carry me

Tonight's bedtime rituals were interrupted by a toe injury.

And even though there were no visible wounds to show for it, my big, brave, swashbuckling, lightsabering, dragon-slaying wonder boy was completely dissolved into a puddle of devastation.

I tended to his hurts for what seemed like an appropriate length of time, but the tears lingered on.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I'm tender-hearted toward my kids, but after a certain point, I maybe tend too much toward the "buck up, little soldier" drill-sergeant attitude. Keep calm and carry on. Time heals all wounds. Hurt now, cry later. All words I've lived by.

Such was my attitude when, after a good 10-minute cry, he didn't want to walk on his hurt toe.

"Carry me, Mama," he wailed.

And as I picked him up, I couldn't stop myself thinking how silly it was to let him indulge in this pity party. It was such a minor injury, after all... there wasn't even a mark on his foot. It probably didn't even hurt anymore. And besides that, lugging him around makes my back hurt.

But somewhere between the kitchen and his bed, I remembered all the times I've asked to be carried.

The times that I've all but disappeared into bitterness and hurt and disappointment and unmet expectations and anger and the list goes on and on...

Carry me, Lord.

He could have told me to "man up." He could have told me that my hurts didn't matter in the long run since they're bound to burn up someday with the rest of the dross of this world. He could have chided my worries and fears for their idleness.

And, oh, the wounds He suffered! How He could have shamed me by showing me the nailprints in His sweet, sinless hands!

But He did none of those things. He knew the time, this night, would come when I would learn all those things.

Instead, He just carried me.

He rested me, His little lamb, across His shoulders and He carried me.

All the way to the cross.

---

What wondrous love is this,
That caused the Lord of bliss,
To bear the dreadful curse
For my soul, for my soul.
To bear the dreadful curse for my soul!

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what I need for Christmas

Most days I don't understand more things than I do understand.

I don't understand the failings of this human flesh. This existence. I don't understand how to parent my children. I don't understand how to be the Proverbs 31, virtuous woman kind of wife I'm called to be. I don't understand how those I hold most dear seem to love me in spite of myself. I don't understand how, at 25 years old, I'm still being hurt and allowing myself to be hurt by careless, unthinking people who claim to carry within them the love of a sinless Savior.

There's not much that I do understand. And, honestly, I spend most days in a fog of confusion.

But at the end of the day and with ever increasing awareness, I understand to the extent that my frail mind can manage... that I need Jesus.

I need Him not because that's what I was taught as a child. Not because personal passion is a trendy thing to blog about. Not because I belong to a baptized body of believers who also need Him. And not because I'm feeling particularly small and low today.

I need Him because I am broken and undone. I need Him because without His breath I am just dirt.

And in this special season... as I near the end of my rope and am overwhelmed by the busyness of all the things I've added to my own to-do list... I hear a faint whisper. So quiet that it goes all but unnoticed. A dim star in the distance that's best seen in the peripheral but is lost in the decorations and car lights and crowds and receipts and bank statements.

But day by harried day, night by lonely night... as the state I've gotten myself into becomes more apparent to me... the whisper starts to ring in my ears. The star grows brighter.

Follow me, the star beckons. Come and see the Child.

Come to Bethlehem. Look into His face and calm the storm in your soul.

Rise up out of the angry current and walk on the waves.

Lay your hurt beside His manger and let Him carry it to the cross.

And as I hasten toward His calling and begin my journey to the stable, I'm being show what I most need for Christmas.

In this season... and in every season... I need the simplicity of a manger, the patience of a man who went from door to door seeking a place for his wife to rest, the willingness of a young woman who endured the discomfort of carrying a Baby and travailed with the labor of bringing the Savior into a world which both needed and despised Him...

And most of all, I need the bloodshed of the cross. And the grace to die there each day.

For all these things. For the things I don't even know I need...

He is sufficient.

Merry Christmas, my friends. Won't you meet me at the manger?

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crisis

The following is something I wrote with great difficulty a while back. I've struggled with whether or not to share it, but I feel like it's the right thing to do.

The time during which I wrote this is not a time that I'm proud of and it hurts me to admit that Satan came, with my permission, into my mind with such strength and power.

I learned through this one more time that I am nothing and that it's only through God's daily, hourly, minutely, secondly assistance that I'm able to withstand Satan. I was getting just a little too comfortable. Knowing I had it all figured out a little too often. Maybe even feeling a smug about it. And, since I had been ignoring all of the gentle warnings God was gracious enough to give... He lifted His protecting hand from me for a while and let Satan have his way with me.

It was terrifying. I felt like I was 2 people living in one body. Two people who hated each other fiercely.

I have never before in my life been so aware of the reality of spiritual warfare. And I hope to never be so aware of it ever again.

God is so merciful to shield His children from such things.

My hope in posting this very personal experience is that God will be glorified, someone else will be helped, and I will be further humbled in God's service.

I am forever changed by the second chance God gave me through this experience.

---

Crisis.

If it hadn't been happening right here inside of me, I wouldn't have believed it.

I, who had so recently been preaching contentment and self-denial, found myself longing.

I, who had so recently cast bitter judgement on those who wanted it all – both the spiritual and the temporal, found myself looking at my lavish blessings through narrowed eyes.

I, who had so recently said that I had nothing of importance to tell except the story of a Savior, ached and yearned to tell a story of my own weaving.

The origins of these desires must have harbored themselves within me so long that I put them to bed there, comfortable with the place they lay. Sleeping. Waiting. Monstrously alert to my building weakness.

A stressful day here, a sleepless night there, the general busyness of life laid open a wound in me and at the smell of fresh blood, the monster stirred and woke. Creeping toward my vulnerability and inviting a bait of new thoughts whispered into my consciousness.

Wouldn't it be easier if...

You wouldn't have any more worries if...

Only my own mind could play such cruel tricks, knowing the only things I've wanted most. And now I would be forced to come to terms with one of the shallower, paler of these.

And so my thoughts began down that path, never making it much farther beyond the surface-level shininess of it all. I could taste the thrill of it every tiny possibility. But mingled somewhere in that thrill was a drop of bitterness, something that made me draw back.

The fact that it took me several days to understand the meaning of that bitterness is sickening in and of itself.

One night as I struggled against the lingering heaviness I felt, wondering why among all the people in the world who seem to have it all I should be the one whose conscience had to be incorrectly wired to make it impossible for me.

Oh, it's not impossible.

The words were nearly audible as I lay in my living room floor wrenching sobs from my core, guilt gnawing at my guts.

You can have it all, child.

My ears perked up. Really? I thought.

But at the expense of your family.

There was no vagueness in that whispered message. If I marched onward to the bright lights of my desires, I would be going alone. No one I loved would come with me.

There. It had been made clear to me. All laid out on the line. I crumpled into a more miserable heap and resolved to make a change now that I could see what I would lose.

The next day was better.

The next day it was back.

Would it really be that bad if...

What harm is there in...

It wouldn't hurt anybody if...

And so the war continued.

Wounded and weakened past the point of rescuing myself, I became prey to the creeping shadows of worry and depression that seem to stalk me, waiting for me to stumble. As my worries escalated, so did my fantasies of a different life – an alternate reality I'd created for myself, a place of escape.

The very things you fear could come to fruition, you know. I could take away this life. These things you vowed to hold dear.

No! That's not what I want... please, no! Please don't take me from the ones I love!

Would it be so very different? Taken away by one thing, taken away by another... it's all the same. Your life would be over and those lives around you would be forever scarred.

To that I had no response. There was no argument to counter that.

Utterly beaten by the workings of my own mind.

Riddled with guilt at the wretch I now saw clearly.

And in absolute awe that a God whose name is too sweet, too perfect to rest on human tongues, still called to me.

An hour later found me rocking my baby girl and weeping over her as I considered the mercy that was being offered to me once again at the feet of Jesus. I held her warm body close to mine and knew she and her brother and their daddy were what mattered in my life. My tears, I found, had fallen onto her sweet sleeping face, gently reminding me a final time that my mistakes could become her pain.

And I knew I would do anything, give up anything, forfeit all other dreams and desires... just to spare her pain at my faults.

"I hear the Savior say, 'Thy strength indeed is small. Child of weakness, watch and pray. Find in me thine all in all."

Crisis averted.

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My Salvation Experience

I have never posted this, but after writing it for a Facebook group I belong to (Suffering 4 Christ, started by Michael Carter), I decided I wanted to share it with all my friends.

It's long, but it's my story of how I came from nature to grace. I love how each person's salvation experience is similar but how each one is tailor made specifically for them.

I realize I'm nothing special, but Jesus is and I'm sharing this to glorify Him, not myself. I hope that someone out there reading this will get something from it.

---

Since Michael first asked for salvation experiences I've been debating back and forth internally on whether or not I was going to share mine. My salvation and the story of God's grace and providence in my life is sweet to me, but so many times I feel like nobody else is interested in hearing it.

That's a shame. And I know that it's only Satan hindering me.

I am very fortunate to have parents who taught me to go to church and to make it my top priority. I was never allowed to miss church for any reason unless I was throwing up or had a significant fever. Old Union Missionary Baptist Church was probably one of the first places I was ever taken as an infant and I've been there for most services ever since. I'm very thankful that my parents formed in me the habit of church-going so that I could later learn what a blessed privilege and necessary part of like it is.

I was aware from a very young age that someday I would be held accountable for my sins and separated from God. And I worried about it quite a bit, afraid that I might not recognize it when it came. When I asked all the usual questions about “but how will I know?” my parents gave me the sage advice that I've heard in so many people's testimonies: “You'll just know.”

I was in 6^th grade at Old Union School when one of the other 2 girls in my age group told us that she really wanted to tell us something but that it was personal and she didn't know if she should. We assumed she had a crush on someone, so we bugged her about it nonstop the rest of the week. The following Saturday, the school was preparing food for a local auction as a fundraiser and the other 2 girls and I were playing together in a barn loft there on the property. We were, as usual for the past few days, trying to convince our friend to tell us what was going on. Finally, she caved: “I think I'm lost.”

Well, that certainly wasn't nearly as fun as having a crush on somebody and it hit me head-on at 100 mph. She's younger than me and she's lost, I remember thinking.

I went for a couple of months without telling anyone or doing anything except maybe praying on my own. I don't really remember now. It wasn't until Old Union's fall revival that year that I publicly acknowledged my condition. The same girl who told us she was lost in that barn loft went to the altar for the first time that night. And so did I.

It was the first of many times and I wandered around in that dangerous condition for right around 2 years.

Fast forward...

One night a few months before I turned 14, it was late and I was mad and dramatic, storming around my room, angry with my parents over something that I haven't been able to remember since then. That shows how important it was. I remember I was walking from my bathroom back into the my bedroom and had just reached the corner of my bed when I got the most horrible feeling of dread. I knew I had to pray. I stretched out of across my bed and buried my face in a pillow and cried out to God.

This part is something that I've thought about a whole lot. What did I say? What did I do? What was different that night than all the other times I'd tried to pray? What is the magic formula?

The answer is there's not one. Only God knows the sequence of “events” that takes place in the heart of a sinner when he's saved. We hear about faith and repentance and how those things have to be there for a person to be saved, but it can't really be broken down much farther than that.

I cried a lot of tears during the time that I was lost, but the only thing that I've been able to come up with that was different the night I got saved was that for the first time in all those months, I cried in my heart. I don't remember very many actual words coming from my mouth during the 4 or 5 minutes that I prayed that night, but I do remember it felt different than it ever had before.

Faith and repentance. The ability to truly pray. The phenomenon that a sinful human being can actually pour out their heart in such a way that their pleas reach the throne of God. That a mere mortal's cries are heard by the Son of God Himself and He sees fit to plead our case to His Father.

These are precious gifts from God. And without His assistance in our prayers none of these things would ever occur. No matter how earnest and diligent a person is, he can never manufacture these things on his own. I could have never reached God had He not first drawn me to Him.

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me.

One second I was crying, hurting like I'd never hurt before, and the next second the hurt was gone and I was no longer crying. There were no more tears to be shed. There were no fireworks, the lights weren't brighter, I didn't feel like I was floating up off my bed... there was just stillness. Peace with God.

Well, that's weird, I thought as I got up and started back toward my bathroom. About the time I reached my bathroom door, I stopped in my tracks. Was that it? I asked myself. But no, Satan was right there waiting for that moment of realization, and so for the first of many times I let him steal away my joy... before I had even really had a chance to feel any joy at all. I knew I didn't feel the same as I did before that night, but I still doubted and questioned.

About 2 weeks later, Old Union started its summer revival. Brother H.C. Vanderpool was the pastor and Brother Paul Bryson was assisting. I went to the altar every night, but was noticeably distracted to the point that more than one person asked me what was up. One night near the end of the revival, I had been to the altar and had already gotten up and was sitting in the back of the church when Brother Bryson came back and asked to talk to me.

He too had noticed my distraction and asked me if I had any reason to think I might have been saved. I told him about what happened a couple weeks earlier. He related his salvation experience to me and talked to me a few minutes about what I was feeling and then told me that if I wanted to go pray again that he and everyone else would pray with me.

I stood in the back of the church for a few more minutes leaning against the door frame and thinking it all over and finally decided that maybe I should go pray again. It was late and the few who were left at church gathered around me and the other boy who was on the altar and we had a fairly short prayer. Somewhere during that prayer, the Lord allowed me to feel that peace again. It still wasn't overwhelming and I honestly can't say that I felt 100% sure even then, but I just felt like I needed to say that I'd been saved.

When the prayer ended, I looked up at my mom and just nodded my head. That was the first time I felt joyful for my salvation. Everyone else was rejoicing and I could finally join them. All of the feelings that I'd heard people describing all my life came rushing in and I knew then that I was saved. We left church that night and went directly to Brother Jerry Reynolds and Ann's house so I could tell them. The next night my cousin was saved and the next night she and I and another girl joined the church. We were baptized that Sunday.

I have a doubter's heart and I've struggled with that several times since then, but God has never failed to take me back and show me the surety of what He's done for me.

I'll never know why, but looking back over my life I can see God's hand in so many situations. I've made a lot of mistakes and stupid decisions, but God has always waited for me and welcomed me back into fellowship with Him when I got willing to get over myself and focus on Him.

I don't know how I could face this life without God. It's the only way to die and I wouldn't want to live any other way.

---

Away to Pemberley

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James 4

My heart is heavy tonight and I can't put my finger on any one reason. It's one of those all-too-common nights where I find myself questioning my own thoughts and words and feelings again and again... and feeling overall like a great big failure.

But still God calls me.

I feel that oh-so-familiar tug at my heart that is equal parts comforting and terrifying.

My immediate response is to pray.

God's calling me to my closet, I thought... but no, I found no comfort there as I often do.

God's calling me to action, I thought... but no, the time is wrong for the things I've had on my heart.

Finally, it hits me... God's calling me to His Word.

This is something that's always troubled me, Bible reading... because of the hugeness of it.

Where do I start? I should have a plan first. I should buy some kind of guided, day-by-day Bible or something...

Interestingly enough, this is the same problem that has plagued my prayer life until recently. I always felt I needed a list, an order of operations, a formula in order to pray. When I finally, at long last, allowed myself to be shown that God will (and does!) indeed teach me to pray each time I approach Him, my prayer life became much less stressful and much more productive (and beautiful and amazing and a host of other positive descriptors).

And so, as I was putting dishes into the dishwasher tonight, my last chore of the day, I contemplated what exactly I would read. My control-freak tendencies taking over as always.

Might as well read up for Wednesday night's service, I decided.

James 4.

That brings me to now.

I sat down on the bed (after scooting Le Bebe over), labeled a page in my steno pad, turned to James 4, and read the section title:

Draw Near to God

And then I proceeded to write all of this because I just had to document it.

It truly is as if the Lord is showing me every day here lately that HE WANTS ME!

I can't understand that part of it, but I'm not about to complain.

Because I want Him, too.

(Written 2 February 2010)

---

"Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you."

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running into the tower

I have a very small but very sweet thought on my mind tonight.

Life is just full to overflowing with troubles and hurts. We've been promised by Someone who sees it all that our days, from the time we're born until the time we die, are going to be full of those things. Happiness seems in so many instances to be overshadowed by the bittersweet... and this kind of downer blah-ness could go on and on. Especially since it's after midnight on Sunday night and I'm really tired but avoiding going to bed because I can't stay comfortable in one position for much longer than 45 minutes.

But that's not what I'm thinking about right now.

I'm thinking about a man who lived here and walked on this earth just like I do many, but many years ago. He didn't have much in the way of material possessions. He didn't even have a home of his own. Many people did everything they could to make him out to be a terrible person and some even hated him. His whole life was overshadowed with the awful cloud of a burden for the souls of all mankind. As his time on earth drew short, he wept - alone and scared - and asked God if there were any other way but the way he'd been handed.

But there was no other way.

And so he continued to carry his burden, and he carried it all the way to Calvary where he agonized - again, alone - and died under the penalty of my sin.

He died under the penalty of my sin so that I wouldn't have to. And as if that weren't enough, God's plan through him made a way that I could not only die in the safety of his love, but also live in it.

So yes, it's true that life is bitter. But, thanks to nothing more than God's love and mercy, sweet blessings just seem to fall down from heaven and pile up around me higher and higher until the ones on top start sliding down the sides making the pile even wider and bigger and taller all the time... every minute... of every day.

And it's true that sometimes I'm handed things that are hard to deal with and I have to say a lot of prayers and cry a lot of tears about some things. But I've never yet been handed anything I couldn't handle with the assistance of a mighty and oh-so-near God.

And sure, it seems like the clouds aren't far away from my sunshine a lot of times. But if it weren't for the clouds, could I really, truly appreciate the sunshine?

So, in the light of all this jumbled, scattered mess of thoughts, I finish with this:

I know I have no need to fear the things of this world and this life because I am God's (Isaish 43:1).

I'm human, though, so sometimes I get scared anyway. Thank God that he knows what I'm made of and understands (Psalm 103:14);

...and has furthermore forgiven me in all my unworthy filthiness and claims me oh-so intimately (Isaiah 49:16).

I know it's ok when I have to go crawling to him in a big crumpled heap and am so thankful that he's always there, for the smallest things and the biggest things (Philippians 4:6).

And it's a good feeling knowing that I have somewhere I can run for cover (Proverbs 18:10).

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not sorry

I've been thinking a lot here lately about stuff.  And when I say stuff I don't necessarily mean I've been thinking about a bunch of random here-and-theres.  I mean I've been thinking about material trappings and whatnots, how much we have and how much we actually need.

The Hubby has a good job that keeps us well provided for and comfortable, but things definitely get tight from time to time.  The biggest material thing I've been wishing for lately what with the arrival of Bebe very quickly approaching is a van.  Now, nobody need remind me that it was an amazingly short time ago when I said that you wouldn't catch me driving a van like ever and that I was going to be one of those cool SUV-driving moms.  But the prospect of a 3-foot wide door in which to load and unload my kids PLUS a whole extra seta for plunder PLUS a very large space in the very back for my new (and station wagon sized) double stroller... well, all of those things are getting more and more attractive to me.  And a DVD player doesn't sound too bad, either.

Regardless of all the minivan-ish goodness I can fathom, though, we just can't afford one right now.  And regardless of the rust and the ceiling liner falling down and the not-so-much-space issue and so on and so forth with the Pathfinder... well, it's paid for.  And I'm satisfied that we'll have it until we're forced to have it hauled away.

This week has been one of those particularly tight times.  You know, one of those weeks when I ask about going to the grocery and Hubby gets this uncomfortable look on his face and says, "Um, you'd better wait until Friday." I just want to say from the offset that no one should feel sorry for us, because our money issues are 100% self-inflicted and we both know that.  It's something we both know how to fix and something we work on from time to time, but we both still have a boatload of problems denying ourselves.  Stupid? Yes.  Immature? Definitely.

So, last night we went out with the in-laws (because they're generous and will foot the bill) and were admiring various vehicles in the parking lot of the restaurant as we left.  Later when we were driving home Hubby said, "I'm sorry I can't buy you a van... I'm sorry I can't buy you anything... I'm sorry I can't buy you groceries."  And the first thought that came to my mind was so odd and uncharacteristic that I know it couldn't have originated in me at all.

"I'm not sorry."

Yes, I'm sorry that we aren't good stewards of what God has given us and yes, I'm sorry for the poor example we're setting for the Kiddo.  I definitely want those things to change.  And maybe Hubby would have something to be stressed about if we really and truly could not afford to buy groceries, but the fact is we can afford to buy groceries.  Having to wait until Friday is not a tragedy and does not mean that we're going hungry.  Only being able to buy clothes for ourselves or our kids at certain times does not mean that we're cold and going around in rags.

The simple fact is that we are so blessed.  We own a great house in a nice neighborhood and have never been late on a payment.  We have 2 reliable vehicles.  We have nice furniture, we wash very few dishes by hand, and I've only hand-scrubbed about 3 articles of clothing since we've been married.  Even our station wagon stroller is evidence of how blessed we are because really, we bought the thing so I'll still be able to go to mall easily after Bebe gets here.

If we had only what we absolutely needed, we could easily live in a one-room teepee.  But look at what we do live in and how every nook and cranny is filled with stuff.

And so I'm not sorry, my dear, that you can't buy me a minivan.  I'm not sorry that there a few things here and there that we can't have or do right now.  I'm not sorry that it seems like there is never any extra left over at the end of the month because you I know what is there during the month takes care of what we need.  I'm not sorry that circumstances force us to deny ourselves sometimes since we seem to have such trouble doing it alone.

I'm not sorry.

Oh, and I'm married to the best and sweetest man in the universe.  But nobody tell him I said that.

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the weight of love

I love you today and I love you tomorrow

I love you as deep as the sea

I love you in joy, and I love you in sorrow

You can always come home to me

There once was a man who found him a treasure

Buried out under a tree

He sold all he had just to own it forever

The treasure is you, you see

I love you today and I love you tomorrow

I love you as deep as the sea

I love you in joy, and I love you in sorrow

You can always come home to me

There once were some sheep safe on a farm

And one little lamb got loose

The shepherd went out and carried it home

That little lamb is you

I love you today and I love you tomorrow

I love you as deep as the sea

I love you in joy, and I love you in sorrow

You can always come home to me

--Andrew Peterson

The refrain of this song is on one of the Veggietales videos we have and I always find myself looking through tears at the Kiddo when I hear it.  There is no expanse of time or space, no wrong that comes to mind, no hurt that I can imagine that would make me stop loving him.  I will always be waiting to welcome him, no matter the circumstance, with open arms and a heart breaking with the weight of love.

Aptly, the song comes at the end of the video about the prodigal son, and oh how even sweeter that story has become to me since becoming a parent myself.  Knowing the burden of love that I carry for my son, I have some sense of how that father must have hurt as he watched his son go away from him, with the full realization that he couldn't stop him from hurting himself.  In his son's absence, how his heart must have ached for his child's return, regardless of his disrespect.  The best part of the story, though, is of course the reunion... when despite it all and without a second thought, the father runs to meet his son when he sees him coming up the road.

I have some sense of that part of it, too... the being received and celebrated even though you've been so miserably wrong part.  Because as of July 14, 1999, I had been so miserably wrong and under the weight of my sins for far too long.

But thank God for the flawless love of Jesus... the weight of which He carried all the way to Calvary.  Just to make me His treasure.

That Wednesday night, when my Lord saw me coming, He opened His arms to welcome me.  And according to my Bible, there was rejoicing in Heaven over this one little lost lamb.

Maybe the best part of all, though, is that today or tomorrow, in good times or bad, no matter where I am or what I've done...

I can always go home to Him.

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being carried

My thoughts tonight are on difficult things that I (thankfully) don't know enough about to write down anything coherent.  That sentence was even kinda hazy actually... Nevertheless, it's a quarter after midnight and I'm sitting in the stillness of my bedroom considering the death of one's own child.  This is a topic that most people obviously wouldn't choose to think about, but tonight I've been looking at it in a peaceful and non-terrifying (somehow) way.

A while after my own child was born, God made me see my lack of control in sustaining my own child's life and it was a bitter taste of that side of parenthood that seems to crouch in the corners of our minds and which we try to ignore.  But what about the ones who are thrown headlong into that dark corner? What about the ones are forced to deal with this thought that I can barely approach without tears?

My mother spoke today with a family acquaintance who lost her only daughter over 20 years ago in a terrible car accident.  All these years later, this poor lady is still so smothered by grief that she more or less can't live a normal life.  It's written all across her face and every time you speak to her, she always always ends up talking about her daughter and usually her death.

Today she was mad because she had been to a Bible study where there was a lady talking on and on (the way mothers will sometimes do) about her own daughter and her motherly concerns for her even though she's a grown woman.  The still-grieving woman told my mom that the only thing she could think was, "Have you ever watched your daughter die on the side of the road?"

So I was rolling all of this over in my mind as I was laying down with my kiddo tonight and I wondered lazily what the response would have been had she actually asked the woman that question.  And I thought, ya know, what are the odds that the other woman would say, "Yes, actually... I did watch my daughter die... and yes, it was horrible and yes, I still hurt like most people can't imagine and yes, I still think about her every single day... but I'm living my life anyway because not living my life isn't going to bring her back or do anybody else any good at all."

And then I thought of my sweet mother-in-law.  Because I'm fairly certain that she would answer that question pretty close to exactly that way.

And I thought about how different my mother-in-law is from the other lady who I've been talking about.  And I just had to wonder why there was a such a stark difference...

I could only come up with one answer:

God.

Because some people, in the face of grief, look at God like an outsider.  Like they're standing in the center of the circle of their grief and God is just outside the edge.  And they may reach out to hold His hand, but it's always at arms length.  

But some people, in the face of grief, allow God into that grief and cling to Him the way a sick child clings to his parent... giving up everything and knowing that He can and will take care of it all.

I sincerely pray that I (or anyone reading this will) never have to face these things, but there are so many areas in my life where I could certainly stand to let God in a little bit more.

How much sweeter could my life be if I allowed myself to be carried?

"...casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you." (I Peter 5:7)

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Hell hath no fury...

... like a child who's been tricked into taking bad-tasting medicine.

My kiddo and I have been struck for the last week (give or take) with this blah head cold thing that's going around.  Not fun, but thank goodness it was that and not the stomach bug.  It's over quicker, but ugh... I'd rather blow my nose 447 times than throw up once.  And I'd much rather blow mine AND the kiddo's nose however many times than for both of us to be throwing up... because that would leave ye olde hubby o' mine in charge and since he's pretty much a sympathetic vomiter... yeah... it wouldn't be pretty.

So, anyway, I bit the bullet last Friday and decided to take Little Dude to the doctor, which I despise with every fiber of my being  since it's a den of germs and other microbial creepy crawlies this time of year.  And since it was the afternoon, which they leave open for call-ins I figured it would be worse.  As it turns out, I was right... there were about 4 dozen people waiting in the pediatric department, about half of them actually waiting just to check in, and the well-child waiting room had tumbleweeds blowing through it.  There were lethargic, peaked looking children languishing over the sides of chairs and a lot of annoyed or exhausted looking parents.

As it turns out, Doc said my boy had an infection in his left ear and a "croupy cough," which I'm 99% just means a croupy-sounding cough and not actually "the croup." She prescribed him the old standby amoxicillin (which turned out to be orange flavored and not pink and bubblegum flavored... what is the world coming to?) and a steroid (which sounds something like Prednisone but with an extra syllable) for his cough.

The orange-flavored stuff has not given us the first problem and he seems to remember that it tastes ok.  He's taken it just fine every time.  The steroid is a different story altogether.  The first time he took it I actually still had somewhat of a sense of smell and I could tell it smelled sort of like Robitussin, which tastes awful, so I imagine it's not good.  The first time he took it, of course, he didn't know what to expect and swallowed it right down and shivered and shuddered and made a whole range of entertaining faces.  The next 2 times, he went ahead and took it with some complaint... the next 2 times, most (if not all) came right back out.

So, I called Doc this morning to see what I should do about that and she informed me that if he seemed to be getting better that I could just stop the medicine altogether.  I'm not one to use punctuation with no words surrounding it, but ?????.  I'm wondering what the point is of prescribing medicine for a particular length of time if you can just stop taking it whenever you want.  Oh well...

I decided I'd go ahead and see how much of it I could get him to take without causing too much trauma or too much of a mess.  My mom suggested I try a spoon and just pour it down rather than using the dropper thingy I had been using which seemed to give him more of an opportunity to spew it back out.

So, tonight when it came medicine time, I got the spoon all ready, hubby restrained him, I tried to bribe him with mini marshmallows, he screamed and wiggled, and when his mouth was really wide open I just poured it down.

Now... I've seen this kid upset before, but Oh. My. Gosh.  He was what I'm pretty sure should be described as P'd OFF.  He thrashed like I've never seen him thrash and threw himself a little tantrum.  So, of course, natural reaction, my hubby started to fuss at him... and I was like, "Honey, he sorda has a right to be mad... I'd be pretty mad, too." So we just let him holler for a couple of minutes while I got him a few M&Ms out in a bowl and started a Baby Einstein video.  And, of course, as soon as he saw the Disney intro he started smiling and eating his snack.

Nothing a little chocolate and classical music can't fix.

It's remarkable how much this child is like his mother.

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this is not my year

I think I've heard it said that whatever you're doing at midnight on 12/31 is something you can expect to do a lot of in the coming year.  At midnight 42 minutes ago, I was lying next to my son while he went to sleep much too late and praying that God would help me be better.  This shouldn't make anyone think that I'm a wonderfully pious person because the truth of it all is that I'm not... and that sad little fact occurred to me just then and so I said some prayers about it.  It hit me all of the sudden how selfish I've been being about a lot of things but especially (unfortunately) toward God.  Losing faith in one's church family is no reason to give up and stop trying.

There.

I said it.

And that's all I'm going to say about it.

I also want to go on a little about new year's resolutions and how I think they're pretty much a crock and I don't really do them, but I do have some hopes and thoughts about 2009 that I wanted to put down somewhere.

As I was lying in bed with my son (before I settled into any kind of serious thought patterns), I was noticing the general clutter of my bedroom and thinking about how nice it felt just a few nights ago to lie down in a very clean house.  It really brought me a lot of joy and satisfaction just knowing everything was in its place (for the most part) and that I had a clean house to wake up to.  Maybe that's a chick thing... I don't really know.  I'll admit that some days, I fart around and don't get the laundry done and sometimes the toilet could stand to be cleaned and it doesn't happen because I just don't feel like it.  For the most part, though, when things don't get done it's because I'm doing way more important stuff like sitting on the couch with my kiddo watching Blue's Clues or building something really tall out of blocks so he can knock it over or, ya know, playing peekaboo through the crack in the laundry room door.

My point here is that tomorrow my baby is going to be another day older and another day closer to not being a baby anymore.  And guess what... the laundry pile may be another day older too (and a little taller) and the toilet may need to be cleaned even worse, but those things are still gonna be there needing to be done.  And the day after my baby isn't a baby anymore... they'll still be there needing to be done.

And furthermore... in May I'm getting another little bundle to add into the mix, so I'm sure it will bring with it tons more way important stuff to do.

So, maybe someday I'll be the person who doesn't have several purses hanging on her bedroom doorknob and a bottle of nail polish sitting on top of a CD on top of the television.  Maybe someday I will be so on top of getting my laundry done and so there on getting my toilet shiny that people are gonna be like WHOA.  Maybe someday I'll hang up clothes when I take them off and wash dishes as soon as the meal is over and put things where they go instead of on the kitchen table or counters.  But I don't think this is my year for that.

Maybe someday I won't have a junk drawer that you have to talk into closing and maybe someday all of my closets and the garage will be in order, too.  I don't think this is my year for that either.

Maybe someday I won't lead people to believe that I have only ONE junk drawer...

I think what I'm getting at in a rather long-winded fashion (if you can only imagine that) is that this is not my year to strive for perfection of any sort.  I've let myself get way too caught up in worrying about attempting to keep the house perfect, making the perfect grocery list with all the coordinating coupons, and worst of all trying to keep up some grander illusion of myself than what I really am to fit into what other people think I should be.

Well... this is not my year for all that... and I'm not going to do it anymore.

And in 2009 I hope to...

...achieve the best version of myself and to be satisfied with whatever that is.

...be a good wife and mama based on my standards and what's pleasing to God.

...let God make me better and to seek that on a daily basis.

...be able to stop focusing on negative people and things.

...think/care less about what people think of me and my family.

...play with kiddo #1 a whole lot and produce a healthy and whole kiddo #2 (and then play with that one a lot as well!).

...read a lot.

...write when the mood strikes.

...and maybe learn to sew a little better.

With all that being said... happy 2009! And goodnight to all.

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"let's all say it together..."

I guess the thankful posts could begin to get a little old if anybody actually read this (which I doubt), but I have been so totally overwhelmed lately by God's goodness that it has to find an outlet somewhere.

I've taken up the new and fascinating hobby of reading other people's blogs. I'm sure there are some happy, normal-lifed folks out there writing blogs... but the vast majority of blogs I'm finding are all about a person's mystery disease and all its attending maladies or daily updates on a child's NICU progress or treatment for some horribly deforming congenital issue... and it seems that every last one of them, no matter what the main topic is, has at least a little something in it about miscarriages or pregnancy problems at the very least. I'm talking pretty downer stuff. Not that they're all downer blogs... far from it actually. I've discovered several women of wonderfully amazing faith in these "random" blogs I stumbled upon. I feel very sure that there is absolutely nothing random about me finding them, actually... but I think I already addressed that briefly in another blog.

All of it has added up to one big, huge, ginormous question for me... WHO AM I?

...or maybe an even better and even HUGER question would be... Who the heck do I THINK I am?

I remember when I found out I had gestational diabetes when I was pregnant and I remember wondering... actually forming the thoughts, "How is this happening to me? Why is this happening to me? Stuff like this just doesn't happen to me..." As if I was some kind of fairy princess living in a bubble... all favored by God and totally removed from those things that happen to mere mortals.

What I'm coming to realize (which I feel like is the big reason for me "happening" upon so many similar blogs) is the truth of it all. I am the merest mortal of them all and am just as susceptible to all the sad, hard, hurtful things here as the next guy. I could be the one battling cancer, I could be the one looking through my tears each day at my child's deformities wondering what the world was going to do with him when I wasn't there to shield him from it, I could be the one missing a piece of myself and taking flowers to little gravestone, I could be suffering any number of horrible trials, I could be struggling, fighting every day for my own life and the life of my child. I shudder at the reckless thoughts I've had... that I might be "special" in God's sight. Thank God for His mercy.

But... every morning my husband kisses me goodbye before going to work. I wake up to the bright little face of a perfectly healthy and normal little boy. My entire immediate family is healthy and whole. I go about each day in complete normalcy and never really wonder about whether or not the next day is going to be anything but normal all over again.

Who am I?

Why is God's hand so faithfully over my family?

How am I one of the ones who is so blessed beyond measure?

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. Because I know me. And I know that I have to be one of the vilest, darkest, back-slidden, doubting sinners out of all of God's creation. I take it all for granted. The amount of thankfulness in my heart is absolutely ludicrous and I'm totally ashamed.

The amount of temporal blessings in my life is overwhelming in and of itself, but if they were all gone...

One night in July 1999, God looked down on a little punk 13 year old girl with a bad attitude and gave her another chance. How many times had I turned Him away? Some very large scary number, I'm sure, but He overlooked it. Somehow in the midst of the upset fit I was throwing that night, my heart was right and God was close. I had known my entire life that Jesus died for me, but on that night as I lay stretched out across my bed praying some unutterable prayer from the depths of my being, His blood was applied to my doorposts.

Who am I?

I don't know.

What I do know is this... God knows. And He knew when He saved me. He knew what I mess I was then and He knew about all the messes I would make from that point on. He knew I would spit in His face so many times. He knew I would totally slander His name and His cause by my actions. He knew that I was going to forget about Him time and again. He knew what kind of unworthy servant I was going to make... and on and on and on...

...and He saved me anyway.

How can I be thankful enough for that? How can I even approach being thankful enough?

I don't know.

...but I'm going to start trying a whole lot harder.


I love the LORD, because he hath heard my voice and my supplications. Psalm 116:1

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thankful some more

I've been thinking a whole lot about what it really means and what it really should mean to me that I live in the time and place that I do. Alongside that, it's really hit home to me lately how thankful I should be (I am, but I could never be thankful enough I don't think) for the family and home that God has provided me.

I was looking at my gorgeous, wonderful, amazing baby boy the other day and (as usual) just became overwhelmed by how much I love him. It's no wonder I spent the first little while after he was born sitting around in a big puddle of mush and sobbing every time I looked at him. Motherly love is the strongest, deepest, and most encompassing and bittersweet thing I've ever felt. It's wonderful and horrible at the same time.

But I digress...

As I was sitting there looking at him, I thought of something I read somewhere a while back. Many years ago, it was very common for a child to never reach his first birthday. There were so many diseases and so few treatments that it was just a given that, yes, your family probably was going to be affected by the loss of a child. This was so common, in fact, that many families refrained from naming their children until their first birthday.

I read this before I had Scotty, and while I had some idea of how deeply I would love my children, I didn't have a clue. I remember thinking that you would end up calling the kid something... like how when a dog doesn't have a name people just end up calling it "Dog." I missed the point up until the other day when it crossed my mind for no reason really (other than God putting it there, I'm convinced).

Not naming their children was some kind of attempt to not become too attached to them. They decided that since there was a good chance they would die, they would do their best to keep them at arms length until they were more assured of their health. These mothers, these strong, hard-working, tough-as-nails women made themselves hold back this love that comes so naturally and like so much water from the flood gates. They clothed them, bathed them, comforted their cries, and no doubt held them at their breast day in and day out of that first year... and still desperately tried to hold back that love. I can't imagine how anxiously they must have watched for the rise and fall of their chests as they slept or how their hearts tightened with fear at the sound of each cough or the tiniest hint of a rattle in their little chests. I can't imagine the relief that first birthday brought to the ones who got to celebrate them. Not that the 365th day is any more significant than the 364th, but a milestone is a milestone nonetheless.

I remember doing the same thing when I hit the 13 week mark. "Phew, past the scary part," I thought.

We named our son the day after he was born. And it wasn't terribly long after he was born when we first mentioned the then-far-off first birthday party. Oh, how we've taken it all for granted! Infant deaths are not nearly as common anymore, thankfully, but I know they still happen and that to those mothers who've lost babies, it's just as huge as if it did happen to nearly everyone. My heart goes out to them in whatever small way it can. I know (and I pray to God) that I can't understand all the many breaks in their hearts. I do know that if I had as many breaks in my heart as I have love for my baby, it would seem that I had no heart left at all.

God is so good to me. He blesses us every day with health and peace and freedom and I so easily take all this for granted. The beautiful squirmy little blue-eyed blessing that He's placed in our care is too much to be thankful for; I don't think I'm capable of giving enough thanks yet.

Maybe someday when I get to Heaven, after God makes me like Jesus, and after I get done praising Him for saving me, He'll let me thank Him properly for giving me a mother's heart and for filling it to overflowing... over and over and over...

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thankful

It's not often that I have reason enough to put everything else on hold to sit down and write anytime before midnight, but today I feel that I do.

For weeks (or months, if you'd rather, although there have been a couple short reprieves) I've been dealing with all these nagging worries. I suppose they were pretty irrational, but as any fellow worry-warts/obsessive freaks like myself know, irrationality and all of its attending darkness, depression, and otherwise certainly seems real and absolutely humongous at the time. During those shadowy times, I spent many a night after David and Scotty were in bed pleading with God to just make me feel better. "Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief," "Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature," "For God has not given us the spirit of fear..." These were my mind's constant companions and I begged for God to apply them to my heart.

But He wouldn't. Night after night, despite all my passion and all my attempts to diligently seek Him, He would not comfort me... at least not to the extent I was so desperately longing for.

He did direct me to the blog of a dear woman named Angie Smith, who lost her sweet baby Audrey Caroline and chose to share her family's story with the world. I'm so glad she did, because reading about her strength and willingness to accept God's will has affected my life so much. Besides admiring her character, her story has also made me so thankful for the things I have in my life. That's not to say that I'm anywhere nearly as thankful as I ought to be, but I'm more thankful than I have been and that's something of a start. And since "a thankful heart is a happy heart," I'd been feeling somewhat better, although the same stuff was still lurking around in the back of my mind somewhere.

This morning we got up earlier and had to rearrange our normal schedule to get to Scotty's 9 month checkup. So once we got all ready and got everything together, we hit the road about 9:30. There's an S-curve near my house, and I was in the straight stretch between the two curves when I saw that I was going to meet a truck. It was one of those little white service trucks with an orange light on top. I didn't realize how fast he was going until I watched him skid sideways as he came around the curve; he dropped off the side of the road completely and kicked up a big cloud of dust, but somehow managed not to flip and actually made it back onto the road. My initial reaction was something along the lines of, "What an idiot," but then God reminded me of how many car accident related deaths I've heard about that involved someone missing a curve, dropping off the side of the road, and over correcting -- sending them into a tree or another vehicle on the opposite side of the road. And it was like God was right there saying, "I kept that from happening this time. I was right there then and I'm right there all the time."

And there was the comfort I'd been seeking.

Why do I always forget how intimately God knows me? Why can I never remember how He knows that I have to be shown things? The evidence is there throughout my life up to this point. Even in my salvation experience, as He gave me such a quiet stillness of peace with Him... one that I have to continually seek out in my soul... one the requires He show it to me again and again so that I might remember that He is the one in control, the one who holds my salvation and who is my salvation.

When I got a little ways down the road and managed to get past the initial fear and amazement of the moment, I noticed that Great Is Thy Faithfulness was the song playing through it all. How appropriate. Because the faithfulness of my Father is always playing in the background... whether I'm scared or rejoicing, so thankful that my cup runneth over or too busy to notice... He is always faithful and always sufficient for my needs.

~~~

Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father;
There is no shadow of turning with Thee;
Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not;
As Thou hast been, Thou forever will be.

Summer and winter and springtime and harvest,
Sun, moon and stars in their courses above
Join with all nature in manifold witness
To Thy great faithfulness, mercy and love.

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth
Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide;
Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow,
Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside!

Great is Thy faithfulness!
Great is Thy faithfulness!
Morning by morning new mercies I see.
All I have needed Thy hand hath provided;
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!

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At all times...

At 12:35, what in the world am I doing 1) awake and 2) writing a blog of all things?

1) I have no idea because I'm so tired my eyes feel like they have silly putty in them and
2) because I wanna.

I was just reading another blog by a lady whose writings are all about her family life and the loss of an unborn child (at least I'm pretty sure she died in utero... haven't gotten that far yet). I was reading along for a long time (another odd thing to be doing after midnight) before I realized that this lady is the wife of one of the guys in the Christian group Selah, which I love.

Anyway, all of that is quite beside the point, since the main gist of what's on my mind concerns more the spirit in which her posts were written. They were full of such faith and strength and even humor... and they inspired me so, especially given the mood I've been in tonight and the past few days.

To sum it up in very short order... I'm discouraged. Admitting such a thing makes me sick since, as a good friend once advised me, "Don't get discouraged... that's exactly what Satan wants you to do." I know, I know... and that's what makes me sick.

I feel a whole lot like the person who says, "I really want to be healthy, but when I want another cookie, I just can't stop myself." (p.s., I've been that person before, too, actually). So many times (I'm talking every single day... especially lately), I actually have it go through my mind all about the kind of Christian I'd like to be... I wish I had a better prayer life... I wish I could feel God's presence all the time... I wish I could just say "God" and He would be right there comforting me in every circumstance. And again... I know, I know...

David and I had gotten totally out of the habit of watching television (except Veggietales and Baby Einstein...), and we were both loving it. Likewise, we'd gotten totally out of the habit of listening to anything on the radio other than Christian/gospel or at least something quieter and more reflective/less distracting. Well, I've watched David Letterman and Craig Ferguson for the past 2 or 3 nights... and I fell out of my good radio habits a while back as well... and oh my gosh, can I ever tell a difference. I was sitting here reading that blog I was talking about earlier and had Craig Ferguson on in the background... that's sorda when it hit me...

I am such a hypocrite. I am a Pharisee's Pharisee.

Here I was sitting here reading all of these wonderfully uplifting and God-glorifying things with a bunch of garbage just rattling on in the background. And I would actually look up and laugh at things from time to time. What a telling scenario. I put on a nice front and I go to church practically every time the doors are open, but the dull roar of the world is ever present in the background of my life.

Multiple times I find myself completely disgusted over something that I see going on around me, but I still allow myself to be a part of it every single day.

I'm so glad that I serve (in my own very weak way) a God who sees the desires of my heart... because in my heart of hearts, what I want most is to be found serving Him at all times... not just when it's convenient or easy or popular or whatever. It's so easy for me to turn to God when I'm hurting; I want it to become so easy for me to turn to Him every day. It's wonderful to be able to go to Him in times of need, but I want Him to help me prioritize a bit better so I'll remember that thanking Him during the good times is just as wonderful and important.

This is a rambling thing that I've written... but it's been more for me than for anybody else, so take it for what it is.

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