Leaves...

When I was a kid, I had 3 generations of the greatest teachers that will ever walk this planet: The Beumers. I had Grandma (Mrs. Kraus), Mom (Mrs. Beumer), and Daughter (Miss Beumer). Anyone who has ever sat in their classrooms will agree that those three women made teaching an art form. I have no idea where I'd be without them.
Mrs. Kraus gave the best hugs, and saw something in me that made her pass me up to the next grade level (I was bored and disruptive--go figure!).
Mrs. Beumer taught me to love to read, and forged the foundation of my love of writing.
Miss Beumer encouraged my writing, taught me to love science, and made time to help me survive pre-calculus.
Three generations of teachers...none of whom did it for the paycheck.
I went to the tiniest of Christian schools--Crosspoint Christian School--where I graduated in a class of 6 people (yes, I was valedictorian), and where I learned more lessons about life and faith than in almost any other time in my life. Miss Beumer taught biology class with an overhead projector (Fancy!) and coloring sheets where we would carefully color and label the parts of the body. We dissected, took notes, and gained an appreciation for the world around us.
Most importantly, we gained an appreciation for God's hand in creating the world around us.
Several lessons in that classroom made a lasting impact, but none more so than the time she brought in a simple leaf for us to study. Sure, we were discussing chlorophyll and plant structure, but it was the faith behind the science that I will never forget. It stops me in my tracks to this day, and makes me appreciate the outdoors as a marker of the love that God has for us.
There's a careful balance in our eco-system. No, this isn't where I get all hippie-ish and tell you to go hug a tree (that's my sister's department); this is where I remind you that plants and trees produce gases that are important to the air we breathe. We inhale oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide; plants and trees help keep that oxygen clean, and the carbon dioxide balance in check. I know that it's a lot more complicated than that,  but I'm not a scientist. I can't help but marvel at how nature shows in every way, that God has a plan and that He cares for us.
Flip over the next leaf you see. Do you see the careful lines, the markers of how that plant gets its nourishment? Ever consider that it closely mimics our nervous system or our cardiovascular system? It's a delicate design, and it can't be duplicated by machines. It's a beautiful network that runs through our bodies, and it's so carefully planned out. There's a verse in Psalms that says "when I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, the moon and the stars, which You have set in place, what is man, that You are mindful of him?" (Ps. 8:3-4). (Incidentally, it's also a Johnny Cash song:)
It's a simple moment where David is reflecting on the incredulity around him. He notices the back of the leaf...he's caught up in the moment where he realizes just how small he really is. Why should God care?
Why should the God that has the power to create the moon and the stars, care at all about us?
Why should He care about me?
Why should He take the time to make sure that we have trees and plants, and birds...why should He care that our planet is tilted at just the right angle to keep us from freezing or burning...why should He care about anything but His own awesomeness?
Why should He care about my child?
That's beyond my comprehension.
Like David, I'm blown away by the world around me. My tendency to freeze in the pit of anxiety can be stopped in its tracks by something as simple as a leaf--if He can design a leaf with such function and beauty, He can take care of me.
To Him, I'm way more important than foliage.
To Him, you're way more important than sparrows or lilies...than planets or porpoises...to Him, you're worth dying for.
"What is man, that You are mindful of him?"
To Him, we are beloved.
We get overwhelmed. We get bogged down. We get stuck in our ruts or our valleys, and sometimes it seems easier to stay that way. We prefer our tar pits to mountains, and we get enslaved into looking down at our own feet

I like trees. I like sunshine. I like that everything that’s beautiful, encourages us to look UP. I like that leaves fall down, like confetti in the most beautiful of parades, and ask us to look high and see where they came from. Nature is designed to grow towards the sun.

So are we.

We are not designed to rot or to freeze; we are designed for life, to thrive. Everything He did in six days of creation, was carefully laid out so that we are reminded to look to Him, to trust in Him, and to know that He is “majestic.” Nature encourages us to lay down our burdens, to be free and to fly or run or swim—we’re designed to stay in motion, always going forward, always trusting in Him to provide the sustenance and the path. He designs the schedule of our lives like He designs the seasons or the phases of the moon; He has The Plan.  We just have to trust Him.

From what I’ve seen, even in something as simple as a leaf, He is trustworthy with the direction of our lives. He is trustworthy with our hearts…

Stop and consider the world around you. Ignore the man-made contrivances; put away your iPhones and your Facebook (as I type this on my laptop and post it on my Twitter account ). Take out the distractions that we’ve created, and replace them with something that God has created…Consider the lilies, consider the heavens, consider the leaves…

Consider your place in this beautiful world, and consider yourself loved by its Creator…consider His plans for your life, and trust Him to complete the work that He has promised in you…

Ordered Steps...

I started to write this blog, but got sidetracked by an echocardiogram. Guess that kinda takes precedence! For some strange reason, getting an echo ranks just under going to the dentist on the list of things that I hate to do, which is ridiculous! They tend to put me in a foul mood—and that’s mental, because they’re pretty important.

 Yesterday, I sat and watched the snow. As Joe LoRusso will verify, I typically hate snow. But when I’m tucked in safe and warm, even Grinchy-ol’ me can enjoy the beauty in the flakes. As I was watching it fall, a scenario from my childhood came to mind…

Ever walk through untouched snow? There's something fun about messing it up with your footprints, right? When I was a kid, I would walk very carefully so as to not disturb anything other than where my foot landed. I wanted that perfect little imprint of where I had been...until my sister came along and pummeled me, and generally messed up my Currier & Ives moment.
Sometimes, when we look back at where we've been, we focus more on the mess that we've left behind.
Sometimes, when we look back at where we've been, God whispers Psalms 37:23 in our ear... "The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, and He delights in his way."
A conversation with my doctor—my very highly-trained, well-reputed, hard-to-get-into specialist—caused me to take a look at the steps that the Lord has ordered over the past 2 years that have led to this point.  My OB casually remarked at one visit that I shouldn’t give up on having children, even though a multitude of cardiologists had said otherwise. He referred me to a perinatologist. When I met this doctor (this time around), he began to plan a path for a safe delivery for this baby. Step-by-step, he ordered tests and introduced medications designed to encourage a physical environment where this baby could grow and develop. As delivery approaches, he’s carefully documented every biophysical change and countered it with medications that have most likely saved my life, and the life of my child. At the very least, they’ve allowed me to make it almost to full-term.
The things that seemed impossible, are coming into fruition, because the steps we’ve been taking have been planned out by a God that I once accused of abandoning me. Looking back at this journey, even by medical standards, is amazing.

Delivery is coming soon. I’m struggling with fear, for sure. But sitting here this morning, discussing facts with my doctor, I could almost see the hand of God turn back the clock for just a moment…like He turned me around so I could view the perfect footprints in the snow…He reminded me that these steps are ordered by Him.

Sometimes, you look at the past and you turn into a pillar of salt.

Sometimes, you reflect on the journey and it gives you faith for the future.

As I type this, my little guy is kicking my laptop. He’s reminding me that soon, we’re going to meet face-to-face. I’m going to get to hold him, to cuddle him, to see him meet his Daddy. I hope the joy of his delivery never wears off…I hope that when he’s 18 years old, that I still look at him and remember this time…that if he runs off to the Army or to the mission field, that I remember that the God Who ordered the steps leading to his successful birth, will take care of him in the middle of whatever battlefield he’s facing. I hope that the footprints in the snow never melt, and that I never forget what it is, to look back on the journey and see the hand of God.

We have a lot to look forward to…

We have a lot to be thankful for…

We have a God Who “delights in our way,” and Who orders our steps

The steps ahead of us…

The steps behind us…

And the steps we take where we stand still, and simply enjoy the view.

Scaredy-Cat

It's 6:00 am.
I've been awake since 4:00 am (which is the wonderful time in the middle of the night at which I get yet another dose of The Drug From Hell--Incidentally, for the last week or so, I've handled it fairly well).
I really,
REALLY
Do NOT want to be awake right now.
It's my second morning like this.
I knew that at this stage of the game, the mental state would start to get to me more than the physical state; it's true.
You could peel me off of this ceiling.
If I were in places familiar, I could pester David until he woke up, reminded me that I'm an idiot, and rolled over to go back to sleep.
I could take Holly outside, get some milk, maybe watch some TV, pray...
Whatever I could do, I wouldn't be By Myself.
By Myself is not a fun place to be right now.
As D-day approaches, a whole new level of nerves is kicking in. I'm starting to think of things I haven't gotten done (the cloth diapers are NOT ready to go!), of rules I want to make (nobody can come around while I'm nursing, until I get the hang of this thing!), of administrative tasks I'll need to tackle as soon as I get back (Bills! Taxes! Bills! Magically create money from air!); I start to obsess over family scenarios that haven't happened yet, and they escalate in my mind (No, I said you need to leave; I'm exhausted, please go!). I think of things I'm  hoping to do...of how in the world I'm going to recover in a split-level house (can we move the refrigerator upstairs?)...and of how soon I'm willing to take either myself or this new little one into the great, big, scary, germ-filled world (can't the pediatrician just make a darn house call?!?).
I find myself thinking that I will never feel mildly attractive again, and that the knots never will come out of my hair...
I find myself angry over things that haven't happened yet, or things that might happen...I wish I could have my own news cast to the world:
"Don't just drop by! Call first! Wash your hands! Use Anti-Bacterial Stuff! DO NOT KISS THE BABY!!!!!"
(Okay, that's all serious--Group B Strep colonizes in the mucosal areas. There will be no kissing the baby's head or hands--that's a serious rule for everyone, including me).
I keep forgetting that I have a serious heart condition. I'm so worried about the baby, and about how he will be handled, that I am ignoring the fact that my first week after delivery is critical. I'm not only going to be dealing with the C-section (which will be my 4th abdominal surgery in 7 years' time); I'm going to be on cardiac watch. Because I survived it so well the last time (by the grace of God), and never had a relapse during my recovery, I don't think I'm taking that part of my aftercare very seriously. I'll have a newborn to care for, which is normally exhausting...coupled with a heart that doesn't necessarily work right. Somehow, I have to calm down.
Keep Calm, and Raise the Baby.
I find myself increasingly paranoid in social situations. It's why 3 weeks of solitary confinement are only just now beginning to get to me. I haven't had to deal with crowds, with strangers, or with trying to look nice. The only people who have seen me, are people who have seen me in worse shape, so I don't feel too bad about looking like a ragamuffin. I can sleep, pray, think, and obsessively watch "Bones."  But now, with the anxiety closing in, I'm starting to dislike being By Myself...yet I don't want anyone around, because frankly, the stress of making conversation is more than I can deal with (cue blood pressure!). I don't want to talk; some of the medications make me feel like I can't grasp the words I want, anyways, so it's kind of pointless. I've hunkered down, gotten hermit-ish, and I have limited communication to what I can type. It's easier for me to get my point across that way--for some reason, it's easier to find the words.
But as I sit here this morning, wishing I were asleep, the anxiety is like having a bug on you that you can feel, but just can't find. It's annoying, and peace is not coming. I've prayed, read, listened to IHOP-KC, switched to "ocean sounds", drank a glass of milk, ate a piece of chocolate, and now, blogged. Nothing is working.
I wish I had an end to this story...that I could say that God magically came in and granted me fairy-dust full of peace. The static in my head is drowning Him out, and that makes me sad--I need to hear His voice more than anything right now. I need to hear Him say this will be okay...
I need to know the ending of this chapter, even though I'm still in the middle.
Trusting Him when all you hear is your own teeth chattering, can be difficult.
Thoughts of Gideon come to mind (Judges 6). Gideon admits his position (least of the least of the families) and he constantly questions and tests God. Yet God honors him--He doesn't treat his tests or questions as insolence. He knows Gideon's just a human being...flawed...full of doubt...in need of a good glass of milk and a snuggle with the familiar...He calls Gideon to do crazy things, and he's terrified! Eventually, though, Gideon is smart enough to recognize that God is Who He says He is, and he learns to proceed without caution.
Up until this point, I've said I could do the same (albeit on a much smaller scale): Yay, God! You've walked us through this pregnancy! You've done great things! You've given us amazing doctors, and fantastic prenatal care, and everything is going to be fantastic!!!!!!!!
Now that we're getting toward the end, my bravado is waning...I'm worried about familial relationships, about guarding invisible doors, about offending people (that if they loved us, wouldn't be offended)...I'm worried about how we will deal with the day-to-day, when our caretakers are gone and it's just a husband, a wife, and a newborn that may or may not enjoy sleep. I'm worried about going back to work, and the paperwork I'll be facing upon my return.
Worry is such an annoying little sleep-depriver. Fear has grabbed me by the throat on so many occasions; it's a familiar foe. I'm not sure how much of this is hormonally-induced, and how much of it is spiritual. I think the Bible should have included a few chapters on Mary, Elizabeth, Hannah, Sarah, and every other woman who dealt with a special pregnancy. Like, "Sarah was totally stoked about the coolness of being pregnant at her advanced age, but every kick/jostle/snooze/weird-thing-that-happened totally freaked her out and she was a crying mess to Abraham on a daily basis. Even though she knew God loved her. And it all worked out okay." (I Cassidy 3:2) Or, "Elizabeth was totally surprised at her pregnancy, but since her husband had gotten himself stricken with muteness, she really didn't have a way to communicate her pregnancy and delivery wishes to him, so she hit him with a frying pan for getting himself into that mess. Even though she knew God loved her. And it all worked out okay." (II Cassidy 7:9) Or, "Joseph had a sobbing, pregnant teenager on his hands that he had no idea what to do with...So he stayed in his carpentry shop. Even though he knew God loved him. And it all worked out okay."  (II Cassidy 10:11)  If I were writing the Bible, I'd have to include SOMETHING regarding the emotional state of pregnancy...but NOOOOOO! Every woman who's pregnant in the Bible is some kind of emotionally-stable superhero who wears white and blue and STAYS CALM!!!!!!!!!!!
Grr.
Well, that's obviously NOT me. I'm a big scaredy-cat who thus far, has talked a big talk. Now I get to walk in it...I get to hurdle pregnancy hormones, physical weirdness, a lack of viable communication, solitary confinement, and cheese-brain, while still convincing myself that I'm doing a reasonable job of trusting God. I have failed on multiple occasions; I've sworn at lab-techs, cried about bagels that were missing cream cheese, and seriously considered going AWOL.  I am reminding myself that, my mental/physical flaws notwithstanding, I prayed for this moment. I trusted for this moment. I have to believe that the God Who brought me this far will stick it out with me through the end.
I have to accept that I will say stupid things...people will be offended, even in my own family. Hopefully, they will forgive me.
I have to be bold enough to say "no" at times, and to request that people respect my germ-avoidance and strong dislike of  dropping by without calling first.
I have to be kind, even when I want to reach over and choke someone (Mom says this is normal, at this stage).
Most of all,
I have to believe that He is faithful.
And I do...
Because without having that to hang on to, I will never be able to enjoy this experience the way He wants me to...and in spite of my struggle with fear and anxiety, believe me: I will never have an experience like this again. Every kick, every jostle, and every flip, is a reminder that God picked us...He picked us to parent this little guy. He chose us to be in this place, at this time, and He has orchestrated a beautiful dance of life for us to participate in...In that knowledge, and in that place, I know that I can find peace.
Nothing else matters...
Because I know that God loves me...
And everything will work out okay...

"Drunk" is Subject to Interpretation...

*Disclaimer: Evidently, I've lost my ability to spell. I'm hoping to get that back after pregnancy-brain goes away...
I'm an Old Testament kind of girl. I have my favorite stories, but none has touched my life like the story of Hannah. I really didn't get into it until my Hannah had passed away; I mean, I knew the story, but I didn't GET it. It has a whole new meaning for me that's grown over the years.
Hannah had what many would think was a beautiful life: She had a husband that loved her best. Sure, he had a second wife, but all we hear about Peninnah is that she was a total jerk who mocked Hannah for not having children. REALLY?!?!?
Women in the church that deal with not having children face a stigma that most often goes unsaid; occasionally, someone will actually have the audacity to verbalize it. "Barrenness is a curse."
Do you KNOW what you do, when you say/infer that to a woman who wants to have children?
You turn her away from the face of God.
Enjoy having that on your conscience.
We live in an era that comes against the blessings of God. Although I will happily get into the science of being over-inundated with hormones and its affects on sexuality/reproduction/identity, it's more than this blog can handle (and would most likely result in hate mail). We live in a society that extols the "freedom" of the single woman, and that denies the unique creation of children. We live in a world that has attempted to redefine what constitutes a family, while ridiculing those of us who cling to the Biblically-based concepts of a mom, of a dad, and of participating in a community of like-minded individuals. I'll stop this tangent before I get too side-tracked...
No one talks about Peninnah. No one talks about the woman who Hannah thought, had it all. There's no chapter in the Bible dedicated to extoling her as a woman, as a prayer warrior, or as a mother. Like I said before—all we’re left with is the knowledge that she was a total…Well, no one liked her. No one names their children after her. She is forever known as “the provoker” (I Sam. 1:7).
We remember Hannah—we remember that Elkanah loved her best. We remember that he gave her a double portion. We remember that he did not cast her aside…that he did what he thought was best to give her comfort (I Sam. 1:8).
I see a lot of David (as in my husband, not as in The King) in Elkanah. In spite of his own grief, his own loss, and his own hopes, he has never stopped encouraging me on this journey. Of course our relationship is not perfect!!! But when I was certain that God had forgotten me…that God didn’t like me…that I wasn’t worthy of His love or attention…David was the Elkanah that gave me a double portion. There were the conversations in the car where I was brutally honest with how I felt toward the Lord, toward church, toward my friends (who only ever did their best), and toward my family. There were the conversations that ended in tears (most of them), and the ones where I shouted and screamed…there were the conversations that, I’m sure, left him convinced that I needed to be sedated or institutionalized.
There were plenty of conversations where all he said is, “Cassidy, you know that’s not true. Change your mindset.” Those were infuriating…but they are so indicative of the nature of the man. Like Elkanah, who probably frustrated Hannah by telling her that he was better than 10 sons (nice!), David never stopped reminding me that with just the two of us, there was happiness.
And there is.
Elkanah never deprived his wife of intimacy because he didn’t think it was fruitful. He continued to provide for her, even abundantly blessing her, because he loved her. Women who struggle with having children often shut down—we push people away, we push our husbands away, because we feel defective. We feel unloved, accursed, broken, and abandoned by our own bodies. Sure, I didn’t struggle with fertility issues; my struggles were different. But the concepts are the same: Our bodies have betrayed our hearts.
The husband who stands by the wife who feels like a freak of nature, is a man worth noting. He is made of iron and steel, and he has the power to make or break her…she is fragile, in every sense of the word. He takes his vows seriously…he takes her dreams seriously…and he takes her spiritual state into consideration.
Elkanah and Hannah are, to me, such a type-and-shadow of Jesus and His Bride. I Samuel 1 and 2 are a love story, and I know that sounds strange. But when you consider the culture of the day, and the care with which Elkanah treated his broken bride, you can see very clearly how Jesus treats us when we are “damaged”: He stays with us. He doesn’t abandon us. He helps us stay focused on Him; He challenges the mindset that the Provoker stabs us with. He reminds us of who we are with Him. He challenges us to seek Him, even though our fleshly mind tells us to give it up already.
Because Elkanah did not abandon her, and because he ensured that his family maintained their relationship with God (he took them to worship and sacrifice at Shiloh on a consistent basis), Hannah had a place to go, to pour out her heart. She had a relationship with the Lord on her own, that was freely expressed. I find it interesting that even though she blamed the Lord for closing her womb (which He did—He had a purpose), she never gave up pursuing Him for what she wanted. She was clear and specific, and never disregarded her request.  That’s hard—sometimes, you feel so stupid for going before the Lord yet AGAIN, for the same thing. You fall prey to the lie that He gets sick of hearing from you.
He never gets tired of our prayers.
Hannah knew that—she knew her Lord. So she went after Him, wholeheartedly...She pursued Him.  She makes a severe covenant—I say “severe,” because she promised to dedicate her son to the Lord and to let him be raised outside of her home. It almost feels like she’s bargaining with God in I Sam. 1:11—“If You do THIS, I’ll do THAT,” but I really don’t think that’s the case. Her promise to dedicate her son to the Lord is a testimony to her faith that this would come to pass. She made a Nazarite vow, and from the point of weaning, on, she only got to see her baby boy once a year. That’s a crazy-brave woman.
In her pursuing of the Lord, she prayed so hard that the priest Eli thought she was drunk. I’ve mentioned this a few times in my blog, because it fascinates me. When you pray past the understanding of human comprehension…when you are so goal-oriented that no one understands you…when you have one focal point for years on end…when nothing else really matters, except for this one pursuit…then you are praying the Prayers of Hannah. The rest of the world won’t get it—they’ll think you’re crazy. They’ll tell you you’ve missed God, that you need to give it up.
Don’t do it.
“Drunk” is subject to interpretation.
He sees you…He hears you. He’s not ignoring you; He may be shutting you down for a brief time, but He isn’t missing your prayers. And when He “shuts you down,” it’s because He has a perfect timing in mind. When you look back, after your prayer is answered, things will make a lot more sense.
I know (better than most people) that sounds so mundane and churchy. I hate hearing that, even now. But drunk people are not rational people, so the things you say to us do not make sense at the time that we’re in that heavy pursuit of a goal. It isn’t until after someone has “sobered up” that they understand the “consequences” of their actions. It isn’t until the hope deferred is realized, that the pursuit is praised. THEN people tell you you’re strong…then people tell you that you have “great” faith. They don’t tell you that when you’re falling-on-your-face desperate, or nose-deep in the carpet of the altar, or shut up at home because you can’t stand to see one more person who has what you know God has called you to—no, that’s when they think  you’re just sad or depressed. When you finally get to the point where your prayers are answered, then everyone thinks you’re awesome for hanging on.
I like the people that have hung out with me when I was “drunk.” I like the friends and family members who kept encouraging me past the point of medical reason. I like the pastors who acknowledged our broken hearts and called a congregation to pray that we’d get to be parents someday. I like the people that got “drunk” with me.
I’d like to be someone who gets “drunk” with them…who supports them in their crazy pursuit of their heart’s desires.
Do you know anyone like that? Are you someone like that? Well, c’mon, you “bunch of drunks!” Get in there, and pursue—get in there, push back the crowds, and touch the hem of His garment (See! I CAN make a NT reference!). Press in—go face-first. Be a Hannah. Go face-first for your friends—pursue WITH them, instead of standing back and judging them. Be an Elkanah, not an Eli—and whatever you do, don’t be a Peninniah (who was that again?!?)
I raise my glass to you, fellow drunks: Here’s to the pursuit, to the process, and to the reward. Here’s to the realization of heart’s desires, and to the dreams that will not be ignored. Cheers!

The End and The Beginning...

Have you ever sat down and really thought about your journey? Have you ever been on the cusp of a new chapter, and paused for a "Selah?" Have you had one of those moments, so clearly marked, where you knew you'd better make an altar, because life as you knew it would never be the same?
I'm there.
Right now.
As I write this, I'm torn between moments of joy, moments of fear, moments of incredible gratefulness, and moments of detachment. There's a scene in one of the Harry Potter movies, where Hermione is trying to explain to Harry all of the emotions Cho must be feeling, in the wake of Cedric Diggory's death; Ron exclaims that if he had to feel all of those emotions, that his head would blow up (or something like that). I know that part of this is just being a pregnant female; most of this, though, is just the realization of where things have been...and the realization of where they must be going.
We are guaranteed nothing.
I looked at my ever-expanding belly this afternoon, and heard the whisper in my ear:
He's coming.
He's coming.
It seems almost Narnian--that rush, that sensation, that winter has passed, and spring is coming. Aslan is coming--do you remember, the first time you read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe? Did you feel the anticipation in knowing that the Great Lion is coming to overturn an eternity of melancholy winter (and never Christmas)?
Do you remember the first time that you learned that Jesus would be returning? Have you hung onto that feeling, or have you grown used to the concept?
He's coming.
The Jews, for thousands of years:
He's coming.
They became so immune to the rush, that they missed Him entirely.
The Christians, for thousands of years:
He's coming.
We've become so immune, that we forget Him entirely.
The mother, who spends months in waiting, hoping, wishing, praying:
He's coming.
She becomes so immune to the medical reality, that she misses the miracle entirely.
I'm not likening the birth of my son to the return of Christ--don't get it twisted. I am, however, understanding that even in my situation, I have compartmentalized the reality that I'm about to face.
As Christians, we do the same thing: In song, in church practices, and in words, we say that we are eagerly anticipating the return of Jesus.
In our day-to-day life, though, we have forgotten the joy of anticipating that yes,
He
Is
Coming.
We've become mundane.
And He will sneak up like a Thief in the Night.
He is Coming.
Those 3 words stopped me in my tracks this afternoon. They were almost audible; the tears were immediate. As I'm sitting here, I am faced with a great deal of fear. There's a great deal of hope that I have not allowed myself to embrace; even though on the outside, our nursery is prepared, in my heart, I have not allowed myself to face those first 30 days.I've thought about the first birthday, finding a good school, lining up childcare...
It wasn't until yesterday that I faced the reality of something as simple as giving a baby a bath.
He's coming.
Over two years ago, I had an encounter with God that I've held on to; I saw something that let me know that this dream of having a baby would be a reality. It sparked a fire, to find a team of healthcare providers who would do more than say "yes" or "no;" I wanted a team of healthcare providers that would find out WHY. I wanted to know what was wrong with me, why was I defective?
Why was I only hearing "no?"
My teachers always taught me to show my work--to not simply give an answer, but to explain why. It took 5 years to find doctors that could do that. And even though our current result is not quite what we thought it would be, the fact of the matter is that without those tests, we wouldn't have made it this far. God is faithful--He told me to pursue, He brought David and I into unity, and He's making this happen.
I trust Him.
He's coming.
This afternoon, I envisioned David and I standing outside of a locked city. Except this time, we had the keys.
We faced the doors, knowing that upon entering, we were leaving the past behind, never to return--nothing would ever be the same again.
We have no idea what is on the other side of that door...but we know there is no turning back.
When He comes, He only beckons us forward.
As we have this moment, as we stand outside of these doors, we have our "Selah"  moment, and it is overwhelming:
1 year of paralyzing grief.
2 years of heartbreak....of seeing a fledgling marriage tested by things more destructible than fire...
3 years of finding ourselves again.
4 years of facing a possibility of barrenness.
5 years of fighting with physicians, of fighting with myself, and with my self-image.
6 years of almost giving up...of giving it one more try...
Years--almost 20% of my life--of thinking that God found us unworthy, that He was punishing us--of guilt and shame--of sorrow unlike anything most people will ever know...
Years of praying, seeking, waiting...
Years of the prayers of Hannah, where even your closest friends think you're crazy for continuing on...
I look back, and if you would have told me in 2008 that I'd be in this position, I would have lived up to my middle name: Sarah.
I would have laughed.
David and I have lived a lot, in 7 years of marriage. I've wondered if we could seriously make it through; more than once, I've told him to let me go, and to find someone worthy. He stayed.
Thank God.
I waited a long time to get married...He was worth waiting for.
I remember when God told me about him...I was 14. That day, I heard it for the first time:
He's coming.
God told the truth; He sent me a helpmate.
He sent me a soulmate.
We've walked on a journey through laughter and sorrow, through a wilderness and through deserts. We have a long way to go, but we're going together--we stand outside of this part of our lives together.
We share this moment of reflection together.
He's coming.
It's the End of the deepest of sorrows...the end of where that Shadow of Death can touch. It's the end of this valley (although, as life is made up of mountains and valleys, we know there are more to face), and the beginning of a new journey, of a new climb.
It's the delicious anticipation of a new chapter to write together, and of a new facet in our relationship with the Lord.
There is fear...there are questions...there are things that, in my super-organized mind, I cannot believe there are no definite answers to.  There is anger at a lack of information, and confusion at an overwhelming amount of unproven facts. There is a prayer for clarity...for peace...for healing...for direction...for protection, above all...
But above all...
Spring is coming...
The lilacs are in bloom...
And hope is on the horizon...
It's a new beginning...
And He is coming...
Selah.

Secrets of "perfect" parenting...

David is forever telling me that I write too much. Part of me thinks that's just because, as the guy that lives with me 24/7, and that is required by vow to listen to me, that he's immune to my journalistic charms. Part of me knows that actually, I've been told my entire life that I talk too much, and it's just part of who I am. After all--I don't think a day went by, that my name wasn't written on a chalkboard with checkmarks, for speaking out of turn. I'm not sure I actually had a complete recess in my entire elementary school history.
So it goes without saying, that feeling limited in what I can/cannot post is against my nature. We live in a crazy world, though, where people steal babies and rob houses...we live in a world where pizza delivery folks have to invest in Kevlar, and where we no sooner get in our vehicles than we lock our doors.
I didn't grow up this way.
I grew up in a small town, with a single mother (until I was 8), where I regularly walked to and from school, and where we didn't necessarily even lock our front door at night. I grew up playing in a backyard with a big hill, hanging my laundry outside (to my chagrin), and feeling like everything I knew was safe. Of course, that wasn't the case; it wasn't until I was much older that I learned about the monsters that lurked out of sight. But to me, as a small child, things were idyllic.
All I had to worry about was avoiding spankings, and cleaning my room.
What about this world?
Every day, I hear about another robbery; every day there's another killing. The laws of thermodynamics are in practice: Everything goes from order to disorder. How far will it go?
Raising a child in this world is fraught with challenges. How much do you insulate them? Do you even try? Do you see the kids in your neighborhood, and determine that your kid isn't hanging out with "them?" Do you protect them by homeschooling them (and understand that you may limit their academic success by your own failings)? Do you put them in Christian schools (and understand that you may limit their collegiate opportunities for lack of information)? Do you take the ultimate risk, and put them in public schools (which seem to have more exposure/danger/threat than the Wild, Wild West)? 
How are we supposed to raise a well-rounded kid that will thrive in this planet of insanity? How do we keep them innocent? How do we not become "helicopter" parents, yet find the balance to keep them from becoming narcissistic fools?
I look at every set of parents that's around me as one more piece to the puzzle...but then there are those that completely confuse me--I don't understand--I have always thought that the kids with the good parents could never be screwed up. WHAT a misnomer!!!!  Observation has taught me that these children that we bring into this crazy world will make their own way; they will make their own decisions. We can cover them in prayer, we can do everything "right," but when it comes down to it, they stand before God alone. I don't get to stand in front of Him with my mommy. She's a far better person than me, so it would do me great favors; nope--I stand in front of Him on my own. I am responsible for my own decisions.
So is my son.
If I do everything right...if I combine those that I perceive as perfect, the Angela Sipes and the Sherry LoRussos; the Mary Helbigs and the Sheila Wards...if I study and emulate, and spend hours and hours in prayer...if I never let my kids out of my sight, and relocate our household to the finest neighborhoods in the Rockwood School District...if I use "time-outs" instead of spankings; if I never criticize, yell, or use harsh words...if I only speak encouragement...if I provide tutors and horseback riding and Abercrombie & Fitch labels...if I end my career and become a full-time mom who always has a kleenex on hand and a clean apron...if I learn to be a better cook, or how to knit, or the best way to reproduce every home-living tip that I see on Pinterest and create the most beautiful Martha-Stewart household EVER....
I am guaranteed nothing.
But...
If I come before my Father with nothing...with brokenness and fear, with trembling, and with open hands...
I am guaranteed that He will fill them.
I am guaranteed that He will give wisdom.
I am guaranteed that He will surround me, not with the "perfects," but with women who understand that He sustains them on a daily, hourly, minute-by-minute basis through motherhood. You see--He knows that the "perfects" are anything but.
The Angelas, the Marys, the Sherrys, and the Sheilas, know better than anyone, just how empty a mother really is. They know the sacrifice, the dedication, and the true heart of parenthood. They know that it's only when you've really given up any belief in your own abilities, that you find His strength...and that's what you use to raise a child.
His strength.
Not mine.
There is nothing I can do to guarantee that my son will turn out to be a world-changer. There is nothing I can do to "make" him be what I "want" him to be, or what I think he can be. The only thing I can do is to trust that God is faithful, and that He honors His word to never leave us.
I'm surrounded by many examples of amazing mothers, and I'm not going to lie--most of them intimidate me like you wouldn't believe. David and I have no idea what we're doing, or what we're in for.What we do know, though, is that we're going to be the absolute best parents that we can figure out how to be. We're going to try to raise JD right...to raise him in a family that loves him, in a church that loves him, and in a community of worship that continues to keep Jesus in the center. Regardless of the outcome, if we can say at the end of it all that we stuck to that philosophy, then I believe we can rest our heads at night knowing that we are good parents.
When my son gives his life to the Lord, regardless of the age, I will know in my heart that I have succeeded as a mother....
Even if I never learn to knit...to wear an apron...
Even if there's mud on the kitchen floor...or if I never learn to properly make fried chicken.
Even if he does wind up in public school ( I don't see that happening) or decides not to go to college (I also don't see that happening).
Something tells me that he has a special place in this crazy world...I believe he has a tremendous purpose (of course I do! I'm his mommy!), that is beyond my maternal instinct. He is born for such a time as this, and I am excited to be a part of his destiny.
Welcome to the world, JD...
Your daddy and I will do our very best. We'll fail some, and succeed some...we will not give up, and we will not stop praying over your life.
We will never stop loving you.
And neither will Jesus...

Putting myself into Time Out

I went back and read my earlier post. Really, I felt like I should take it down, and thus preserve my reputation. But why? I don't think I should paint myself as someone I'm not. If I'm failing miserably, and having a total brat attack, then it deserves as much press as when I'm doing something "right" (does that happen?!?.
And today, I had a total brat attack.
I'm over it...but I'm laughing at myself. A few months ago, I was at a birthday party where a very tired 5 year-old threw a fit. It was hilarious. I realized that her mother probably didn't think so, but I couldn't help but to find it funny. After all, she was throwing a fit over something completely benign. And oh, the fit she threw!!!  There were tears! On repeat!!!
It's really how I acted today, complete with the crying. I had a hissy fit, and it is all out here in cyberspace.
It's okay.
I'm over it (for now), and I have removed my head from my rear.
Right now, I'm good. I think I'm through with being a brat.
For today.
For now.
:)

Insanity is kicking in...

I initially had all of these lofty goals of keeping my mouth shut about the particulars of people, places, and things. I'm still not going into details, because let's face it: Blogs are hardly the most secure way to divulge information.
For the last 8 days, I've managed to keep a stiff upper lip, and to not fall off of the proverbial emotional cliff of feeling sorry for myself. Today, I announce my failure.
Today, I feel like crap.
Today, I want to take every person who whines about something on Facebook, and hit them in the head with a shovel so that they feel, how I feel, and figure out that there are worse ways to feel.
I'm not a very nice person right now.
I'm only posting this because I've tried to only post positive things, and I've had people say things like, "You're so strong!!"
I am not.
Today, I am petulant, bitchy, and content to sit in a dark room and cry about how I don't feel very special.
Today, my doctor actually looked at me and pointed out that in spite of my headache, it's a little concerning that I don't mind sitting in a dark room. Evidently, that's a sign of depression.
Well, gee, doc, you think?!?!?
No, I do not want to open the blinds; the light hurts my eyes. No, I do not want someone I do not know to take me on a wheelchair ride. The thought of making forced conversation is annoying.
No, housekeeping, you do not need to wake me up to empty a partially-filled trash can, and if you do, I will muster up enough energy to bite you.
Nurse, I can hear every word you say outside of my door, and I want to throw something at you because your voice carries even more than mine does...and that's saying something.
Is there a drug that will let me just sleep all day? Oh, I took it? Oh.
It's not working.
So there you have it: This is NOT a positive post. I'm not even going to try to spin it to a happy ending. I could--I know this is all worth it. But the fact of the matter is, that for today, I'm having a bad day.
And there's my "moment" of weakness.