
...His tender mercies...

soli deo gloria

on your due date

2010-01-08T18:53:00.000-08:00
Dear Evelyn,

As I sit down to write, I hear the murmuring cries of your sister Abigail, who is just waking from her night's sleep. When I rock her to sleep, gently cradlling her ever growing body, I think of you.
We've thought a lot about you this week. In the post-holiday quietness, your presence still echoes in my heart. I thought that I had moved past feeling the loss of you so deeply, but as your due date drew near, a new tide of sadness and pain came. We miss you so much!
As I sat down with your Dad last night, we both realized how differently the last few months have become since we said goodbye to you on September 5th. We could have had family here during the holidays and after to help, last minute trips to the store for baby supplies, a swollen belly to rest after a long day. We could have been coming home from the hospital this week, cradling you tightly. We could have been introducing you to your brother and sisters. I could just see Abigail pointing at you with delight and uttering her recently polished word: "Bah-bee!" Your siblings would not have been able to keep their hands off of you, especially your hands and feet!
We chose to hold tightly to the hope of your life continuing past what the doctors said. We chose not to terminate my pregnancy-- we chose not to terminate you. The Psalmist's declaration, "You created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb..." (Psalm 139:13) was a recognition of the innate value of every person, from the womb up. God's forming of you from your conception to when you were delivered at 21 weeks surpassed the shaping of a mere body. We held this body, this precious shell, on the afternoon of September 5th.
Yet even at that age, you were so much more than that. How could I be missing a mass of cells or a formless body? Here is why-- "...your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your Book before one of them came to be." From conception, Your Father in heaven bestowed on you the glory of being made in His image and possessing a unique soul and spirit.
Life is not the sum of what you do, nor is personhood determined by age. We cherished you as best as we could while you were in the womb, not ever having the opportunity to hold you, talk to you or make memories with you. But God knew you intimately and rejoiced in the new creation that He made that was Evelyn Grace. It is true that you never walked on this earth, but you are still cherished and beloved, created to live in relationship with Your Maker.
I don't believe in talking to the dead once they are gone. This letter is more for me, for your dad and for others who might be feeling loss. It helps me feel like you were more than just a passing dream.
We love you, Evelyn. We miss you! I never regret the choices we made.
We look forward to the day when we meet you in the house that has many, many rooms...

soli deo gloria

in loving memory of evelyn,
september 5, 2009

beauty will rise

2010-01-03T11:14:00.000-08:00
"It was the day the world went wrong
I screamed 'til my voice was gone
And watched through the tears as everything came crashing down
Slowly panic turns to pain
As we awake to what remains
And sift through the ashes that are left behind
But buried deep beneath
All our broken dreams we have this hope
Out of these ashes
Beauty will rise
And we will dance among the ruins
We will see it with our own eyes...
For we know joy is coming in the morning"

Stephen Curtis Chapman, Beauty will Rise

The past few weeks have been emotionally rough for me. Waves of grief have seemed to re-surface, sometimes in indirect ways, other times in tangible bouts of crying. Thinking on the Saviour's birth directed my heart to both the fullness of expectation and the reality of loss.
For Christmas, I bought Steve Beauty will Rise, Stephen Curtis Chapman's newest CD, which narrates his story of walking through his own personal grief after a tragic accident this past year that took the life of his small daughter. Steve has liked SCC's music in the past, and I hoped that the CD would encourage him in his own journey through grief.
It took me over a week to be able to listen to the CD without having to ask Steve to turn it off. The words-- Chapman's description of his own agony in loss, questioning, and then finding peace as he chooses to trust God's goodness just brought up feelings of my own that were too deeply painful to remember.
As God led the Israelites into the land He had promised them, He asked them over and over again to remember-- how He saved them, provided for them over and over again and was giving them a hope that would far outweigh any good thing they enjoyed before. I have not been taking the time to remember, and all of these emotions that re-surfaced just felt overwhelming. Even more so with the due date drawing closer. Oh, sweet one. I could be holding you in my arms right now.You would be the delight of our hearts. We miss you so much.
It feels very empty right now.
I pulled out the journal I had written in just after Evelyn's death. I needed to return to a time when God's presence and love were so palpable, so real. When my needs were so great that I clung to Him. From the moment I learned about Evelyn's birth defects, seeing His hand. Believing in His goodness. Soaking in His words of love. Asking Him over and over to ground me in His truth. Laying down my fears, my anger. Choosing to be thankful. Asking Him to reveal the hope that would be my anchor.
Lord, I remember You. As I look to this new year, help me to remember all that You are, all that You have done. You are not changeable or distant or irrelevent. You are everything. You alone brought me up out of the pit. You alone guide me through the darkness. Settle me, again, Lord, in your truth. Let me know Your love and comfort as the emptiness gnaws at me. Fill me with yourself.
As I remember the past year, I am grateful for...

five months with Evelyn,
family reunion in Oregon,
playgroup friends,
new friendships,
baseball season,
swimming lessons in the fall,
visits from far away friends and family,
making our house a home again,
lydia reaching out to God,
another year of homeschool,
the beauty of Evelyn's funeral,
a gracious pastor,
learning to paint again,
long talks with Steve, learning to comfort one another,
new life,
a new year...

soli deo gloria

my daily bread

2009-12-26T11:21:00.000-08:00

Keep falsehood and lies far from me;
give me neither poverty nor riches,
but give me only my daily bread.
Proverbs 30:8
Lord, let me be contented with what You give each day. Help me to see what are needs and what are wants. Let me live in the simplicity of receiving from you my daily bread.
And for all these things, I thank you, for
...time to dust off my violin and play,
...chats with family online, bringing closeness to our distance,
...quietness of an afternoon jog on Christmas day,
...brunch with friends the day after christmas,
...hearts that understand loss,
...a new day,
...sunshine in December,
...a lone flower peeking out of our front flowerbed,
...Nathanael making Legos without help,
...Abigail dancing with the new rapper penguin doll,
...Lydie creating "homes" for her new dolls,
...time to breathe, create, dream,
...Hope that never fades,
...Knowing He speaks in every love language to us,
...Thank you, Lord. . .
soli deo gloria

the day after

2009-12-26T10:54:00.000-08:00
The presents have all been opened, the stockings hang limp on the hearth. We've already made one trip to Walmart and Target to make returns and exchanges. Christmas day is over and we are left with a pile of plastic packaging, cardboard boxes and shreds of wrapping paper.
The returns went surprisingly well. Not a peep was heard from the kids as we drove all over town, stopping at several places. The kids sat quietly in the backseats with their new toys. Nathanael's new Nintendo DS beeped and clicked in the far back and Lydie made up stories with her new Barbie. Abigail, the newest in the pack, was content with her lovey.
In the wake of Christmas, I feel both the relief and tiredness of a season of preparing gifts, attending concerts and decorating to celebrate the birth of Christ. I reflect on our gift giving, namely to our kids. We had hoped to limit the gifts this year to four or five, yet the bandits somehow made out with gifts numbering into the teens. How do we teach them to appreciate what they have been given, whether it is a few gifts or many? How do we teach them the joy of giving to others, even sacrificially? Children live what they learn, so they say. Are they living a life of gratitude, contentment, and unselfish giving?
I have ideas for next year. Starting earlier with buying gifts, letting extended family take care of most of the gifts on our kid's lists, buying one special gift. Then giving them experiences that will shape their hearts-- visiting a local nursing home and singing prepared songs, making pictures for those we know- elderly or alone during the holidays. Making gifts instead of buying them.
Something else that I felt as I moved through this season was that celebrating Christ- is not a once a year thing- it is a daily thing. Treating each day as Christmas, by seeking small and significant ways to recognize how Christ's birth, life and death has made an impact on every day of my year. Celebrating Christ in our family times, not just at Christmas.

day 20

2009-12-20T12:16:00.000-08:00
It's day 20 and the kids have been chanting "five more days! five more days!" since we tore off today's chain. Our advent chain hangs like a little exclamation point off the cabinets that are now adorned by another cotton ball lamb and nativity cut-out. (By the way, for all those who are intrigued by the advent chain idea, I got it from www.hubbardscupboard.org.- click onto christian resources, then christmas tab. The links of the chain are a template that you can print onto cardstock and have each day's bible verse and craft. The activities are explained on the website, day by day.)
The kids are full of excitement and eager anticipation. They understand that Christmas is about Jesus, and we pray that in the process of the giving and receiving of gifts, they will receive an even greater understanding of the Best Gift of All.
On Wednesday, I went to a Christmas concert at a performing arts high school in Tampa. My friend's son plays french horn in the orchestra, which played as its finale Handel's Hallelujah Chorus. As I listened, I could not help but stand, along with others, as the choir at a public school sang out the words, "King of Kings! Lords of Lords! Forever and Ever! Hallelujah!" (Even as I write this, I get goosebumps). These high school musicians and singers were praising God, with one voice. In a time when it seems like God is being pushed out of public life, this triumphant song was such a swell of sweetness as I listened with tears in my eyes.
He is truly King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Prince of Peace, Almighty God. In that performance hall, His name was lifted up, whether or not those in the audience recognized it.
In the darkness, the Light still shines.
I sat down to paint, for the first time since we lost Evelyn. I had an image in my head that I wanted to make for my sister-in-law Deb. It is a winter's night scene. I don't know why that is what I made for her, but I hope that it will speak to her as it did me.
I am in a winter season in my life. But this is not a dismal, barren winter season. It is dark, yes, but in the darkness, the light of the moon, the stars, shines with a clarity and lucidity that you cannot perceive in the day. A tree that is bare in the winter is not desolate. Rather, it is resting, waiting, quietly using the time to prepare once again for the time when it is full of verdant green leaves and ripe fruit. Each season has its purposes. You cannot skip a season or rush through it because each one is created by God for a purpose. And in the dark of the night, the tree's branches reflect the moon's light with a quiet radiance.
In this season, these words resonate into my heart,
"The gospel calls us continually to make Christ the source, the center and the purpose of our lives. In him we find our home. In the safety of that place, our sadnesses can point us to God, even drive us into God's loving embrace. Here mourning our losses ultimately lets us claim our belovedness. Mourning opesn us to a future that we could not imagine on our own..." (Turn My Mourning into Dancing, p. 36).
Jesus, be my source, my center, my purpose, my One Good Thing. And for all these things, I thank you,

...warm December breezes,
...swells of music and voice lifted to praise You,
...music,
...my husband once again being a listening friend,
...Christina and Bihoyoki, our two Compassion kids,
...unexpected gifts,
...the excitement of giving (and receiving!),
...healing in my back,
...healing in my hand,
...the excitement of meeting my new niece,
...playing the violin at church again, after a long break,
...Christ's forgiveness, over and over,
...a quiet Christmas at home...

soli deo gloria

day fifteen

2009-12-15T15:52:00.000-08:00
It is the fiftienth day of advent and the red and green paper chain no longer stretches across from one cabinet pull to the other. Each morning, one child climbs onto the counter, by various methods (Lydia uses the back of the couch) and carefully pulls a paper chain off. "What's our fun thing for today, mama?" asks Lydia, her eyes bright. We make toilet paper candles, banners for Jesus, nativity scenes.

Sometimes, all of this seems canned. But something hit me as I glanced at Nathanael's little yellow candle. (Day 5, celebrating Jesus as the Light of the World) He's drawn pictures across the sides. I see a figure with a crown, a large heart floating above his head. I pick up the candle, turn it a bit to see the rest. To the left, a very small figure perched on the edge of a chasm, with two floating hearts above his head. The first, as black as the pencil could make it. Then an arrow showing progression, all the way to a heart outlined in pencil. Clean of color, besides the yellow construction paper it was drawn on. A roughly drawn cross is laid down across the chasm, uniting the small figure with the large royal One.

Remembering January 2007, the first seed of faith, planted, watered and by His grace growing...a little boy bending down to pray in his bed with his dad, mom. Angels rejoicing....though most days I feel like the farmer praying, watching, waiting to see the first signs of life in the soil he's prepared. I have seen this tender shoot, in small moments like these, as I turn over a candle crafted by small hands that get in only in the way a seven year old can.

In these middle days of advent, I feel pulled to stop and listen. Yet my list of presents to prepare, package, send, wrap, seems never to end. My goals for where to be at the end of our school semester seems too much for the next eight days. So many times I miss the gentle voice because I am in motion, life gets blurry. Stopping to write is a way to counteract that drive to go, go, go.

So I stop and offer these thanks to the One who has given me everything I have that is good...for,

advent chains,

nathanael holding abigail's hand as they walk down the steps,

daily December sun,

folding fresh towels,

clean sheets,

christmas lights,

going to see The Nutcracker ballet with Lydie,

steve singing abigail to sleep,

morning bike rides,

cozying on the couch,

warm brownies,

singing christmas carols,

God revealing His Son as a baby,

Glory wrapped in human skin,

Jesus...

dry bread with peace and quiet

2009-11-24T19:35:00.001-08:00
It is ten-thirty at night and I'm searching a recipes website for a recipe for bourbon sweet potatoes. I thought I bought everything I needed at the store for our Thanksgiving dinner, but I think I'm shy a few apples for the pies. .

During my shopping, I paused at the display of packaged stuffing, tempted by the ease of adding water to seasoned, dry croutons. But instead, I backtracked to the bread aisle to pick out a loaf of butter-top white bread. You pull apart the loaf, slice by slice, the night before, and let the pieces dessicate overnight. Then, you place them all in a pot with marjoram, sage, pepper, lots of butter, eggs and some water to taste. Some people like their stuffing dry; others with a little stickiness. I just like making my mom's recipe.

What is it about Thanksgiving that we're willing to spend hours, no days, preparing and baking and cooking for this one meal? I love food just as much as anyone else, but on most days, a meal for me means throwing together a few ingredients and hoping for the best. Perhaps it is the season I am in-- the time when chicken nuggets and mac'n'cheese are the meal of choice for the majority of the family-- when I can sometimes sneak in an eggplant or two, if I'm lucky. But most times, it is the inward groan of "I'm done," at the end of the day, my lack of creativity that produces meals that show little propensity towards gourmet.

At Thanksgiving, however, I am motivated by a different perspective. Perhaps it is the reminders of the table set with my mother's good china and loaded with steaming sweet potato casserole, a twenty pound bird, stuffing, homemade cranberry relish, and that is just the start. My meal will be simpler. Yet for me, still a stretch. But somehow, it is worth it.

In the midst of these late night searches for just the right dish, I feel that pull in my heart that says, stop. rest. listen. Isn't it true that it is better to have "dry bread with peace and quiet than a house full of feasting with strife" (Proverbs 17:1)? There is nothing wrong with making a large meal. But when the meal is the priority and the heart of the matter is forgotten, then I need to stop and open my eyes. I need to re-position my heart.

I look around and see three little plastic horses set up around princess duplo blocks. I feel so grateful to have a little girl who uses her imagination, is in a constant season of creativity and growth, even as she plays with her dolls... The dishes are piled up on the dish drainer, but they are clean. The sink is empty and scrubbed to a shine. Thank you, Steve, for taking the time to ease my burden tonight. A picture of my sister and two brothers standing beside me on my wedding day sits beside the computer. Words cannot express the love and respect and thankfulness I feel for each one- we've been through so much, together and apart. Cheryl is about to have her first baby- thank you, Lord; David is taking time off work to come visit us next week; Jamie inspires me with his desire to raise his four boys in godliness and Christ's love.

Why do I complain, sniffle, lament? I have so much. If only every day would be a cause for a time of thanksgiving, not just for the big things, but even for those mundane things that we have come to expect-- as if we were entitled to a certain amount and the rest was cause for thanksgiving. Air to breathe. My computer. Sunshine. Rain. Running water. A roof over my head. Okay, how about this? My toothbrush. A pencil to write with. A brush to comb my hair. I know it sounds ridiculous, but when I stop to think that EVERYTHING has been given to me as a gift from God, my complaints oddly slink away, sheepishly. They have no place. I suddenly feel more content with my misshapen, leaky, little life.

All IS grace.

Happy Thanksgiving!

thanksgiving monday

2009-11-23T09:32:00.000-08:00
...for nathanael tickling abigail on the living room carpet...
...pink roses on my windowsill,
...new words for abigail,
...little hands gripping my pant legs,
...learning about the Pilgrims,
...fall leaves- in Florida!
...night walk with friend,
...crayon drawings adorning my pantry cabinet,
...new grass,
...hope of God's re-creation,
...reading books with kids

names written in the sand

2009-11-07T17:56:00.000-08:00

I am searching for beauty. Not the white-washed, manicured kind that I see everyday driving past subdivisions with their gold-lettered signs and meticulously kept landscaping. This draws my attention, but, like good deeds without love, is like a clanging cymbal.
I want to find beauty because when I find true beauty, I find God. In the midst of changing poopy diapers, scrubbing dishes and swiffering my tile floors that never seem to get fully clean, I want to find beauty. grace. hope. joy. encouragement. I am longing for eternity, and I have the promise from Psalm 27 that I will see God's goodness "in the land of the living."
Ann Voskamp wrote in her blog that "as a Christ-follower, the pursuit of beauty is an act of redemption." Only God can take the mess of our lives and create something breathtakingly beautiful. Only God can take the pain of living in a broken world and weave from it something that adds unprecedented texture and color to the tapestry of our lives. Only God.
Beauty from ashes.
I took this picture at the beach when no one was looking. Found a quill-shaped, sun-dried seaweed fragment and used it to write a name. A name that I don't ever want to forget. A name that Christ knows intimately because He spoke her life into being. And a name that He himself has written in the Book of Life.
Learning to be thankful for each and every moment that comes my way, filtered through Grace, is a pathway to Beauty. So the last few weeks have been emotionally difficult and I seek to find a word to bring my heart back from the place where it was hiding. Sitting in bed, Bible open with my journal, I finally cried out to God for a word, any word. He met me in Isaiah 50:4-- The Sovereign LORD has given me an instructed tongue, to know the word that sustains the weary." It is sheer beauty when God meets you and when He brings a word.
Another book on my nightstand is Henri Nouwen's Turn My Mourning Into Dancing." In it, he reflects on the process of grieving as a way to enter into a deeper love walk with Christ. Another place of beauty, where I met a kindred spirit, saw God's grace.
Other glimpses of His beauty...
...soft baby skin and sun-kissed hair,
...hearing Nathanael say, "I forgive you, Lydie..."
...endless ocean,
...playing ring-around-the-rosy with Lydie and Abigail,
...Lydie's sweet smile...
...restful sleep after a night of frequent baby wakings,
...grace in spite of the frequent baby wakings,
...pancake dinner after a busy day,
...lydie learning to ride a bike without training wheels,
...a family of six little pumpkins,
...Dad holding Abigail, peaceful
...cooler days with breeze,
...quiet nights to think alone, pray
...the value of a single life.

what wondrous love is this...

2009-10-23T18:30:00.000-07:00

I came by again and saw that you were ready for love and a lover.
I took care of you, dressed you and protected you.
I promised you my love and entered the covenant of marriage with you.
I, God, the Master, gave my word.
You became mine.
Ezekiel 16:8 MSG

the right time

2009-10-17T18:27:00.000-07:00

October 17, 2009 is another day that I will remember always.
It is the day that Lydia's name was written into the Book of Life.
In the past several months, Lydia began to ask questions. Not just "what's for dinner, mama?" but "Why did Evelyn get sick? How can Evelyn be in your tummy and in heaven? and Can we have another baby named Evelyn that's not sick and doesn't die in your tummy?" These are kid questions from a child grappling with death for the first time. They become doorways to conversations about eternal life, God and His goodness. About faith, believing and hope.
These conversations took place at bedtime, snuggled deep under the covers of our bed where she loves to be before bed. A story just for her, my arm circling her little frame. Quiet time together. Mama time.
After explaining our need for Jesus to make us clean: "I wish I could reach into my heart and take out all the sin!" This little five year old has such perceptiveness. We talked about the fall of Satan, free will and sin.Then, our need for Jesus. In each of the conversations, I would ask her if she wanted to pray with me. We talked about Jesus knocking on the door of her heart.
It was as if she was with me all the way up to the final question: "Do you want to pray with me, Lydie?" "No, thank you!" was her cheerful reply.
Last night, I tucked Lydie into bed and prayed for her as I usually do. This time, I prayed that when Jesus knocked at the door of her heart, that she would ask Him to come in.
Later, Steve went in to say goodnight to the kids. A few minutes later, he came out with a big smile on his face and tears in his eyes. "You need to come here, Adrienne."
I knew what had happened. I just knew it from his face.
He had been tucking Lydie into bed and told her it was going to be cold that night.
"We're almost into winter, Lydie. In some places, it is already snowing."
"I want to see snow, Daddy. I could have a snowball fight, make snow angels. I could make a snow family with you, Mama, Nathanael, me, Abigail and Evelyn. But Evelyn would be alive and I would see her."
"You can see her in heaven, Lydie."
"How?"
"By asking Jesus to come into your heart."
"How do I do that?"
He asked her if she believed that Jesus is the Son of God. Yes. If she knew that she was a sinner- did bad things sometimes. Yes. Then he asked her if she wanted to pray with him. Yes.
It was just the right time, he said later. He's right. In all of those conversations, I just kept planting seeds. And praying over the ground, waiting, watching for a tender shoot to burst through the quiet ground. "I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God made it grow. So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow." (I Corinthians 3:6-7).
In all of this, we are quietly sobered and in awe of God and His ability to bring life. It struck us both later on that it was Evelyn's passing that led Lydia to salvation. In an earlier blog, I wrote that even in her short life, she has touched many lives. And now, her sister will join her in eternal praise of the One who has given them both life.
Praise You, Lord Jesus,
Soli deo gloria

the glory of sun showers

2009-10-16T16:59:00.000-07:00
It was a moment. One of those moments that you remember, not because some earth-shattering event had happened, but because something unexpected happened. Something that spoke softly, but deeply, into your heart. Something that echoed of God.

It was four in the afternoon and the kids and I had been out since late morning. I looked across the playground where scores of homeschoolers were climbing on the play gym, swinging and chasing one another under the live oak trees. It was another sweaty, humid day in Florida, the kind where you begin to sweat in places you really shouldn't.

I finally spotted Lydia. She was at the water fountain, which also had a foot bath underneath it. She and her friend Abigail were washing pails and, apparently, the lower half of their bodies. Nathanael was running around the play gym with some other boys. Abigail, smeared with cheese puff powder and icing from the party we'd had for a friend's daugher, finally sat quietly in her stroller, her eyes glazed. We were done, she and I, ready for a nap.

I left Abigail and strode out to gather up my kids. After a few calls and feeling a bit hoarse, I began to walk towards the pavillon where I left the baby. Nathanael suddenly shrieked, "Mama, it's a sun shower!" He had the biggest smile on his face and his eyes were actually gleaming.

Globs of rain fell from seemingly cloudless skies as the sun continued to shine down on our play. They felt so good, such a relief from the intensity of sun and humidity. I closed my eyes and held my arms out, palms out.

As I walked across the pavillon, arms out, I felt like I was receiving a giant hug from God. Why should I be surprised? He is the Father who delights in giving all good gifts to His children. Yet my week had been filled with more frustration, weariness and general grumpiness. Not all the time, but enough to tilt the scales.

I sit down to write, looking back on this week, and what I want to remember from it is this one, significant moment. The surprise sun shower in the midst of an oppressively hot day, the feeling of the rain on my face, my arms, and the desire to receive such grace.

Isn't that God's heart for us? Yet I gripe and moan, eyes downcast and arms wrapped around me. I withdraw from Him in my pain. I look at the dust instead of at the Creator. What I need is in Him and yet my heart seeks everything else besides Him. He longs to fill me, comfort me, restore me.

I just need to be willing. To sit quietly. To listen. To receive. That is my hope and my prayer for this new week.

Thank you, sweet Jesus,

for sun showers and boys with faces lit brightly with joy,

for lydia's sweet smile as she padded around the mat during her first gymnastics class,

for moments of quiet and rest,

for parents who love to sit and read with my kids, take walks with them and play "horsey"

for abigail's shrieks of laughter when we chase her to tickle,

for a long talk and cry with Steve after watching "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,"

for friends who take time to remember, to encourage and to speak truth into my life,

for the breeze that cut away some of the humidity today on our walk,

for remembering...

I love you, Jesus...

the long stretch ahead

2009-10-08T17:52:00.000-07:00
I had my four week OB follow up today. My body has healed from the delivery. I can start exercising again and the YMCA is no longer off limits. This is something to be thankful for.

After four weeks, I am back to homeschooling, going on field trips, taking the kids on play dates. With all of this normalcy, it seems that I should be feeling better. Strangely, though it has been a full month since we lost Evelyn, I am feeling the fallout of the situation most deeply right now.

Sitting at the kitchen table with the kids this week while reading a book on snakes, I found myself barking at Lydia for not finishing her coloring of a coral snake. I just wanted her to get it done. She doesn't like snakes, didn't want to do it. Impatience, anger, frustration. I have to stop. Take a breath. Count to ten. Then break for some play time. Come back later to finish. Some mornings, it takes me until lunch to feel right. I'm tired, so tired.

This emotional weariness, I realize, is linked to my physical fatigue. Months of underlying stress, recent weeks of night wakings with Abigail, Lydia, now Nathanael. Each of my children is "high need" right now, for different reasons. Teething, bedwetting, worry. My kids need me. I feel like I need to be alone.

In my fatigue, I find myself going down thought places I don't want to be. Self-pity, critical thoughts make their way in. It's not just sadness right now that I struggle with, but this dogged tiredness, this proclivity to negative thinking, disheartened, discouraged thoughts.

Lord, you know my heart.
Save me from myself, from sinking beneath the waters,
I am so weary, so frail,
Set my feet on a rock that is firm.
You are my Savior, my deliverer,
I trust You.

When I open the Bible these days, I usually search out a psalm to read. In these songs, you can find a real depth of emotion and experience with God. In many of David's psalms, he begins with a very honest outpouring of his heart. He speaks how his heart is troubled, burden, discouraged. This I can relate to quite easily. Then, almost immediately, he breaks into pure worship and thanksgiving to God. This is what gets me. What is the mental bridge between the anguish and the praise? To me, the first seems natural, the second, divine.

I was reading another excerpt about Joni Eareckson Tada, a woman who has been a quadrapalegic since age 17. The interviewer asked her how she can be so joyful amid such daily difficulties of being confined to a wheelchair without the use of her arms and legs. She said that she has disciplined herself to be thankful to the point where "being thankful in all circumstances" just comes naturally.

Wow.

In my last post, I talked about choosing to be thankful. This is something that has been on my heart all week. Ironically, it has been a week in which I have struggled over and over to find something to be thankful for. I find that I vascillate between moments when it seems easy to be thankful to moments of despair. Most of the time, I find myself in that gray area in between.

I sat in the patient room today, feeling a flood of memories wash over me. They placed me in the same room today as the day when I found out that Evelyn had died. For the first time, images like movie clips of that day ran through my mind. In the quiet before Dr. Fernandez entered the room, I sat with the images. Then, I remembered God. I decided to remember how good he was through the whole experience, how He brought doctors and nurses who cared so well for Evelyn, for me and for Steve, how he quieted our hearts and comforted through his Word, through friends and family. I thanked Him, over and over, in that small, quiet room full of memories.

Why is it so easy for me to remember His love then and not now? In these days, why is it so hard to feel thankful, to be joyful? Why does it feel like such work to be in a good mood? Why is it so much easier to be sullen, withdrawl, quiet? I don't like myself this way.

In my more active times, I have been a runner. I like to be outside; it makes my heart happy. What I have found as a runner is that I actually run better when I am faced with a hill. I see my challenge, I brace myself for the challenge, I conquer the challenge (!) My downfall is when I get to the long, monotonous flat stretches of road. I lose momentum, I start to peeter out emotionally. Here is my greatest struggle.

After the last month of seen challenges, life appears to be normal. My challenge is not visible, however, but invisible. The struggle is in my heart and in my thoughts and that is much more challenging for me than before. This is really when I need prayer support, but what do I ask for? Endurance of heart? Encouragement in my spirit? Assurance from the Lord?

These days are when mere discipline of the heart is much needed. I'm not an ascetic, but I do see that days when the feelings of comfort, wellness and joy are not palpably there, I need to make choices, over and over again. Otherwise, I feel that I may either drift into self-absorption and depression or become terribly negative.

And more than that, I want to be close to God. I need to be close to Him. And my small knowledge of scripture shows me that thanksgiving, worship, praise is the gateway to His Presence. It brings me close to Him. That is where I need-- and want--to be.

So with a heart that, by His grace, can choose gratitude,

I am grateful for...

healing and restoration,
chances to reach out to others in need,
meeting a new friend who has been through the same loss-- being able to hug and cry together,
day at the beach with sis, watching lydia make sand angels, rescuing a fearless abigail from the waves, seeing nathanael try body surfing for the first time...
feeling my little niece moving and kicking in her mama's belly,
a few cool florida mornings,
jogging for the first time in months,
celebrating my best friend's 37th birthday,
abigail learning how to jump...

thank you Jesus,
thank you.

days like this

2009-09-29T11:16:00.000-07:00
Friday was a bad day. One of "those" days. A terrible, horrible, no good day. And in looking back, I cannot point to one or even two significant things that made it merit such adjectives. It just was.

The meltdown came just after putting the kids to bed. Sprawled on my bed with a box of kleenex, with Steve perched hesitantly on the edge of the mattress (wondering if I was going to start throwing things?), I began in my tear-filled tirade. "I am just up to HERE with things! I am beyond myself here, Steve!---

In comes Nathanael for the third time that night, eyes blinking in the bright light. "Mama? I need to tell you something--"

I glance over, eyes red with tears, without words. My husband rescues me, ushering the boy out and returns.

It's not one or two things, usually, that break a woman's spirit. It is a several, more and then more trivial matters that build and build and build on one another until what you have is a looming mass of yuckiness that seems insurmountable. This is when my faith is at its most vulnerable point, when I truly need Him. This is when the enemy laughs, because even though He who is in me is greater than him, my feelings try to tell me otherwise.

The great irony of that moment was that I had just gotten a new book called Choosing Gratitude by Nancy Leigh DeMoss. I had been drawn to it because it seemed to deal with the idea of gratitude from a hard won perspective-- learning to be thankful in the face of pain, seemingly senseless suffering and hardship. Joni Eareckson Tada, a believer and quadrapalegic, writes "Maybe this wheelchair felt like a horrible tragedy in the beginning, but I give thanks in my wheelchair...I'm grateful for my quadriplegia. It's a bruising of a blessing. A gift wrapped in black. It's the shadowy companion that walks with me daily, pushing and pushing me into the arms of my Savior. And that's where the joy is."

Reading this makes me hunger for something, anything, that will push me into the arms of Jesus. I so long to be there, to live there. Even if it means embracing suffering, embracing grief. I'm not a masochist. And I don't hope for difficulties. But maybe this is close to what inspired Paul's writing about rejoicing in suffering. To be pushed into the arms of my Savior, just like I fell into Steve's arms after a long, hard day. And that is where the joy is.

Abigail has been waking up at night. Not just once. Not twice. Not even three times. Every five to twenty minutes for just about two hours a night. Screaming. This morning, I felt the points of a molar just about to break through. The little one is in pain. She is a smiling, cute little toddler by day. At night, when she is very still, she feels the pain and becomes a very fussy, sleep-depriving screamer.

Lydia has been wetting her bed. Not once a week. Not twice. But several times a week. She has been potty trained at night since age two and a half. But just about the time she turned four, the pee came. So we clip a sleep alarm on her pajamas, but just realized that we positioned it for a boy-- in the front of her pants. Hm. Steve made the elementary realization that her pee probably flows backwards, not forwards. So having the alarm in the front only works once the bed is soaked.

Nathanael has had tummy aches. We think it is from worry. He worries a lot about getting sick. We had a talk this morning about the difference between Evelyn being sick and Mommy having a cold (which I do have this week). We read Psalms, we pray, we snuggle.

That night, I felt that my kids need more than I can give them. So much more. And it is so hard for me to admit that I am incapable of satisfying their needs. Especially now in a time when I am physically and emotionally healing from my own pain. So I rant, I rave, I feel like I am about to implode (explode inward?).

What place do I have for gratitute in this? I sniffle. Look down. Then see my husband, perched on the bed next to me. He shuffles closer to me and reaches his arms out to hold me. I lean, I close my eyes, I cry.

Thank you, Lord, for these arms. This hug. This comfort. Thank you for my husband. Thank you that you love me like this, and more.

Strangely, it is in these moments when I ask why. Why do we have all these interruptions of sleep at a time when we need it so much? Why is Lydia still peeing in her bed? Why does it seem like my encouragement and words to Nathanael fall to the ground? Why can't I meet their needs? Why aren't they content with what I can give them? Why? Why?

A small voice. You are not their savior. I AM.

Yes, Lord. You are. How could I think that I could meet the needs that only You can fill?

In some small way, a burden is lifted. I am not meant to give them what only God can give to them. I can only point them to You-- once, twice, three times-- throughout each day.

Thank you, Lord, that you showed me this in my moment of despair.

Gratitude is a choice. I am so slow to learn, but I am still learning.

So I thank God for--

sickness that is causing me to clear out my schedule and rest,

pulling out Evelyn's 15 week ultrasound and remembering that moment of watching her kick and thinking how alive she still was-- and being able to cry over her again,

realizing my limits,

returning to church this week and being so glad we did,

a missionary to africa who was not afraid to speak the truth to us,

a renewed desire to surrender, to pray,

a husband with a heart for giving to those in need,

lydia's two little braids,

the ability to cry,

the ability to be comforted,

continued words of love from friends, family...

thank you, sweet Jesus. I want to be found in your arms. I want to be so deeply hidden in your love, Jesus, that the enemy cannot find me (thank you for these words, Elizabeth!) I want to be filled with your joy.

life goes on...?

2009-09-22T17:52:00.000-07:00

The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
He leads me beside quiet waters,
He restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
Psalm 23:1-3
On our way to the funeral last week, Steve noticed that the check engine light was lit. Of all days, we thought. The need for a pause, rest and comfort was punctuated by this little, urgent warning light in the dashboard of our minivan. So after the funeral, Steve and I changed our clothes and drove the car to the service center. Later that day, he dropped me off on the way to baseball and I waited at Express Auto Service for over an hour while the mechanics installed a new oxygen sensor. I stopped at Albertsons for a gallon of whole milk and when I arrived home, Abigail needed her diaper changed, the kids clamored for attention and for food and we cared for the myriad of needs that life brings.
Life goes on.
Or does it?
On that day, as Steve and I sat sipping coffee, I felt as if the world was moving rapidly, with blurring speed, around me. I, on the other, hand, felt a bit lost, like I'm wandering about, in slow motion, then stopping altogether. Where am I? Where is my heart?
The only tangible reminders of loss-- flower arrangements placed around our home, a stack of sympathy cards, meals brought every other night. We are still in a period of mourning. Yet otherwise, with each day, I step-- and choose to step- back into what we called "normal life" before.
Yet what is normal now? Much of what has caused confusion is that life has been altered, forever, by Evelyn's passing. It is hard to appreciate the sum total of all the thoughts and plans and expectations that one has while baby grows in the womb. As a mother, the countless times you place your hand on your stomach and imagine...dream...plan. It is the process of making room for another child in a family that already seems complete. And by the time the baby comes, you realize that your family was not complete until this moment-- because of the multitude of ways you inched that space wider and wider until it was life-size to fit that little one.
So when life passes, unexpected, that space is really still there. And what to do with it? Close it up, fill it, deny it was there? I cannot do the latter. And I wonder what it means to fill up the emptiness-- after the funeral, I continued to paint. I needed-- and still need-- to create something beautiful, meaningful, life-giving. Steve needed to go back to baseball, to work out in the yard. Is that filling a space? Or is it doing what we needed to so that grief did not engulf us fully?
I am reading a book by a woman whose granddaughter died unexpectedly at age two. She describes personal devastation, depression, utter grief. Yet she makes a remark that I found amazing-- to embrace grief. Looking grief in the eye and saying, "Hello." What does that mean? How do you embrace grief? I know what it means to deny the grief. Yet to welcome it is something that seems alien to me. Perhaps this understanding will come in time.
And so life goes on, but still I take time to pause. I journal at night. I write in this blog. Steve and I talk. At night, tears come unexpectedly, hushed sobs into my pillow over my beloved daughter. With each day, I miss her more because her absence is becoming more and more real. I miss the life that we would have had together and I miss most of all the opportunity of knowing her on this earth. I miss that I never got to look into her eyes or see what color hair she had. I miss being able to comfort her and rock her to sleep. There is much more...
Yet still, life goes on and I am thankful, in many ways, for that.
...for Nathanael who still asks for "snuggles" at night and is learning to read chapter books, bat from a machine pitch and grows more mature each day,
...for that shoulder to cry on, even after hours,
...for family and friends who still call, understanding that the loss doesn't get filled up in two weeks,
...for peace lilies and an unexpected pasta casserole on an unusually busy day,
...for a girl's night out, fellowship and amazing food,
...for a babysitter who loves our kids and loves the Lord,
...for tea parties with cut flowers, a candle and a homemade brownie-- shared with my favorite five year old girl,
...for hearing Lydia read her first book,
...for giggles and squeals when I played with Abigail on the recliner today,
...for the comfort and peace that goes beyond our understanding...
thank You Jesus,
thank You.

the road of why

2009-09-18T07:37:00.000-07:00
In the quiet of my thoughts, it is easy to wander down roads that are fast overgrown with nettles and weeds. One of my challenges these days is that when I am alone in my thoughts throughout the day, to be aware of where I am, where I'm going. A friend texted me yesterday, asking "How's your heart?" The kids and I had spent most of the day at home. I had woken up with a piercing headache, which is not usual at all for me. We rested. And when the text came, I realized that all day, I had felt lost, drifting away in my thoughts and not sure of where my heart was. This was the little check I needed, so when Abigail went down for her second nap, I sat in bed, cracked open my bible to a psalm, and read. I prayed, I remembered, yes, I remembered. Isn't so much of the purpose of verse memorization to remember God, His ways, His promises, His love for us? Not just to tuck feather after feather in my own little cap. But to remember. To abide. To rest.
In some of my conversations with friends, the idea of asking why has come up. Why did this happen? Why would God do this? Did God do this? I spent a great deal of my latter teens and twenties asking God why-- why am I here, Lord? Why isn't it a good time to go to graduate school now? Why am I not meeting people easily? Why haven't we found a good church- it's been over a year? I am well acquainted with the word and with all of the angst that it carries. I have several worn journals filled with late night monologues, really tirades, against God. Yes, we have the freedom in Christ to ask why. Yes, God can take it. He knows our hearts before we speak the words.

Early on in our journey with Evelyn, I came to a place where I felt that I had a decision to make- I was standing at a mental crossroads and peering down a road I had never commit to take. The sign said Surrender and the road, though narrow, was strangely inviting. I remembered the last time I walked through grief and pain. Oddly, one of the pinpoints of light that came out of this experience was the realization that what made the time unbearable was not the difficulty of separation from Steve (though it was truly hard), but that I had pushed and pulled against God so much.
I thought about the men and women in the Bible who had each been given a different load to carry. Mary was given the news that she was to bear God's Son- in human terms, a veritable scandal, being that she was not yet married. Paul was chosen to bring the gospel to the Gentiles, something that was perhaps seen as unheard of up until then. Noah, Moses, Jeremiah, Isaiah... And how many of these do we have asking God why? Perhaps they did, but many of them we see receiving what God places on their plates and just digging in.

It's not wrong to ask why, but at this time in my walk, I made a choice to say, Lord, I don't understand. Do as you see best. I trust You. It's not that I did this out of my own strength- I just didn't want to go through the angst I caused myself again. And the bottom line is that even if God told me why Evelyn died and didn't live on to an old age, the pain and sadness of losing her would still be here. I would still miss her.
So this is why I have chosen not to go down the road of whys. I figure that if I hide myself close enough to Him, if he chooses to do so, He'll reveal bits and pieces to me. Yet if He doesn't, I will still be receiving what my heart needs most. Hope, encouragement, comfort, healing, restoration. His own presence that brings light and clarity.
What I do know for sure is that all of the promises of God are YES in Christ. That is a certainty in this uncertain time. So when Isaiah says of Christ in Isaiah 61 that the Sovereign Lord has anointed Him to comfort those who mourn, I can believe that. When He says that he will crown me with beauty for ashes, I can rest in this. And when He says that through all of this, He is making me into an "oak of righteousness," for the display of His surrender, I can praise Him for taking brokenness and bringing new life.

Soli Deo gloria

saying goodbye...again

2009-09-13T05:30:00.000-07:00

Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed,

For His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;

Great is Your faithfulness.
I say to myself, "The
Lord is my portion;

Therefore, I will wait for Him..."

Lamentations 3:22-23

Our house is filled with flowers. There is a vase of full, white roses, lillies and freesias sitting on the T.V. Next to it, an arrangement of vibrant calla lilies, pink roses, stargazer lilies and heather. On the kitchen table, a basket overflowing with ivy, calendula and violets. Then, a slender fuschia orchid. All around me, there is beauty, overflowing and vibrant with color and life. I am surrounded by it. In the midst of pain, loss and emptiness, our family has been surrounded by the beauty of grace, the comfort of hope, the fullness of love.

I praise you, Savior, for you alone can bring beauty from ashes...

On Friday, we gathered at Southern Funeral Care, a local funeral home, to say goodbye to Evelyn. Her casket sat atop a small table, a pure white velvet with cascades of flowers surrounding it. We sat down at the front row, kids armed with pads and pens to keep them busy.
It had been a busy week, busier than I had imagined. Was this business good for us? Perhaps the need to continue moving forward, trusting that each step toward this day could aid in the process of grieving made planning less overwhelming. A trip to the funeral home, where we spend two hours with Mark, the funeral director. We had decisions, many of them, to make. Burial spot, coffin size, design, flowers to pick out. Then a meeting with Pastor David. Songs to pick, scripture to read, what did we want this service to mean?

A celebration of life, the assurance of our hope in Christ, the journey of restoration ahead of us. I remember Dorothy, one of the nurses in the maternity unit, "We can can take care of physical healing, but I can't heal you there," pointing to my heart. But Christ can do that. I have never felt that and believed that more strongly than now. Isaiah 61 has been one of my mainstay verses during the last few months.

"He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted...and provide for those who grieve in Zion-- to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor." Isaiah 61:1A, 3

Just how to grieve is something that I am learning to do as I do it.
The first to arrive at the funeral home were Steve's colleagues. Dressed in suits, offering handshakes and pecks on the cheek. Then friends trickled in, one at a time. Lots of hugs, tears, more hugs. Now four, no five, who whispered, with tears, "I lost a baby, too..." Yes, there is love, there is understanding, there is empathy. We are not alone.
We shaped the service to be as personal and filled with our love for Evelyn and our faith in Her Maker. "Father's Song" by Matt Redman began the time, a reminder of countless car rides where I'd listen to this song and weep over His love for my unborn baby and our family. Steve's mom read Psalm 139, testimony to the intimacy of God's heart toward us and His sovereignty over all creation, including Evelyn's: "I praise You that I am wonderfully and fearfully made..."
Pastor David spent time clarifying life as beginning at conception; therefore, whether five months old or fifty years, we treasure and value all life. He talked about the hope we have in Christ to see Him face to face, to see Evelyn as whole and complete, in Heaven. A reference to 1 Samuel in which David, after losing his newborn son, cried out that he would not be able to come back, but that David would one day see him, gave us comfort from Scripture. He spoke about our God, who knows our suffering because He, too, lost a son. His grace and love are sufficient for this journey. This is our true comfort. Another song, "I Can Only Imagine," then Steve read Psalm 30. Choking back tears, he read the verses that have also given us sight towards our own heart restoration: "Weeping may come for a night, but joy comes in the morning."
On this Monday, I once again want to give thanks to God, the God of all comfort, the One who heals the brokenhearted and who sets the captives free. My hope is in Him and in the trust that though our lives have been changed forever through this loss and that we may never leave the pain fully behind, He will once again fill, heal and restore.
For these, I give Him thanks...
...a week at home with my best friend, who was there with endless hugs and a good shoulder to cry on,
...Lydia crying on my shoulder because she wanted to have a new baby sister named Evelyn,
...the realization that the first face that Evelyn has seen is the face of Jesus,
...friends who were willing to cry with me,
...countless phone calls from family, far away friends, "Just wanted you to know we're praying...we love you."
...praying with Mom Shore after a long night of crying,
...Dad and Mom's letter to Evelyn,
...the gift of having five months with Evelyn; remembering her kicking,
...warm meals brought with lots of love and care,
...a friend who knows what I need before I know I need it,
...the ability to be thankful...

beauty for ashes

2009-09-07T02:48:00.001-07:00
Shortly after Steve and I arrived at the maternity ward in Brandon Regional Hospital, Steve came to my bedside and told me that the nurses had put a small sign up on our door. "It's a picture of a leaf with a drop of rain sitting on it," he told me. Now I am a visual person. I understand and love to play with words, too, but more often than not, a simple image can convey more than a multitude of words to me. This sign, akin to a stamp bearing the inked words FRAGILE! HANDLE WITH CARE! gave me indication to the way the hospital staff would enter into our room from that time on.

Our precious baby is gone. Gone from my womb and from this broken world. Gone from her broken body, wrecked by so many different defects. It's amazing that the lack of a single chromosome can cause such divergence from the ways that we were intended to be. When I had the chance to look at her, I realized two things: that she indeed was a perfect human being, with the tiniest of hands and toes, a perfectly formed nose, eyes and ears. Yet at the same time, with the cystic hygroma, swelling and other unseen ailments, I understood that she was not meant to be in this world. I looked on the "shell," of my baby, also knowing full well that our Evelyn, the one we will one day meet, was no longer there. And this gave me a sad, quiet joy.

I have decided to continue blogging through the next days, months, however long God gives me words to say. I know that this may be too much to ask for any of you to walk this road of grieving with me. I don't oblige you to go any further. It won't be easy, it won't be pretty, but it will be as real as I can make any blog. I feel that I have to do this, so it seems partly selfish, but at the same time, I really feel that through all of this, even through the pain, God has somehow wrested glory for Himself. I am not saying this bitterly AT ALL. In fact, this is my prayer-- solo dei gloria, "Glory to God alone," not because I'm some kind of martyr, but because I've come to understand that when God gets glory, I am living fully how I'm meant to be. And that is joy, is life, is truth and what is REALLY means to be fully alive. So I will continue to blog, at least once a week if I'm up to it, more or less, but once a week, God help me. I won't give you updates to check my blog, but if you commit to walking these steps, I know you'll find a way to bookmark my blog :)

Having said all of this, I want to go back a few steps and briefly fill in where I missed. Steve had been watching the kids for my weekly appointment. It had been the most emotional week of our waiting period. Earlier in the week, I had melted down at least twice with Steve. In some ways, I felt grateful for the emotional outbursts because I had found it hard to feel or to cry earlier on. At the same time, God was bringing up things in me that I think made it more painful-- namely my insecurity in His love-- a friend of mine had spoken to me earlier in the week, saying that she felt that the baby was going to be okay but that it was me that she was praying for. More than one friend has encouraged me in the past week about truly resting in and soaking in God's deep love for me, for my family, in this time (you know who you are, dear friends!). In fact, as I look back on the past two months, I see such evidence of God's love, brought close and real to us through a multitude of banal and extraordinary things. I will go more into this a little later.

Back to the OB visit-- Dr. Granger had spent some time talking with me about how right our decision to keep the pregnancy going was because in whatever happened, I have to live with myself and my own decisions. Doctors and others will come and go, but my conscience and my decisions live with me. I so appreciated his sensitivity and willingness to support our choices.

He took the small machine and began rolling it around my abdomen. No sounds, except for the slow thud of my own heart. Another try and then another. "I'm going to order an ultrasound for you," he said quietly and gave me his hand to help me up. So began another interminable wait in the small patient's room outside. Thankfully, I was the only one there. I opened my book, a biography about George Muller written for older children (yes, this indicates the attention span I have right now!). He was the founder of several large orphanages in Bristol, England at the time when Dickens was writing about the horrors of child labor and squalid living conditions of street urchins during the Industrial Revolution of England. His life and testimony could be summoned up in one word PRAYER. He prayed for every little need and believed. And God provided, whether a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk (or several hundred of each for hungry mouths). I put down my book and prayed again for Evelyn, for her life.

I wrote about the mystery of prayer a few blogs ago. It wasn't that I didn't believe God wasn't listening or acting, but there was a reality that began to grow from that moment. I called Steve and told him that they couldn't find the heartbeat. "I'll call back as soon as I find out anything." Thirty minutes later, I was laying on another patient table, watching the technician as she used her instrument to see our baby. She had the monitor turned from me and as I watched her eyes, I suddenly knew. I called Steve, "You need to come now," I said. "Call someone to pick up the kids. I need you."

Another wait in the patient's room. Our life has been all about waiting. As I sat there, a nurse came to me before I spoke with Dr. Granger. She knelt down. "Are you okay?" I nodded. "You know, this happened for a reason." She had told me what I already knew, but she spoke it into reality. I burst out crying. Minutes later, ushered into a small examination room with a box of tissues, I wept. Steve called again to let me know a friend was coming to pick up the kids. "What did they say?" he asked anxiously. "She's gone, Steve. She didn't make it." A pause, then hiccups of air, my precious husband feeling the first pangs of grief.

Dr. Granger came in moments later and spoke with me. "I am so so sorry," he said. He knew that we were holding on to hope. I told him that even though the baby was gone, my hope, my faith, was still ongoing. I needed to speak that out, for myself, to let him know that as a Christian, this wasn't the end of my faith. We talked, I cried, he cried. Then we had to talk logistics, about the induction. Then Steve arrived. In all of this, he has been the rational, steady man I married. I have seen small moments of sadness, but out of both of us, he was expecting a full recovery of our baby. This wonderful man wept with me and I saw so deeply his love for Evelyn and the suffering he was now experiencing as a father.

We decided on a Saturday morning induction, but when Dr. Granger called the hospital, he had to fight for an appointment earlier than Monday or Tuesday. The hospital was booked up, apparently, with baby deliveries. We left the OB office as they were closing up and walked into a rainstorm (Florida is known for afternoon showers all summer long). We ate quickly together what we could stomach and then ran home to pack. I called my parents and sister on the way home and we cried together.

Our friend brought the kids home to sleep and they rushed in to see us as I began packing. "Mommy, how is the baby?" asked Lydia when she saw me. Dear, dear child. We sat down with the kids and told them that Evelyn had died in my womb and that she was now with Jesus in heaven. "But I wanted a new sister, Mommy...I wanted to hold her." Lydia said. Nathanael was silent and Abigail was examining the insides of the clothing hamper. "I wanted you to have a new sister, too, Lydia. It's okay to be sad, " I said. But then, the kids began a foot fight over what the sex of another new baby might be...boy, girl, boy, girl. Kids are so different than adults when it comes to grieving. This is a good thing!

When we arrived at the hospital, the maternity nurse came down to tell us that they were so packed out that we would have to wait downstairs. "We should be ready in about forty-five minutes." I had feared that they would tell us that we had to go home. So we waited again. An hour later, we were up in the elevator. By ten, they were prepping me. By midnight, they gave me the first dose of pills to start the induction. It was the beginning of a long night. Every four hours they gave me another dose...four in the morning, eight, noon...I felt as if I closed my eyes, open them to look at the time, then opened them to watch the monitor that recorded my contractions. All night long, starting at the green light and hoping to see more elevated peaks. I noticed that when I lay on my back, the contractions seemed to be more regular than on my side.

Evelyn was delivered at three in the afternoon, almost fifteen hours after my first dose. The delivery was easy and by God's grace, I delivered the placenta naturally (I was concerned that I'd have to go into surgery if my body was not ready to give it up naturally). They wrapped Evelyn up and gave her to me. Either from the medicine or my nerves, I was shaking badly, so I held her for a moment then passed her to Steve. Lori then took her and spent about two hours bathing her, and dressing her in a gown and hat. I know that this may seem morbid to many of you because it did to me, but Lori had told us ahead of time what she was going to do and why. Many parents that didn't hold the baby regretted it later. She helped us to see what would be important for us in our grieving process. So she made baby footprints and handprints on paper, o a plaster mold, took pictures of us holding the baby, of her alone. She made us a memory box full of memoribilia: arm bands that were never worn, a knitted cap, a gown, a handmade pink blanket that she wrapped Evelyn in, pictures, a stuffed heart. Watching her do all of this showed us that she was honoring Evelyn as a little human being and treating her with such dignity and compassion. Kathy, the other nurse, was equally sensitive. On the way to the room I would sleep in that night, she let me ring the nursery bell which lets people know that a baby was born. "You have every right to ring this bell, too," she said. I wept again as the song chimed through the halls. Precious, precious baby.

As I said, Evelyn was perfectly whole, yet so broken in her body. I could see that it was God's mercy in allowing her to come out of this world. As I held her, I had a hard time feeling anything because I had so distanced myself from her shell, her body. I could not bond with her, because she could not receive my love, my affection. I had felt more attached to her while she was in the womb, when I saw her kicking up on the ultrasound. She was alive then, and that was her. Yet Steve did not have that experience and for fathers, their first opportunity to attach is when the baby emerges from the womb. It was very emotional for him. I can say that I have even more love and more respect for my precious husband after watching him go through the last few days. He is a wonderful father and husband and I cannot think of anyone else with whom I'd rather go through such a season as this.

We had discussed whether or not to have a funeral for Evelyn and when the nurses mentioned that it was Florida law that babies born over 20 weeks need to have a death certificate and be buried, the decision was made for us. I am very thankful that we made it past twenty weeks because I cannot think of any other way that I would feel comfortable saying goodbye to Evelyn. We will have a service and burial for her sometime this weekend. Steve's mom happens to be in Nashville visiting one of Steve's sisters, so she will definitely be there.

It seems a strange time to begin a running list of things that I am thankful for, but I have felt lately that I need to take the time to remember what is good and the good things God has brought into our lives. In some way, this is part of being truthful, for the whole reality of this painful experience is that it has been deeply and completely surrounded by, shored up by and soaked in God love and grace. I would not be telling the whole truth if I do not give thanks. So spurred on by a fellow blogger, I want to start Multitude Monday, a special time to add into the ever growing chorus of those who remember and give praise to the One who is the giver of all good things...

for resounding voices of love, endless prayers and compassion from family and friends during the last few months...

for the friend who stepped up to love on our kids when we were at the hospital so that we didn't have to worry about their well being...

a doctor that cried with me...

the nurse who put socks on me because my feet were cold...a true servant's heart...

Lori's careful care of our daughter, for dressing her through love and lovingly made clothing, so that we could hold our beautiful, tiny baby...

a box of keepsakes and pictures to remember Evelyn...

the chance to hold Evelyn, tell her how much we loved her and to say goodbye...

Abigail's little head resting on my shoulder after I came home...

Nathanael snuggling with me on the couch while watching Planet Earth...

Lydia telling me how much she missed me and wanting to see pictures of the baby...

Sharing the keepsake box with the kids...

flowers on our kitchen table that remind us God makes beauty from ashes...

that God is holding Evelyn right now and that one day, we will see her again, whole and complete, when we see our Maker...

the continous stream of love, letters and hugs from parents, family, friends...

In loving memory of Evelyn Grace Shore,
Born September 5, 2009
Our lives are changed forever. One day, the pain will stop but our remembrance of her and her passing will always be there.
My soul, wait only upon God and silently submit to Him,
for my hope and expectation are from Him.
He only is my Rock and my salvation and my glory
He is my Rock of unyielding strength and impenetrable hardness,
and my refuge is in God!
Trust in, lean on, rely on, and have confidence in Him at all times,
you people; pour out your hearts before Him.
God is a refuge for us...Selah
Psalm 62:5-8 AMP
Amen.

a time to create

2009-08-30T12:50:00.000-07:00
Well, here it is, the first exhibit of Shore family paintings. The kids and I had fun filling our canvases with color! They are so eager to create, which is wonderful. Like their Grammy, they have an eye for color and composition! Thanks to all who encouraged me in this...it was very quieting and good for my heart to take the time to create...

"Every Day is a Gift"
"Waiting"
by Adrienne

"Jet Airplane"
by Nathanael

"Playhouse"
by Lydia

another week of life

2009-08-27T18:30:00.000-07:00
My heart feels heavy as I write this update. Steve left work early today to accompany me to our 20 week ultrasound. Though the heartbeat still sounds good and our little girl is moving around constantly, we saw some things that were very disheartening.

Steve had expected to see the draining of the fluids, but what we actually saw was that the edema, or swelling, remains and the fluid also has continued into her arms and legs. She is a healthy size, according to the ultrasound technician, but the swelling makes her appear larger than she really is. In fact, we had a hard time seeing her face, partly because she was head down, but also since the cyst was taking up so much room in the amniotic sac that she was pressed up to the side of my uterus. Fortunately, babies don't mind being cramped up.

I had hoped that Steve would meet Dr. Granger this week. I had liked his demeanor and attitude towards our situation. Unfortunately, Dr. Granger had been pulled out of the office for a delivery and instead, Dr. Whitehead discussed the results of the ultrasound with us. Steve affectionately calls him, "Dr. Doom," because in the past, he has cast such a dark shadow on an already difficult situation.

Dr. Whitehead gave us his full medical prognosis on the latest findings. What was very sad to us was the news that in addition to the swelling in the arms and legs, they also saw that the left side of the heart is enlarged. This, he said to us, is indicative of fetal congestive heart failure. He also said that it is probably a heart defect that has been causing all the swelling, since Turners and the cyst are not the root cause of hydrops. This is what we didn't want to hear. I looked at Steve and grabbed his hand. I felt like we had been coasting in the last few weeks and just hit another seeming wall. It hurt.

How do you allow yourself to grieve while still holding on to hope?

After the appointment, Steve and I talked over coffee and tried to sort out all that Dr. Whitehead had told us. I have felt that I need to get out from under the shadow he casts each time and back into the light. "God is bigger than Dr. Doom," Steve said, sipping his coffee. It was nice to have some levity in this situation and I realized that he was right. Dr. Whitehead may be medically accurate, but things happen all the time that exceed expectations. I am so thankful for Steve, that though his heart was so sad and heavy, he chose to hold on to hope. And that encourages me to do the same.

Yet once again, I find myself in need of re-settling myself in truth. And just letting myself grieve over this latest news, though, as I recalled, our little girl is still alive. Why should I grieve while she is kicking and her heart is beating? There will come a time when I may need to truly and deeply grieve and in those moments and days, I believe that comfort and hope will come.

A friend prayed that I would know the lavish love of God. And I continue to pray for the Comforting Arms. This is not the end. Not yet. We are still in the middle of the story and, like any good story, the end is far from being predictable.

Our next appointment is next friday. We will continue to go in for fetal heart monitoring. Then, if we make it to 24 weeks, we'll see the high risk doctor for another detailed ultrasound.

My hope is not in doctors or good medical advice. It's not in whether or not I feel the baby kicking (though that has been a blessing to my heart and nerves!). My hope is in Christ and in His very good plans for our little girl. He loves her. So much that it hurts. Both us and Him. And I believe that He is going to give her life, whether outside the womb or in heaven. His plans are good, though I don't understand why we have to go on like this, week after week.

My sister-in-law told me to read an editorial written by an amazing writer, Andree Seu. Her words on prayer and waiting really touched my heart. In her piece, she tells the story about how she has not slept well for months and has prayed, over and over, for God to restore good sleep. Then her friend talks to God about her and asks God why He didn't honor Andree's act of faith in prayer. God answered him, "I did honor it; she has treasure in heaven." (Andree Seu, World Mag, Aug. 15) It struck me that prayer is truly a mysterious thing. Why does one person's prayer for healing reap instant results while another languishes for years with a debilitating illness? I cannot understand this. But God, as Andree says, is not a vending machine. And what we can be clear about is that God does hear our hearts and that He does answer, though His ways and means are far beyond our understanding. There is much, much more to prayer than just the answers because it has all to do with our relationship with God. He is drawing us to Himself and we--I-- am learning to abide, to rest, to find comfort. Even in this painful time. I am finally learning to be still and daily, I have to fight my impulse to kick and scream (though God can surely take it). I do believe that He is answering our prayers, in ways more wondrous than we can imagine. But the waiting is truly difficult, agonizing.

I lift my eyes to the hills-- Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, the maker of the heavens and earth...
Psalm 121:1
amen. and amen.
and thank you, Jesus, for another week of life...

week 19

2009-08-20T14:51:00.001-07:00
The appointment today went well. First of all, the baby's heartbeat, again, was loud and clear. We've made it to 19 weeks! I saw another doctor in the practice, Dr. Granger, and I liked him. He took a moment to read through my file (much more extensive already than my first three pregnancies put together) and then we talked about where we are headed.

Steve and I have been wondering if I need to see a high risk doctor for my weekly appointments, if that is necessary. I feel like I am still trying to figure out how everything works when your pregnancy is "complicated," because there is a whole network of different doctors that have some input and involvement at various points in the whole process: the OB, perinatologist (high risk doctor), fetal maternal doctor (another high risk OB), neonatologist (focuses on the baby after birth). For us, knowing when and how each of these doctors comes into the scene is what we're learning.

I liked that Dr. Granger encouraged me just to take things as they come. I had asked a question about something that might be a possibility waaaay down the line and he gave me a brief answer, but then told me that it would be better just to manage things week by week. He said it graciously and it really revealed and quieted my fears at that point. I like that simple truth- taking things one step at a time- that is what is best for my heart.

At the same time, we did discuss next week's ultrasound and that at 24 weeks, when they consider the baby viable, I'll also have a level 2 ultrasound at the perinatologist. At that time, if all is going well, I'll see a neonatologist for a consultation. There is much to learn here for me and a lot of new situations to adjust to. Again, week by week is how we're doing it (and day by day in trusting God to settle our hearts).

So we've made it through to week 19- almost halfway there! We praise God for another week to celebrate our little girl and for His amazing goodness and love for us through this whole process. I don't think I would be making it so well at all without Him, and without a loving and supportive husband, family and friends.

On a lighter note, we had a "first" in our family this week. After bathing Abigail and letting her "air out" for a few minutes to help with her diaper rash, I dashed out of the room to get the phone. When I returned, I saw Abigail sitting on the rug in my room, both fists full of something. I didn't have my glasses on at the time, and when I reached her close enough to get a sharper image of what she was holding, I realized that it was two fistfuls of poop. On the floor were three chocolate brown smudges of no. 2. (This one's for you, Christy!) Needless to say, it was quite a mess to clean up and I was also getting ready for a babysitter to come so that Steve and I could have our anniversary date. There is never a dull moment when you have toddlers!

he gives HUGS!

2009-08-14T10:33:00.000-07:00
I ended up taking the kids with me to this week's appointment. I figured that since we were in and out last week in thirty minutes, it wouldn't be a big deal for them to wait a few minutes. So we came straight from swim lessons, Lydia in her beach cover-up and both with damp swimsuits. After my initial screening, the nurse took me to a waiting room the size of a postage stamp and pointed to the crowd of people sitting there. "These people are all waiting for Dr. Den Haas. They are all in front of you." I quickly counted, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5-- We have five families in front of us... I looked down at the kids. Nathanael and Lydia had perched themselves on the waiting chairs and were reading a High Five magazine. Abigail was busy smiling at the couple in front of her, giggling when they looked over and generally being a ham. Okay, it shouldn't be that bad to wait.

Apparently, Dr. Den Haas is a very popular OB. The women at my dental office gushed about how good he was. Barbara, one of the receptionists who also goes to my church said, "I LOVE Dr. Den Haas. He did my hysterectomy. He give HUGS!" Well, I wasn't going to base my decision to change doctors just to get a hug, but the general consensus among the women I spoke with was that he was gracious and thorough, a doctor who takes the time to talk and answer questions. It's usually not a big issue with me what type of personality my doctor has, just as long as he or she is competent enough to catch the baby on the other end, so to speak. But things are different now, and I want to be with someone who will walk this journey with me, on my side.

The kids did awesome through the first hour. As long as she had something to hold, Abigail babbled contentedly in her stroller. Nathanael and Lydie started complaining about being hungry, and I did have to remind them several times that Burger King awaited those who were patient. Into the second hour of our wait, all three kids started to get googly. I ended up fishing through my diaper bag for anything, really anything, that would be new and interesting for Abigail to explore. Which meant my zipper bag full of gift cards, Tide bleach stick (that got taken away quickly, when she figured out how to take off the cap and started to suck on the stick), lipstick, business cards and other sundry non-baby-friendly items. Just as she began to wail, Dr. Den Haas entered the patient's room which we had been sitting in for the last twenty minutes of our two hour wait.

Indeed, he did give hugs-- a nice, brief, side hug, followed by a much welcome, "How are you?" After my joke about the kids doing well the first hour, he took responsibility for the wait, something that I don't usually hear from doctors. He explained that he gives women the time they need- to ask questions, talk to them about their situation. And he said, "I'm so sorry that this has happened," in reference to our situation. Wow, what a different between this doctor and the last. He really put me at ease.

Dr. Den Haas ordered an ultrasound at 20 weeks and assured me that they would take care of any outside help that was needed in terms of a high risk labor and delivery, if we come to that place.

And the most important part of the visit was that the baby's heartbeat sounds great. Thank you, Jesus, for another week of life! I do feel privileged to carry this baby another week.

The kids got a lollypop from the receptionist for being patient and happy meals all around.

ps. Happy Birthday, David!

underneath are the everasting arms

2009-08-12T08:40:00.000-07:00

There is no one like the God of Jeshurun
Who rides on the heavens to help you
and on the clouds in His majesty.
The eternal God is your refuge
And underneath are the everlasting arms...
Deuteronomy 33:26-7

I found this verse when I was making the transition between Tennessee to our second move to Monterey. I had been given a spiral bound index pad where I began jotting down verses that seemed to speak into the uncertainties and stress of leaving one place to embrace another. In a sense, we are all moving in transition, whether it is from job to job, from one living situation to another, adding a member to the family or saying goodbye to a loved one. I found this verse to be very comforting to me because it reveals God as a Father whose love prompts a quick response, even when we can't this with our physical eyes. It also reveals His heart of tender and fierce compassion. I am encouraged to think about His arms cradling me and my family underneath, beside, all around. He is likewise cradled our little one in my womb and HE is her true refuge.

a family next door

2009-08-07T17:54:00.001-07:00

The kids and I painted small wooden birdhouses last year and hung them up on a tree outside the kitchen window. Little did we know that a "family" of tree frogs would take up residence in one of these abodes. Apparently, Florida is home to seven different kinds of tree frogs. Well, out of all of the critters we've come into contact with in our area, these are the cutest. The kids named them Nuby, Nooby and Ruby. Oh, we also have an armadillo rooting around in our yard at night, but I haven't been able to snap a picture of him.

p.s. The tree house featured in this picture is Lydia's creation.

a single rose

2009-08-05T17:25:00.000-07:00
Today was my 18 week OB appointment. The baby's heartbeat is fine. Phew. We feel relief for now and we celebrate another week that our little girl has had to live. The nurses seemed to have a difficult time at first finding the heartbeat, which was scary for me. They told me later that the baby kept rolling around, which made it harder to locate the heartbeat.

To celebrate, I bought myself a mango smoothie at Panera's. (Smile) Then, some pale pink roses-- five for Lydia in honor of her fifth birthday on Saturday and one for baby. Having visual images- both to remind me of our little one and to celebrate her life-- feel very important for me to have right now. I also feel strongly like I need to make something. I know that sounds strange, but maybe it is the creative side of me coming out at a time when words really do fall short. I have some empty canvases stacked up next to my dresser in my bedroom but have felt at a loss at what to put on them. A friend of mine encouraged me to just start, even without a clear image in mind. So even in this, it is walking ahead in faith.

I also want to fill my blog with more images, both found and created. I have to get a little more tech savvy and carve out time to do it. I think that being creative keeps my mind occupied and leaves less time and space to wallow.

So we give God praise that we have another week with our precious child.

Thank you, thank you, Lord Jesus.

Hope does not disappoint

2009-07-29T07:11:00.000-07:00
...and hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out His love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom He has given us" Romans 5:5

We met with our OB yesterday to find out the results of the amniocentesis. The good news is that we have a little baby girl! She does, however, have Turner's syndrome. Out of the possible outcomes of the genetic results, we were relieved at this news. A Turner baby has a good chance to live and will appear normal on most accounts.

However, the presence of a very large cystic hygroma and now hydrops, along with the Turner's, is a different story altogether. Dr. Whitehead, one of the older physicians in the group, does not mince his words. "I'm just amazed that the baby is still alive," he admitted. Most Turners babies with such large cysts tend to die in the first trimester.

I will come into the OB once a week to have the baby's heartbeat monitored. Basically, according to Dr. Whitehead, it is just a matter of time before the baby dies. Apart from a miracle from God (he is a Christian), there is a very high probability of death. The fluids accumulating in the baby's stomach and chest, if it moves to the heart, could cause fetal heart failure.

Of course, this was very disheartening to us. We were relieved to hear that the baby had Turner's, as opposed to Trisomy 13/18, but were aware of the other complications.

I have been thinking a lot about having hope since yesterday. While Steve and I sat and talked at Panera's afterwards, he said that he was still holding on to hope. I, on the other hand, was slipping quickly towards a very passive, fatalistic attitude-- what's done is done-- I thought. But Steve challenged me to consider hope as an alternative to brooding on and fearing death. "We're all going to die someday," he said. Yes, some before others, but it's true, we can't spend our days fearing that known fact.

I thought of the verses I've memorized in scripture having to do with hope-- the verses in Romans 5, about how suffering in Christ leads to hope, as Christ pours out His love into our hearts through His spirit. Hope, according to Hebrews, is an anchor for our souls, "firm and secure." Paul is referring to the hope of Christ reconciling us to God, the hope of peace with God. And the verses about Abraham, who had hope in what was not seen.

After weighing the two options: either hoping or passively waiting for bad news, I decided that the first is what I choose. The bible says that hope does not disappoint us. I don't believe that hope is in vain, when the object of your hope is Christ. My hope is not primarily in the outcome of a healthy baby, but in God-- His love, His goodness to us and to our little one. I trust that if he chooses to heal the baby, it is His goodness; if He chooses to take the baby home with Him, that is His goodness, too. As Steve pointed out, another hope that we have is that if the baby does die, one day, we will see her in heaven. And she will be perfect and whole- that is such a wonderful thought!

So we ask you to be hopeful with us and continue praying with us. I have had some difficult days and those make me realize how painful and dark this time would be if I didn't have Christ in my life to offer hope and comfort. We are also so grateful for the comfort and prayers of family and friends.

Wonderfully and Fearfully Made

2009-07-24T18:05:00.000-07:00
Steve and I met at the perinatal clinic for our genetic counseling and a Level 2 Ultrasound. I felt very apprehensive going in, but at the same time, I felt good that we are taking steps to move ahead in gaining more knowledge and understanding of the baby's health. It's good to feel like you are doing something, when the rest of the time, you feel helpless to do anything.

The Perinatal Clinic is within the maternity ward at the Brandon Regional Hospital, which is only fifteen minutes from our house. Whether or not we'll end up delivering here depends on the type and severity of our baby's condition. There are hospitals within Tampa that are specialized in higher risk deliveries.

In the counseling session, Stephanie, the genetic counselor, explained the tests available (namely the amniocentesis) and how they would assemble a karyotype to show the genetic make up of the baby. She explained that the cystic hygroma more often than not indicates a chromosomal deficiency, namely Turner's Syndrome, Down Syndrome or Trisomy 13 or 18. While there is more of a chance of the baby surviving the first two, the last two are lethal.

We moved into the ultrasound room for the Type 2 ultrasound, a very thorough look at the baby's bone structure, organs, measurements. I was impressed at how many different measurements were included, such as tibia/fibia and left/right kidney. The baby was active, kicking its legs and moving its arms. In spite of the fact that we were there to address the large cyst and possible swelling, we were in wonder at this precious little life shown in grey and white on the screen before us. Steve mentioned later that he kept thinking of the phrase in Psalm 139, "I praise you that I am wonderfully and fearfully made." Even though our baby has apparent abnormalities, he or she is still a wondrous creation-- body, soul and spirit- made in the image of God.

I feel like I am riding on God's grace and love, bolstered by the prayers of friends and family. I honestly don't know how I'm going through this, but I do know that each day, I have made conscious decisions over and over again to believe and trust in God-- that He is good, that He loves us. I am still working out in my heart my thoughts having to do with the questions, Is this situation part of God's plan for us? Is it true to say that God is allowing this pain to come in order to teach me something? I will write more later on my thoughts because my thinking has changed in the last few weeks regarding these questions.

The last part of the day was the amniocentesis. The doctor felt that it was the logical next step and we agreed. After looking at the ultrasound, he confirmed the presence of a large cystic hygroma and abdominal swelling. This we already knew. What we didn't know is that the fluid has spread to the baby's chest, which makes the situation more intensive. Having two spots of fluid accumulation brings a new name, hydrops, and it could bode very badly for the baby. Yet in the same sentence, while he told us to brace ourselves for the worst, he said that in his experience, he has seen miraculous things happen and the swelling go down.

I think the hardest part of all this is being in limbo, straddling the hope for recovery or minimal damage with the possibility of losing the baby completely. This is truly what keeps me on my knees, seeking and relying on the only thing that is keeping my heart above water-- God's grace.

The amniocentesis was quick, compared to the ultrasound. They prepped my belly with Betadine (go, Betadine!) and then used the ultrasound transducer to find where the baby was located. Since the baby's head was close to the lining of my uterus and the pocket in my uterus where a sampling of amniotic fluid could be found was underneath, he drew the fluid right from the cyst. This did not put the baby at risk any more than the other would and it might give earlier results. Although I couldn't watch them poke the needle through my skin, I did see it enter the cyst on the ultrasound screen. It was amazing to see and I couldnt' believe that they filled two small vials with the fluid.

So now, we wait again. It could be up to a week until we find out and then we will get a call to find out the results. So we wait. My friend shared with me today about how in our walk with Christ, we are often called to wait... and to wait with meekness, "for the meek shall inherit the earth..." That means not pushing and kicking against God. Last week, I remember thinking back to a similarly dark and difficult time when Steve was gone in Iraq. I was different then, and I remember resisting and pushing A LOT against God-- I wrestled with God almost the whole time he was gone and it was exhausting in my heart and spirit. I don't want this time to be like that. So I told God that I was done with the pushing and wanted to accept whatever came, trusting in His goodness and love. Perhaps that is why, over and over, as I watched the baby on the screen, I kept thinking of the verses in Psalms that say Lord, you are good and your mercies are everlasting...

Solo Dei gloria....

Navigating Through Tricare

2009-07-21T18:10:00.000-07:00
I spent most of the day on the phone, trying to navigate through the narrow, winding corridors of government health care. Tricare has taken care of us so far, but we are charting through new waters in this situation. I've always heard that things tend to get more difficult with Tricare when you have complications. So we are in a complicated situation, at least in relation to our other three births, which were a breeze. We just needed someone to catch the baby.

So now we have a case manager through Tricare, a woman named Gina who happens also to be a neo-natal nurse and will, figuratively, walk with us through the next nine months and afterwards. She is our direct line to Tricare and will ensure that we get the referrals we need for all of the special doctors necessary in this time. This is the first time I've heard the specialties of Perionatologist, Maternal Fetal Doctor and NeoNatologist, but apparantly, we will need to see each of them at various times in the pregnancy.

The blessing in the last few days has been that God has placed people in our paths that have given support, encouragement and good information to us. I feel like I am in the dark in terms of knowing what step to take next. One of Steve's co-worker's wives called me up last night and shared how to work out Tricare's benefits to cover all the specialized treatment we needed. My neighbor Annette has helped me process through the heart issues that this situation has brought up. Believing in what is true and not going with my feelings at every whim, knowing deeply and with confidence that God loves us.

It is one step at a time...

Settle Me, Lord

2009-07-20T11:54:00.000-07:00

Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you...Jeremiah 1:5
Today was my 15 week OB appointment. I drank down the sickeningly sweet orange soda, then waited for Dr. Whitehead to come in and talk to me. He came after about forty minutes, listened to the baby's heartbeat and then we talked.

Whereas Dr. Fernandez had highlighted the optimistic point of view, Dr. Whitehead left me with no illusions about what could possibly happen with our baby. At the same time, there was refreshing honesty. He showed me pictures of the sonogram and what was most saddening to me was the large size of the cyst "sac" just behind the baby's neck. "This is not good, not good... for a baby so young." While there are times when the cyst resolves itself, or when the prognosis is a normal looking baby with latent chromosomal defects, the size of the cyst was disheartening. He spoke of "lethal compositions of chromosomes," "trimoseme 13 and 18" and about the only situation in which he'd consent to terminating the baby. I felt deflated, exhausted, weak.

When I arrived home, I shared about the news with Annette, my neighbor. She listened with concern, then repeated the words she had shared with me when I first told her about the baby's condition. She said, "I just think that you need to really know, Adrienne, how much God loves you. His will is for health, well-being. We just live in a fallen, sinful world. But you need to remember that He loves you so much."

I had written some thoughts in my journal earlier, from Isaiah 41: Fear not, for I am with you; I have summoned you by name; you are Mine...When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you...

On my way home from the doctor's office, I had called Steve and wept over the disheartening perspective I had received earlier from Dr. Whitehead. He listened and was saddened, mostly that I was struggling so much. He called at lunchtime to say that he was coming home. He had shared what was going on with his boss and was told to go home to be with me today. He told me that he had "choked up" when he told his co-workers. I am thankful that they are understanding. When he came home, we hugged for a long time, then talked.

I have only told a few people about what is going on and am waiting to tell my parents and Steve's family. I know they will be very distressed and I want to know more concrete information before we share the news with them. Hopefully, our appointment to get the amniocentesis will come soon. In the meantime, I am praying for God to settle me. I want to be positioned right and allow His love and goodness to frame my thoughts. This is going to be a journey, and one of pain, but in it, I want to find His heart for me and my family.

Day One

2009-07-16T19:21:00.000-07:00
We went to the Brandon office of my OBGYN to get our first ultrasound. We looked forward to getting a more accurate due date and to spend a few minutes gazing at our newest little one. After a thirty minute wait, the kids were giddy and bored. We were ushered back into a room where I laid down and readied myself for the moment. The technician squeezed the goo onto my tummy and began the search. There was our little one, waving its hand, it's feet tidily crossed. So beautiful and awesome.

But the technician didn't say a word the whole time and when she finished, I asked her, "Does everything look okay?" It was more of small talk than a question needing a real answer. Of course everything was FINE. It had been fine for the first three times, why would this time be any different. But of course, in the back of my mind with each one, that tugging, ache of a fear that the baby would NOT be fine. The technician, without even looking at me, answered curtly, "Your doctor will have to talk to you."

No, everything was not fine. Why would she say that if everything was indeed fine? So the wait began, twenty minutes of waiting in our cell-like room, with three kids nearly pinging off the walls.

Dr. Fernandez entered the room quietly and I could see from her face that all was not fine. She had that concerned, sympathetic look and began her words with deliberate slowness. "The technician found a cyst on the baby's neck and there is abdominal swelling..." Everything slowed down for me and I heard the words, "Cystic hygroma...chromosomal deficiency, Turner syndrome...." I had her repeat terms over and over and finally she wrote them down. I felt confused, grieved and...faint.

How could this be, Lord?

In the Eyes of a Child

2009-05-15T10:32:00.000-07:00

"Lydia's Toes"
May 12, 2009

"Care Bear Line-Up"
May 12, 2009

"Lovey"
May 12, 2009

A few days ago, I let Lydia take pictures using our digital camera. Within a few minutes, she had captured a wealth of images, encompassing a portrait of her favorite stuffed animals, her feet and blurred images featuring parts of people's faces and bodies. I am posting three of the top images, after having deleted anything blurry, too obscure or just embarrassing. The first is of Abigail's lovey. When Abigail rubs her eyes, squeaks out a cry or hurts herself, Lydia runs to grab a lovey. This picture beautifully captures the essence of the lovey, which is almost always left on the floor. It is both comforter and a great mop when Abigail crawls over the tile floor with it. I love how Lydia's toes just frame the bottom of the picture because she is the one who scouts out the loveys each time it they are needed (I say they because we have collected three, just to be safe. When she is feeling particularly magnanimous, Lydia will gather up all three and pour them into Abigail's arms like a bouquet of freshly cut roses. Abigail responds with a big smile, then a face plant into all three of her loveys).

The line-up of Lydia's care bears actually initiated the whole digital camera escapade through the house. One or two of them maintain a constant spot on her bed (or rather, in the space between her bed and the wall). One of her care bears has been lost for several months, and that, from time to time, has been the subject of much anguish. What's not to love, when you've got a name like Share-a-Lot, Tenderheart or Love-a-Lot?

I love my babies' toes. Whether they're 11 months or 4 1/2, their little feet are just chubby and cute. I can just imagine Lydia sitting on the tile floor of the kitchen with her legs stretched out in front of her, peering through the camera lens at her feet.

On days like today, when tiredness from the week's activities and evaluation prep weighs on me, it's good for my heart to remember the simple things. To see life through my children's eyes, to remember that joy and wonder can come from the smallest things, like little toes, a small piece of fabric, a favorite toy. Then, I remember how blessed I really am.

2009-05-07T12:55:00.000-07:00

This week, the kids and I embarked on the third destination in our study of the fruit of the Spirit: PEACE. I continually feel challenged in teaching them such abstract concepts, but feel very passionate about the need for them to be introduced to these truths, even at a young age. With help from my springboard book, Travel Guide to the Fruit of the Spirit (www.Grouppublishing.com), I think that they are slowly grasping what peace can mean to them.

Day One: The kids drew pictures of things that made them feel scared or worried. Nathanael's drawing included lightening storms, bad dreams and "jack-in-the boxes with one eyeball." Lydia drew ghosts and witches, icky stuff of nightmares. Once finished, we learned to fold paper airplanes with our drawings. Each child shared their fears and asked God to take them as they threw their planes clear across the room. This was, of course, a big hit in the Shore household. In Lydia's words, retelling the activity to her dad later in the day: "We pretended that throwing the planes was like throwing away the badness to God!"

Day Two: It looked as if it was all over. Lydia's feet slipped closer and closer to the tape line as Nathanael used every ounce of his six year old muscles to tug the peppermint stripped rope wound around his hand. Both kids grimaced as they used all of their might to win the competition, but alas, Lydia's frame was no match for her older brother. Suddenly, the tides changed. Mama stepped in and grabbed the rope behind Lydia. Nathanael began stumbling, with angry cries and protests of unfairness, towards the tape line. With Mama's on her side, Lydia won the tug of war!

We talked about times when we feel overwhelmed and that we just can't win. This activity showed how God is on our side. Knowing this can make us confident in the peace we have in Christ. And, as Nathanael pointed out, "Mama, God is on BOTH of our sides!"

Day Three: My kids LOVE to color while I'm reading to them. I think there is something to that. A report came out that those who doodle while listening to class lectures are actually increasing their capacity to retain the knowledge they are being given. For us, it makes bible reading come alive when they draw pictures of what they are hearing. So we drew a huge lake with an eentsy weentsy boat in the middle of it. Then, streaks of lightening, grey clouds and pellets of rain. The disciples were freaking out. "Lord, don't you care!" Where was Jesus? Kids, draw a picture of Jesus sleeping in the bottom of the boat. A wave is about to engulf the boat, but he has a smile on his face because his sleep is so deep and sweet. They woke him up. "Quiet! Be still!" and the water became as smooth as glass, the sun as warm as a new spring day. "Even the winds and the waves obey him!" The kids' pictures included boats that looked a lot like pirates and a Jesus with really long, curly hair.

Did they get it? I don't know, but I'm sure feeling convicted. Teaching about peace is a HUGE reminder to me that even with my adult-size problems, God is still Lord of the wind and waves.

Solo Dei gloria!

addendum to tidepools and tadpoles

2007-10-29T21:31:00.000-07:00
Some sad news about Lightening and Fluff: They never made it past tadpole stage, which seems unnatural to me. Shouldn't every tadpole become a frog? Both stopped at the leg stage and then seemed to languish, growing paler every day. Lightening even lost one of his feet. Just fell right off. Anyway, we are still enjoying Methusaleh. He's living up to his name.

Gift

2007-10-29T15:53:00.000-07:00
Last week, I had Steve pick up a large container of hot and sour soup from a nearby Chinese restaurant. At nine'o'clock. "It's okay," I told him casually, "They're open until ten." Within minutes of his arrival, I had eaten half the container and was scooping the rest out into my large pottery bowl. Did I mention that serves four to five people?

The gnawing, panicked feeling in my stomach wakes me up from sleep, paws at me when I'm in the middle of a task and does not take "NO" for an answer. This is why I can eat a bowl of ice cream and then ten minutes later demolish half of a container of Pringles potato chips (and I don't even like potato chips!). My only reprieve from the nausea is when I'm eating or drinking. I've decided I'm not stepping on the scale for another nine months, at least not at home.

At the same time, my emotions have carried me to new heights (and depths) of public displays of tears and, yes, even weeping. Sharing my testimony with others at my women's bible study left me in a gasping fit that I quickly turned into a joke. So goes the rollercoaster of emotions, up and down, without warning to those around me, none the least, myself. Will I be sane today? Can I control my feelings? Am I depressed?

I drag myself through the day, yearning for a few moments of sleep, so that I can feel some energy return to my body. My attempts at living my normal routine seem to be out of synch with my body's priorities--"Oh, you wanted to go out for the day? I've got other plans." Then, for some reason, I toss and turn in bed later that night, feeling sore and bloated though my body appears to me completely normal. Yet what is normal when you've just found out that you're pregnant? Everything changes, starting with the relative normalcy of my daily bodily routine. Gone is three balanced meals, enough energy to fill in extras and whatever was normal for our family.

The test had two lines!! We've waited over a year for this conception to take place and we have such joy at the idea that life is being knit inside me as I write this. Nathanael asks me several times a day, "Is the baby still inside your tummy?" He watches me closely, noticing when I seem particularly hungry or if I'm tired-- "It's 'cause there's a baby in your tummy, Mommy. That's why you're so hungry. Are you sharing your food?" Lydia shares in the joy with her big brother, but I'm a little suspicious at her willingness to give up her post as the baby of the family. She's held it without contest for over three years and she's SO good at it. My precious baby. My big boy. They have no idea what kind of changes this little one inside me will bring in nine months. But I am confident that after all the adjusting, none of us will be able to imagine life without this third little one.

Just as I begin to feel enslaved to my body, out of control with hunger, nausea, emotions and tiredness, I remember the Psalms: "You knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you for I am wonderfully and fearfully made." The irony of me feeling completely at the whim of a body that appears to be out of control, awash with a tide of pregnancy hormones and such, is that there is an ordered, even miraculous act of creation occuring inside of me. What strikes me as particularly amazing is that my body knows exactly what to do and when. And my faith tells me that I am privileged to be co-creating with the One who conceived the world. He is knitting together this little life, knowing each smile before it happens, feeling each tear, numbering each day.

So perhaps instead of fighting against my body's erratic, even annoying urges, I should give in. Let it have it's way because it was designed for such a time as this.

To God be the glory for His indescribable gifts to us!

Symphony

2007-10-08T15:53:00.000-07:00
"Symphony"
for May Wilson

Raindrops course down
From their heavenly dwelling,
Touching the water below
Like the fingers of a pianist.

From each fallen drop,
A circle appears:
Ripples widening into a
Greater sphere, ever growing.

Each life echoes its own music
Into the lives of others,
A symphony woven from
Individual strands.

As image bearers of the One
Who calls us out with song,
Who mourns each sparrow's
Fall: We belong to Him.

Until the day when we return,
Sweet ushering into Home:
We watch, listen, grow
Into eternal Song.

the table of the Lord

2007-10-03T14:05:00.000-07:00

"Why am I here, Lord?" I set down my duffel bag on the wooden porch of a cabin and unlocked the door to see two bunkbeds, camp-style, my home for the weekend. I had signed up to attend the annual military women's retreat months ago, offered to help with music, then went into a frenzy that I like to call my "normal routine." I no longer felt exhaustion, having passed through that stage into a hyperactivity in which I could handle anything (or so I thought). So, with this physical and mental numbness, I plunked my bags down and turned to my roommate and new friend, Kate, and said, "What next?"

We helped Michael carry boxes of water into the meeting room, then stood around waiting for the retreat to officially begin. I had no grand ideas of a spiritual "mountaintop" experience that often characterises these weekend. I was just happy that I made it there, packing just minutes before I was to leave. Yet even in the blur of my tiredness, God planned to meet me. In profound, meaningful, beautiful ways fitting my personality, he spoke to me that weekend. I'm not the kind of person who sprinkles her stories with, "God spoke to me..." (though I often wish that I did), so I want to record these moments as "ebenezers," "thus far has the Lord led us..." Lest I forget...

One experience connected my heart back to an earlier time, when I had just started walking with God and when my love for God was new, growing, even intense. On Saturday night, Michael ended the night with a song by Leland called "Carried to the Table". In it, the singer speaks of his brokenness and how the Lord carries him to a table He has set for him. Michael gave us index cards and asked us to prayerfully write down what was weighing us down, perhaps what was keeping us from being carried to the table of God.

The first time she played the song, I listened with numb detachment. Then, "Lord, break through my numbness- help me to know what I need to lay down."

Lifted by the Savior and cradled in his arms,
I was carried to the table,
Seated where I don't belong,
Carried to the table,
Swept away by his love
Carried to a place I don't belong...

The next time the song was played, three words came to mind and I wrote them down quickly, crying, because God knew even what I had been hiding in my heart. It was like he was saying to me, "I wish you would really know how much I love you, Adrienne."

After the song played for a few times, we walked out to the far side of the camp, to a clearing in a grove of redwoods where a primitive amphitheatre facing a wooden cross had been set up. Not only that, but Michael and the other leaders had set up a table for us. Amid swaths of rich cloth were glass jars labeled "Acceptance," "Mercy," "Love," "Belonging," among others, which were each filled with colorful marbles. In the center of all of these treasures was a punch bowl, where each of us was to throw in our index card. In the center of the punch bowl was a vase filled with pure glass beads labeled "Forgiveness."

We listened to the song again and sat quietly on the rows of seats, all of us just gazing at the visual metaphor that lay before us. While Michael invited us to come up, no one budged. Then, I felt as if God was nudging me to go first. After trying unsuccessfully to get my friend Jeani to go with me, I walked up, lay down my card and began filling my bag with Forgiveness. Something really clicked with me in this visual representation of what God does for each of us, and again, I cried. I dug into "acceptance," hungrily reached for "belonging" and "love," and continued around the table until my bag was full. By that time, the table was full of other women filling their bags.

As if that wasn't enough, God brought up another significance of that night's "feast." He reminded me of when I re-dedicated my life to Christ when I was eleven. I was at a Billy Graham crusade and when the invitation was given, I walked down the long flight of bleachers (it was at the Hartford Civic Center) to the place where volunteers waited. I was painfully shy, which was how I knew later it was God, not me, that brought me to that place of commitment. Yet after the conference, though I started with acceptance on the basis of Christ's love and in faith, I quickly ended up striving to gain Christ's love by my own good deeds, discipline, self will.

What an amazing parallel-- I felt as if God was redeeming that time, even in the way I walked forward in faith, receiving His love anew. I felt like I was being restored to a relationship based on grace, not on works.

Another marking point in my life, an answer to that often repeated prayer of mine for a "new wine skin, Lord, my way is NOT working!". The old way of striving, of pride, of self-focus, of achieving spiritual success- which is really a lie after all. The gospel is simply about Christ's sacrifice covering our sins and His life being lived in me. The truth is Christ finding me in the midst of my brokenness, lifting me up out of the muck I've gotten myself in, over and over again, and carrying me to His table. The truth is that I'm not able to even lay down my burdens on my own, much less realize what they are. The truth is that everything, I mean everything, is a gift from him. An eleven year old walking down the bleachers alone, a thirty two year old being wooed back to the table to receive what she has never, or could ever, achieve in a life of trying.

How much like God to show up at a time when I could never have slotted this spiritual awakening to my own striving, my own achievement. How much like Him to wrestle His glory from a broken vessel. How much like God!

tidepools and tadpoles

2007-07-21T22:03:00.001-07:00
We not only have a new home here in Monterey, but three new additions to our family: Lightening, Fluff and Methuselah, named by Nathanael, Lydia and Steve and I, respectively. These are the names of our new tadpoles which arrived in three separate styrofoam cubbies just yesterday. As they wiggled their way out of their temporary homes into another temporary home, a gallon-sized water bottle sawed in half, we bestowed our names on these soon-to-be froglets. If anyone hasn't heard of growafrog.com, it's the coolest thing. The kit even comes with a plastic palm tree and blue sand to make them feel more cozy.

Seriously, this is a part of our settling in and since we move so often, small pets are the easiest for us to handle. We have unpacked all of our boxes in record time, just under three weeks. It has been much smoother this time with Steve being home and we really enjoyed having him with us for a few weeks before he started classes. Now that he is back in school, we're still thankful that we get to see him every day, even for lunch some days.

We are loving time as a family here in Monterey. There is so much natural beauty here, the closest beach being only five minutes away and the mountains less than an hour drive. One of our favorite things to do as a family is to drive down to Pacific Grove, a small town about twenty minutes from us on the Peninsula, and explore the tidepools. Now that Nathanael is older, he loves to climb all over the jagged rocks that form the Pacific coastline here. I have to deliberately back off from wanting to hover over him, but he's a great climber, so it's getting easier to let him explore on his own. Lydia climbs wherever big brother goes, with a little less steadiness, so Steve and I are usually not far from her. She is an agile climber, but a little more daring than we're comfortable with, just yet.

The best part of tidepool exploration is the sound of the kid's shrieking in excitement over finding something new. "I just saw something move!!" or "An anemone! (or amemone, however you choose to pronounce it. Lydie prefers amemone). It's not just them that feel that wonder and excitement. I'm finding myself scrambling over rocks just to see a crab that Steve spotted. Or I've found myself yelling, "I think I just saw something behind that rock!! What is it??" Then when we get home, flipping through our tidepool just to name and learn about whatever we saw. This is when learning gets really fun. And when the small things in life take on new meaning, a fresh sense of wonder. We've needed that.

We've returned to our church in Carmel Valley, the first and only one that we've ever felt really at home. It was wonderful to hear friends say, "Welcome home!" to us on our first Sunday back. We never really felt comfortable in any of our three churches in Clarksville. We are so encouraged by the pastor, who speaks both truthfully AND gracefully. There is a good group of military families who attend and a few of them are also headed to the Middle East. We've also started going to an OCF group (Officer's Christian fellowship) and have met some nice families there, with children Lydie and Nathanael's age.

It's only been a month since we've settled here, but we've already had two visits from family-- the first from Adrienne's brother David, who spent a few days in Monterey before driving south to LA with some friends. Then Steve's parents came on their way back to Japan. We had a great time both times and loved sharing Monterey with them.

Steve's courseload is pretty heavy this term. He's taking courses on the Levant (Lebanon, Jordan, Syria and Palestine), economics, comparative politics and research methods. It's a lot of reading, but he seems to be enjoying it (most of the time!). There are several international students in his classes which has made discussion more interesting. I've been to a spouses seminar on the Foreign Area Officer program and am feeling more comfortable with the idea of heading to the Middle East. Many of the couples who have just returned from a term there said that they enjoyed it so much that they didn't want to leave. The irony, however, is that Steve has heard most of the FAOs are not getting placed overseas just now. We'll see how things, go, because you never know with the Army.

I've been busy with getting things organized with the house, getting to know (and catch up wtih ) new and old friends and prepare for homeschooling. I'm excited about the opportunity to homeschool and I've already met several women who are homeschooling here. It seems like homeschooling is more of a norm here, for some reason. There are two or three homeshoooling groups that I can be a part of and a plethora of opportunities in the community to learn through real life field trips and activities. It's going to be a challenge, but I'm looking forward to learning as I teach the kids and for them to see Dad more throughout the days he is home.

joy comes in the morning

2007-07-20T14:46:00.000-07:00
I don't usually cry when I hear news about an upcoming wedding. An excited shout or a shoulder jiggle usually does the trick for me, but tears aren't usually commonplace. The e-mail marriage announcement came from a friend who had also been our neighbor in Germany. She has been a widow for several years now. I shared in my previous piece how our small military community rallied around this woman to offer whatever support she needed. I don't think my words, however, could adequately express how grace could flow so abundantly in this season of sadness.

I learned a lot about God's mercy that spring, that it often flows most abundantly in a time of deep need, trouble or sorrow. Yet my sympathy for my friend had a grain of selfishness in it, relief that it was not Steve that we were mourning. And I held inside that fear of loss, fear of death. God has a way of teaching us, I've noticed, that if we don't grasp onto His truth the first time, He finds other ways that might better bring understanding.

God took Steve away from me for a year in Iraq, two years later. Even though he was alive, I felt such an emptiness, a painful ache from the separation, that my grieving was like mourning. Yet I still had that fear and the grief of losing his actual presence. Unlike my friend, I held onto that grief for months, held on until I was tired, depressed and cynical. It wasn't until the eighth month and a few harrowing emails between Steve and God snapped me out of my depressed state. I had justified my grief, my anger, my fears. Yet in this, I had refused the comfort of God, of friends and of my husband. The very mercy flowing into my friend's life was the mercy that I now refused. And when I finally fell on my knees and received it, it was like life started up again.

I needed to let go of the grief because it was slowly draining me of life. When I received my friend's letter, I realized that for years, I have not wanted to share her story because it was very painful and personal to me. In that, I have not moved on. I don't know all that my friend went through after she left Germany, but I know that she continued to live, to grow, to find joy in life. She bought a new home, raised her three children as a single mom, ran a 10K race and looks fabulous. From her latest letter, I know that she met a man, dated him for over a year and has accepted his proposal of marriage. She has let go of the grief and embraced life.

Joy comes in the morning. Do I believe that? Do I believe that the same God that allows suffering and tragedy come into our lives will also pour out blessing, fullness, joy? That Jesus was serious when He said that He came to give us life, and life more abundantly? Both in times of fullness and in times of lack. The Psalmist says, "those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy..." I know that every story does not end happily, but I rejoice with my friend in this time of celebration.

To God be the glory.

a grief observed

2007-05-18T11:08:00.000-07:00
It was a misty, cold morning at the end of February. I was preparing to go to a women's bible study on post and was just finishing up the breakfast dishes. Nathanael played quietly in the living room. Just then, I saw a black Ford Explorer creep slowly up the curve of the road behind our row of apartments. I would not have noticed it had it not been morning and with the exception of old women out with their baskets to buy fresh bread, the roads were usually empty. The vehicle edged to the side of the road and stopped.

Nathanael, then a chubby, nine month old, was dressed and sitting in his bouncer seat. I glanced at him and then back at the car. Normally, something as trivial as an SUV on the road would not have fazed me. In another life, in a different season. But Steve had left for Iraq just weeks earlier and a war was about to start. Every abnormality had the edge of suspicion and fear, like shifting shadows, lurked around every corner of my life. For once in my life, I cherished the mundane, the myriad of perfunctory duties that composed my small life in a remote corner of Bavaria.

I returned to the kitchen window where I took another dish from the sink and slowly rubbed it, methodically, with a soapy sponge. The SUV was still parked on the edge of the farm fields. In spring, these fields would be ablaze with rapeseed flowers or sunflowers. Now, the fields lay asleep, a sullen brown hue under a flat, gray sky. The car was stopped. Why? I continued to rub the plate which was already clean by now. Nathanael shrieked and I heard the spin of a toy, sounds that brought my thoughts back to my life. I smiled and thought of his dimpled cheeks, his smile that seemed to say, We're okay. Just you and me, Mom. We'll be okay. I rinsed the plate and placed it on the dish rack to dry.

The car begin to move, inching back onto the road and turned towards our row of apartments. I grabbed another plate and started to scrub, but put it down. My hands were now trembling and I fixed my eyes on the black car as it parked just outside our apartment. The doors opened and I saw the flash of green, the shine of medals and the brightly polished boots. A chaplain. . No, not Steve. I ran past Nathanael, now spinning in circles in his exersaucer, into the guest room. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried to be still. .

Taking one look at Nathanael, still happily playing, I slid on shoes and ran downstairs. As I burst outside, I almost bumped into the chaplain. We stopped and looked at each other. He was the first to speak and as he did, he placed one hand lightly on my arm. "Everything is all right Adrienne, but Lisa is going to need some comfort today." I stared back at him and nodded my head up and down, up and down. He walked past me, somberly and with deliberate steps.

Lisa was my downstairs neighbor. She and her husband Tim had three children under the age of five. Although we didn't know each other too well, we had just begun taking walks together in the forest near our apartment building. I had just been downstairs in her apartment. Her husband Tim had painted her belly three times before she went into labor: a soccer ball, a pumpkin and a world map. They loved to take road trips together and Tim's photographs of their adventures adorned every wall in every room.

Perhaps I felt as every military wife in that situation would have felt-- a deep sense of empathy, a desperate sense of foreboding. If Tim, why not Steve? It could have just as easily been Steve. At that moment, I realized that no matter how hard I tried to construct a stable, predictable life, it was really only an illusion. Tragedy, unexpected and absolute, had interrupted this world of routine, this world of beauty and peace that I hid within. I suddenly felt so small and vulnerable. I ran inside, throwing open the door and running up the marble staircase, my flats clacking loudly with each step. I ran into my apartment and scooped Nathanael out of his exersaucer. I felt his soft cheek press against my neck and I gently stroked his hair. After a minute, he began to wriggle and I put him down with some toys to play. I walked back downstairs to Lisa's landing.

The chaplain and the woman, the battalion FRG leader, stood quietly at the open door. Lisa faced the two visitors, holding Noah, her toddler on her hip. Just as I approached, she looked down at her five year old son, who was hugging her leg, and said in a calm voice, "Alex, your daddy has been killed in a helicopter accident. I'm going to take care of you."

I slowly walked up to Lisa. "I'm so sorry, Lisa, I'm so sorry," I murmured and wrapped my arms around her. I had never hugged her before, but at that moment, the need to comfort and be comforted was overpowering to me. I held her for a moment and then as we broke away, she said, "I'm only thirty-four and I'm a widow now." I walked with her into her house and we sat on her couch in the living room. We were quiet. I looked around at the family photographs Tim had taken, the landscapes of places they'd visited around the U.S. and Europe: majestic mountains, a covered bridge reflecting off a calm lake, a stone-worked castle in Austria. "We lived a full life, Tim and I. We never waited to do the things we dreamed about doing. We just did them. And he gave me three beautiful children," Lisa said. I nodded, yes. Lisa was talking and I sat there, taking it in.

A few minutes later, Lisa's three kids were making pillow forts in my living room while Nathanael watched and laughed, crawling around their creations.
Within twenty four hours, Lisa had women coming in shifts to care for her kids, take phone calls, bring meals and do laundry. Our PWOC group (women's bible study on post) president arranged for constant care and the military spouse's group (FRG) also had women bringing meals. Anything that could be done by an outsider within Lisa's household was cared for. Most of the women had not met Lisa until that day that they walked into her apartment.
On the way out, I spoke to some of the women in passing. I had been downstairs throughout each day, helping to fill in where there were gaps. More than once, I heard women saying, "I came in to encourage Lisa, and I ended up being encouraged!"
One woman told me that she sat down with Lisa in her living room and as she had done with me, shared how full her life with Tim had been. That they had talked about re-marriage and that Tim would want her to do so. That she was trusting God to take care of her and the kids.
I think that many women went to Lisa's home to help, but also to find answers and comfort for their own fears. They saw themselves in Lisa and her strength became theirs. I don't mean to make Lisa into someone she wasn't because I know that it was difficult, but her attitude influenced many women in our community. It makes me see how much of an influence women have on each other, for good or bad. In this case, it was for good.

a childhood place

2007-05-16T11:12:00.000-07:00
The kids and I are visiting my parents, who still live in the home I was brought to when I was two and a half. In spite of the fact that the Yun children have advised my mom and dad to sell the home and buy a smaller, more manageable place, there has been comfort in staying here during our transition. The room I shared with my sister as a five year old, with red strawberries dotting the border and a bright green carpet, has since then been converted into a B&B style guest room. A neutral beige paint now covers over the strawberries and a pickled glaze hardwood floor has long since trumped the grass green carpet. Yet I can still imagine the room as it was, with our white painted wrought iron beds and matching quilted bedspreads handmade by mom.

The room is also a "catch-all" for my younger brother's relics: a sculpture in the style of Rodin's thinker, a half-burnt candle, LPs from an earlier age. Each item holds between it's tangible lines something very intangible and hard to define. It's like a broken time line, a dot-to-dot of sorts defining a childhood past and yet undeniably present.

The place speaks of my relationship with my family, the fine line between closeness and the tension of children growing up in sometimes in different directions. The emblems my mom has chosen to keep and display speaks of creativity, exploration, a yearning to define. Isn't this what a home provides for a family-- a safe place to grow and begin to define one's identity...?

I returned home from Korea just weeks before my wedding to gather all of my past life into a few boxes. Before I did this, I sorted and disposed of all that I thought "unnecessary" to bring into my married life. I have made the decision to have "no regrets," yet if I did, my decisions during those few busy weeks would qualify as one. I sorted through my letter box, through years of correspondance, at least from elementary school onward. I have always been an avid letter writer. At the time, I decided that I needed to start fresh, that I wouldn't have space for these papers. Most of the relationships had drifted apart, anyway.

Only a few years later did I realize that I had thrown away what would define years of my childhood-- the ebb and flow of friendships, camp life, my entrance into womanhood. If I could find the landfill where these letters were dumped, I'd dig them out and gather them together again.

But I can't. And I also can't hold on to the regret. They're gone and my life is still intact. I have mourned and now I can move on. I will continue to have to let go of cherished artifacts from the past-- we just simply can't keep everything and with each child, there is more and more stuff to move.

But I do, however, have a new letter box.

Home?

2007-05-09T10:07:00.000-07:00
"Can I bring this home, Mama?" asked Nathanael, holding up his new Spiderman bump-and-go car.

"Sure," I said casually. Then I stopped. Home? Where is home? Our hotel room? Our car? Our future house in Monterey?

I've had a lot of opportunities to think about home lately. Or lack of. We are technically and officially "homeless" for the next five weeks. The idea both excites and scares me to death.

We arrived in Augusta and moved our collection of suitcases, toys, books, small electronics and bubble making devices into Steve's small quarters at Fort Gordon.

"The room is trashed!" commented Steve after only a day. "No," I said, "It's lived in." For the next week, this room is our bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living area. The kids have their very own tent, a contraption Steve set up which consists of a blanket draped over a small table, anchored by CD cases and our wedding album, which we didn't want to leave in the car.

The kids have adjusted to this shrinking of living space with more grace than I expected. Night time can be hairy, though, with Lydia taking every opportunity to exit from her blanket tent. "Mama? I want a Jasmine doll for my bird-day, okay?" she says. I shoo her off to bed again, but she returns minutes later with another item to add to her birthday list.

The loss of structure and boundaries has the kids pushing in every direction for something solid. At home, I usually put the safety knob on Lydie's door after she comes out a few times. The tent gives a fluidity of motion with which Lydie explore ruthlessly. Nathanael usually lies in his bed and entertains himself with a toy that he's carefully selected from his room. Now, he is endlessly enticed with opportunities to poke Lydie and play. He moans and cries when I usher him into the kitchen "nook" to sleep. Sleep? Who needs sleep?

leaving home

2007-05-08T05:53:00.000-07:00
Car packed with kids in tow. Saying goodbye to Clarksville, TN wasn't as difficult as I anticipated. As we cruised down Wilma Rudolph Blvd towards the interstate, I realized that I had no particular attachment to the place. We had already said goodbye to the Cumberland River a few nights earlier. It was the perfect time of day, the sun's pinkish light illuminating the mist rising off the river. We stood with arms raised in front of the CLARKSVILLE sign, as if paying tribute to the city that had been our home for two years.

The hardest part of saying goodbye was to the few friends we had made during our short stay. Liesl and I had been bunk mates at a teen camp when we were only fourteen. Being a military spouse, I rarely have friends who have known me for more than a few years. It was the first time we lived close enough to see one another more than once in five years. Liesl and I seem to walk on parallel paths, emotionally and spiritually. I know we will always be close, even if we don't see each other for years at a time.

I met Trever and Randy at my old church, Crossroads Fellowship. They led our small group and patiently welcomed me in when I would come with tears, anger and needing comfort during Steve's deployment. Trever was not easy to get to know at first- she is quiet but has deep love and much wisdom.

In every place we live, there is one friend that I get to know at the very end of our time. I had known Sherry earlier, but the friendship did not kick off until spring this year. Our sons, Nathan and Nathanael, were friends and as we brought them together for play dates, we talked over chips and homemade guacamole. Sherry makes me laugh. I wish I had more time to get to know her.

My relationship with Deborah, my sister-in-law, had the most ups and downs at first, but I have come to love her more deeply since we've had the experience of living together for eight months. She came to live with us in January 2006 while Steve was deployed in Iraq. She's since then moved into her own apartment in Clarksville and I will greatly miss our girl's nights out together. Nathanael and Lydie had the blessing of having family live so close, an oddity in a military life.

Ayame and I had met at a PWOC (Protestant Women of the Chapel) meeting on post. We were both new. She was from California and had a cool name. Neither of us returned to PWOC, but our friendship continued. We walked together through the painful season of our husband's deployment. It is rare to find a friend with whom you can both laugh and cry with. We spent a week with Ayame and her three kids Elise, Thayne and Ryan in Horseshoe Bend, Arkansas. Ayame and I never ran out of things to talk about. And we were still talking even after spending seven days together. That says a lot. Our kids played morning to night, putting on talent shows and swimming in the pool. We stayed with Ayame during our last few days and I had to literally force my legs to get me into the car when we said goodbye. She is like a sister to me.

"Bye Clarksville!" we yelled as we turned onto I-24, only eight hours from our next destination- Augusta, Georgia. It always helps to leave when you know where you're going to next.