Radical Changes of Theology, Part 1: The Introduction

This is Part 1, because it’s a big issue that’s been on my heart lately. Before I talk about the faith of my friends, though, I think I’d better talk about where I’m coming from. It’s important to me, that I share what I believe—for my own sake, if anything. Thus, this blog is a two-parter. Bear with me.

Growing up, I was very different from my peers. In my tiny, predominately-Baptist elementary school, I was the only one I can think of that had a divorced mother (the horror!). I was mouthy (like my mom); my mother worked full-time (dear GOD!); and we didn’t wear the nicest clothes (but my 7^th grade L.A. Gear kicks ROCKED!).  I used words that shocked my teachers (I once got a serious reprimand for telling a bully to “drop dead”) and due to my chattiness, rarely saw the playground at recess.

I didn’t fit the mold of a “good” Christian girl.

I never got into serious trouble; I stayed in school, went to church, and for the most part, did as I was told…but I never fit in, especially when it came to theology. When my mom married my dad (step-dad), she was a Southern Baptist who married a die-hard Catholic…and they moved us to a charismatic church. I went from hymnals to words projected like a movie on the walls! People raised their hands! It was like a rock concert!

And there…

Was…

Speaking in tongues.

Oh. My. Lawd!

I was 8 years old, at the time of “the shift.” I was water-baptized, had accepted Jesus as my Savior, and learned about the Holy Spirit from amazing teachers and youth leaders. By the time I was 14, I spoke in tongues (you have no idea how hard it is, for me to put that into writing, because I know the flack I’ve gone through on this subject, and I know it’s likely going to ruffle a few feathers now. But so what? It’s my blog, and yes, I believe in speaking in tongues. There. I said it. Now pick up your jaw, non-charismatic friends, and move on), and I stayed active in the charismatic church until I was 34. I now attend what’s called a four-square church—I’m still figuring out what that means, because it seems the same as my charismatic church. It’s probably semantics, more than anything…

Both my high school and my college ascribed to the “tongues are bad” rule of thought. The fact that I didn’t go to the evangelical, Baptist, or independent Christian churches (I swear, they’re all alike—don’t get mad about that. It’s true—small, minor doctrinal issues, along with that whole once-saved-always-saved debate. That’s it), made me a bit of a pariah. I argued with my apologetics teachers; I stormed out of my Acts classes (Really?!?! You have someone teach Acts, who doesn’t believe in the current usage of spiritual gifts?!? And that the Rapture already happened? So weird). I rarely debated my friends, but I know I drove my professors nuts.

But we’re passionate about what we love…and I love Jesus.

I was raised in the church. Praying is, to me, an ongoing conversation with the greatest of Friends. It’s normal—it’s my life. I’m not saying that I’m some super-awesome-Christian woman; in fact, it makes me more flawed, because I take it for granted. Half the time (okay, more than half) I totally forget to even say an “Amen.” But it’s in my veins—no matter what I’ve been through, no matter how angry I’ve gotten at God, I don’t think I’ve ever doubted His existence. He’s there.

I’m a total screw-up…my mouth gets me in more trouble than I know. I struggle with reading the Bible, and I always have…I’m more prone to get an intimate peek at the nature of God while I’m on a hike, than when I’m sitting in church (but I still go, because my husband says so, and because I’ve learned to lean on the fellowship that knits us together!). I tend to think of myself as a Christian hippie, as silly as that sounds: Love everyone, even the ones that disagree with you, because fighting sucks, and is a terrible reflection of the God you say you’re witnessing about.

(As I’m writing this, my biggest fear is that it will come across as arrogant. I don’t intend to be. It’s just that in my life, God has always been there. Always, even when I don’t see Him, and when I don’t think He cares. He’s there—I’m the one that misses Him, not the other way around. It’s a lifelong struggle for me, to embrace His love for me, because I feel like I do the wrong thing so often…but I know He’s there, no matter how much I’ve messed up. So please don’t think I’m sitting here like Sister Christian with my big nose in the air—it’s not true.)

I’m a simple girl, who misses God when I over-complicate things…when I worry, and when I don’t rely on Him…and when I try to figure Him out ahead of His timing.

That being said, I believe in having an intimate relationship with God.

I believe that Jesus is the Son of God…that He made a crazy, ridiculous decision to come to Earth and to be born as a human being…that He actually, medically died the most brutal death man could construct, and that He was in a grave for 3 literal days.

I believe that Jesus rose from the dead.

I believe that He was the ultimate sacrifice that was required to bring restoration to our relationship with the Father…to a relationship that was destroyed when sin entered the world.

I believe in a literal 7-day creation.

I believe in Heaven; I believe in Hell; I believe in Satan; I believe that Satan gets defeated and that this world as we know it will come to an end.

I believe in the Rapture; I believe in the AntiChrist, and I believe in the Tribulation…and no, I don’t think it’s happened yet.

I believe in Communion; I believe in getting baptized by water and by the Holy Spirit (as evidenced by speaking in tongues).

I also believe that you have to accept the birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ in order to spend eternity in Heaven…and that everything else is debatable, but not determinate of salvation.

I don’t believe that any of us have the answers…but I know that my life without my relationship with God is not worth living.

I will listen to what you say; my goal is to make you feel loved when you tell me your beliefs. I do not have to agree with you, but I do have to respect you; I ask that you do the same, for me. I will not argue with you, but I might ask you questions. I will try not to offend you with my questions, and I ask you to understand my heart—I just want to know.

I will treat you with gentleness and respect (I Peter 3:15) and I will ferociously defend you against people that do not do the same, especially when they do it under the guise of “Christianity.” Bullying wins NO ONE to a cause.

So this is it. This is what I believe. I’m used to people not agreeing with me—it’s okay. Just be nice about it.

I promise to do the same.

I don’t know if I would tell you that my faith has evolved much from when I was 8 years old. I knew what I was doing, when I got saved; the pastor explained it, and it made sense to me. It still does—it’s not that complicated. I know how my heart feels, when I talk to Him; I know what He sounds like, when I listen. It’s a simple intimacy…it’s just simple. It was a blanket-belief when I was 8 years old; almost 30 years later, I still hold to the same belief. It’s tried, it’s tested….me and Jesus have been through hell together, and He’s never left me. Trials and tragedies have fused me to Him; no matter how far I run, He always brings me back. He never lets me get too far, before His gentle conviction calls me back to His side.  I don’t think I could leave Him if I tried (“Anybody got a peanut?!?” LOL—get it?).

Recently, several of my friends have undergone radical changes in their theology.  I’m going to discuss it in my next blog, because I feel like I have to—I have to process this, because my heart hurts for them, though I know that’s the last thing they want. We’ve all had things thrown at us; we’ve all had to sort out the whys and hows of our faith. We each chose a different resolution, and I don’t understand…I am struggling, with my friends’ decisions. I accept them; I love them. But I don’t get it, so I have to write about it…this is how I process.

To Be Continued…

PS: I sincerely apologize for my over-use of semicolons in this piece. I mean, seriously--I'm normally really bad about it, but this is just ridiculous. Between the commas and the semicolons, I'm totally over-punctuated. But at least there are no technical run-on sentences. :)

The Approach...

Things come to my attention in strange, random patterns—this is nothing new. Although I would never classify myself as ADD, I am most definitely easily distracted. It’s why I work best, alone. I love to be social, but it’s just not productive. When I’m alone, I can obsessively push myself to get the job done. I can actually be quite driven, when I have a lot to do. But, I digress…(wasn’t that my point?!?!)…

Anyways, this week has brought on the marketing onslaught known as Mothers’ Day.

The past 6 years of Mothers’ Days have brought me no end of heartache. The day is crippling, no matter how I look on the outside; I will never, ever forget that first Mothers’ Day after Hannah passed away. The gaping hole where my heart had been was publicly exposed, raw, bleeding, and so broken; the ladies in my church will never know how much their kindness meant to me, in the middle of my valley.

I wanted to die.

The following years were “better,” but still painful…Mothers’ Day reminds me just how truly scarred I am. As I walk down the Hallmark aisles, and I read the beautiful sentiments that I’d like to give to my own mother, I find myself taking a “selah” moment to simply breathe.

I thought my first Mothers’ Day with JD would make all of that heartache go away…but really, it doesn’t. It’s still there, and I know it always will be, to a certain extent (though it’s easy to say that it is so much better than it ever was…time and grace are truly a healing balm).  The onslaught of pink, flowery, sparkly Mothers’ Day cards still hurts.

It’s a gentle ache, more than anything…but I notice it. My loss is not forgotten…

It’s hard for me to pick out a Mothers’ Day card for my mom, even though no one deserves it more than she does. She’s been incredible, through this process; I feel like a lot of subconscious damage has been repaired through both my pregnancy and in watching her with my son. She really is the most amazing grandmother. She’s reminding me more of my Grandma Myers—and anyone who has heard me talk about Grandma Myers knows that there is no higher compliment in my book. Guess I should tell her that, sometime, eh?  

However, to pick out a card for my mom, means that I have to sift through a bunch of cards that were never for me. And even this year, when I’ve “earned” one, I still look at them with a sideways glance—is that for real? Like motherhood hasn’t officially set in, yet…

Did you know that I finally, after 7 years, put in the “#1 Mom” earrings my mother had bought me while I was pregnant with Hannah? I never felt like I could wear them, until now…Even though I gave birth, I don’t know that I have ever truly accepted my role as a mother. Hearing myself say it now, even when I look at the little man that came out of my body, still sounds strange.

Looking back, it seems like someone else’s life; looking forward, it seems the same: It’s hard to believe that it’s all real.  She was here…she was real. I still remember that she smelled like Cheerios…she was born with more hair than JD…she was tiny, so small…I could have held her for days—but that’s all I got to hold her for…She had my feet, and she looked like her daddy…

And she will always be my first…

He is here, and he is real…and he smiles; he laughs. He looks for me when I walk into the room; he buries his head in my neck and he puts his chubby hands into my hair.  He has my hands, my feet, my legs…he has my inquisitive nature, and my fear of missing out on something.  He looks like so much of his daddy, but so much of me, and he is the reason I have to catch my breath when I leave for work in the morning…

He is, as far as we know, our last…

Mothers’ Day is coming, and it is mine. This one belongs to me…this one, this makes up for the ones that I’ve lost. It makes up for the Mothers’ Days that I cried myself to sleep, that I dreaded with my very soul. This Mothers’ Day, I will make a concentrated effort to celebrate for what it is: This is a day in which the world stops to thank those women whose blood, sweat, and tears form the clay of their lives. I am one of those women…And maybe I was one before, I don’t know. I never saw myself that way.

I always saw myself as a “temporary mother,” like it was only a momentary assignment.

Not this time.

This time, I will see myself as a momma…as a woman who always wanted to be a momma, more than anything else…And though it seems strange to me, to put myself into that category, it seems strangely perfect….everything I ever hoped of, or dreamed of…everything I ever prayed for, even on the tough days.

This Mothers’ Day, I celebrate my mom more than ever; I feel like I understand her just a little bit more.

I’ve picked out a card for her—it’s the first one I looked at, and it seemed the most right. I hope she likes it.  I don’t know if I will get a card for this, my first “real” Mothers’ Day; is it wrong, if I blatantly say that I hope I do? I really do; I want to cherish this day like never before. If you could see the party that is going on inside of my head, you would understand. I really am celebrating…even with the slight breeze of melancholy that echoes through…

(The most precious thing about this picture, is how it was taken. It's a random snapshot of JD, laying on my belly, looking up at me...He's about 10 weeks old in this picture, and I love his expression...)

Volunteer! Because it's a Good Thing!

I am fortunate enough to work for an employer that encourages volunteerism! Through the Employee Volunteer Program, I was able to spend a day this week, volunteering at the World Bird Sanctuary. Although I'm sure that my co-workers thought it would be a day of petting vultures and cuddling chickens, they couldn't be more wrong!
The day was, in a word, exhausting. This little office girl was not prepared for the amount of sheer physicality that these employees go through on a daily basis. A tremendous amount of food preparation and cleaning goes on every day, that the public has no concept of! Crates had to be cleaned, floors had to be swept and mopped, produce had to be chopped, and most exciting of all: Rats and mice had to be gutted and skinned (What, eagles don't eat broccoli?!?!?). My sister has worked for this organization for years, and I've been attending events there for at least a decade; this was the first time I have ever volunteered. I walked away with an entirely new appreciation for the love and care these staff members give these beautiful creatures. I strongly encourage everyone to take a day to volunteer at a non-profit organization, and if you do, please consider WBS! They would certainly appreciate an extra set of hands...And how many people can say, at the end of the day, that an armadillo licked their feet? Imagine the stories you could tell your friends!!! 

Billie Baumann (sister) and I, with Sanibel the Bald Eagle.

Cathy Spahn and Rustle the Armadillo

There’s an armadillo licking my feet! (Rustle)

Preparing flier food (rats and mice) with Trina

Feeding a fruit bat by hand!  He kept reaching out with the claws on the ends of his wing!

Sweeping out the kitchen

Big Bad Bertha the Kestrel

Throwing My Shoes...(the edit)

I originally posted this blog, then went back and deleted it. I just had a feeling that if it were seen by the wrong person, no amount of explaining would save my rear. So here it is, again, with a few tweaks...but you get the point:

Have you ever been in a situation where you genuinely feel like you just can’t win? Like everything you do, will somehow be twisted out of context, and you will pay the price?

I’m in one of those situations right now, and I’m not entirely sure what to do. I'm finding that my naturally curious personality is not taken the right way; when I look at me, from their perspective, I can see why. I ask questions--I always have. Perhaps I missed my mark...maybe I would have been a better journalist. I don't ask questions to be maliciously rude or nosy; it really is just a tendency to want to know what's going on. I like to be on top of situations--even ones that aren't necessarily my business. I forget to stop sometimes, though, and wake up to the fact that they're just that--not my business. I miss the boundary lines from time to time, and if I've done that with you, I'm sorry. I'd appreciate if people would just  let me know at the time, though, before it becomes a major situation...like the one I'm dealing with right now. My mom is right-I need to stop, and not ask. Or at least, ask myself why I want to know something--why am I so curious? Hmm.

Yesterday, I posted on Facebook that I was “making myself thank God for people that aren’t kind. Wishing I could just throw my shoe at them and be done…but that’s not what He calls us to do, is it?” Someone sent me a beautifully-worded response that I hung on my cubicle: “God tells us to forgive, love, bless our enemies…They do something. We are hurt, angry, etc., and really, rightfully so. What is our response? Are we able to find God and give it to Him, forgive, love, etc? Or do we ‘throw the shoe?’ Whether that shoe is literal, or figurative? We’re now short a shoe.”

Short a shoe.

I’m dealing with a situation in which I am being attacked. Things are being said about me, and quotes are being erroneously attributed to me. It’s easy to pin gossip on a talkative person, especially when you’re looking for a target. I’d really, REALLY like to take off my shoes and chuck them at someone’s head—literally. It would be kind of liberating, minus the accompanying assault charge. And I would be shoeless, to boot (punny!)…which is unpleasant on a rainy day.

Throwing our shoes at people only leaves us with a limp, and with dirty feet.

Figuratively speaking, “throwing our shoes” is when we retaliate with insults or additional gossip…it’s when we refuse to use even the no-win situation for growth, or when we sit and waste energy on sulking. As an immature human being, I want to do that, too: “This person wronged me!  You have to listen to me complain about how they wronged me!” What good will that do? Create additional drama? Waste brain cells? Take time away from thinking about my little guy (who is FAR more interesting? Cost me sleep (sadly, this already has)? That’s foolishness! Granted, it’s easy to say “pray about it, and leave it with God!” It’s very hard to do, especially for those of us with “slight” OCD. We want a solution! We want vengeance! And we want it yesterday!

Luke 12:25 tells us that worrying will not add one hour to our lives. It’s pointless. It gives us gray hairs and wasted tears; it takes our shoes, and leaves us with a spiritual limp. In my situation, I have to find a way to trust God to take care of my reputation. I have to trust Him to take a no-win situation, and have His way. Either way, He provides—I can rest in that. He knows my intentions, and I know my intentions. He knows my actions, even when I may have missed something. He understands the reasons why people say/think what they do.

I have to learn to control my natural curiosity. And I have to understand that not everyone "gets" me or my intentions. I actually feel kind of sad for someone, who is so paranoid that they find such queries to be part of some agenda. It is a depressing world that we live in, that takes genuine concern and twists it into a sort of accusation—I don’t understand it.

But I don’t have to.

The only thing I have to do, is to keep my shoes on (I can run faster that way!) and to pray not only for those people, but for myself—that I will learn to be quiet, so as not to be misconstrued. That I will learn to be unliked. That I will learn that some situations cannot be fixed, but that God is still in control. That I will learn to be unjustified without being paranoid about it. That I will learn to be at peace…and above all, to refrain from giving someone the pleasure of seeing me throw my shoes.

Thankfully, I know a God that lets me be me…that hears my complaints, and Who knows my heart…I know a God that lets me go barefoot in His presence…

In defense of working mothers...

Recently, someone sat down next to me to congratulate me on my new baby. When they asked if I was going back to work, and I said that I was, they remarked, “How can you have worked so hard to have him, only to turn him over to someone else to watch?”

I felt like she slapped me.

I read an article today where Isabella Dutton stated:

“"I cannot understand mothers who insist they want children - especially those who undergo years of fertility treatment - then race back to work at the earliest opportunity after giving birth, leaving the vital job of caring for them to strangers…Why have them at all if you don't want to bring them up, or can't afford to? And why pretend you wanted them if you have no intention of raising them? This hypocrisy is, in my view, far more pernicious and difficult to fathom than my own admission that my life would have been better without children.  And here, perhaps, is the nub of it: I would not take on the job of motherhood and do it half-heartedly."

 I almost spit.

Another friend of mine was distraught after a “sage” made similar comments to her on the almighty Facebook. After a momentary rant, she decided that enough was enough, and unfriended him…I completely understand.

Before I delivered, I hung my head in shame when I said that I would have to go back to work. The day before I came back, I melted down in hysterics in my kitchen, bawling that “he doesn’t belong to someone else!!! He belongs to me!!!!” I got it out of my system, and I am pleased to say that no such dramatic displays occurred the day I came back to the office.

Yes, a huge part of me is ashamed that I am a working mother. I have debts to pay, and student loans to pay off. I have credit cards, and a mortgage; the economy has not been kind to us, though God has always provided. I regret that the credit card debt exists—that is where the shame lies. If not for our debt, I wouldn’t have to work, plain and simple.

But it exists. So I have to work.

Although Satan wants to attack me, and make me think this job is a punishment for bad spending habits (which is not, by the way, the biggest reason we have credit card debt; unemployment means that you buy necessities any way you can), and that I have a punitive field to reap, I believe that my job is actually a blessing. God has provided for us, and He has blessed me with a good job in a solid institution. This job has benefits that help my entire family; for the first time in our marriage, I am the primary on an insurance policy. Since I can’t be privately insured, this is monumental. Our son has incredible health insurance. My husband has incredible health insurance.  There are educational benefits—every day I start to beat myself up, I remind myself that with this job, I am building a future for my family.

My mother was a working mother. Sure, like any child, I questioned whether or not she loved me—but that had NOTHING to do with her work schedule. She somehow made it to every performance. She analyzed every report card. We had chores; we got spankings; we respected our parents. We did our homework. We played outside. Yes, there was daycare, and yes, there were babysitters. They DID NOT raise me.

My mother raised me.

When he married my mom, my stepdad raised me.

To sit there and say that a working mother shills her children off on someone else to be raised, is an insult to my mother, and to the other working moms out there that are working their fingers to the bone, and tearing their hearts in half, to actively raise the children that they know they are responsible for…They work because they love us. They work because they know they have a duty to provide for us. They work because they have to—is it their first choice? Probably not—I know it’s not, for me. But it is a part of life, and you make it work because you have to…You focus on the benefits. You do your job, and you leave it there. When you come home, you are 100% parent. You raise your child.

As a parent (as a mother), you have a responsibility to find care for your child that closely aligns with your personal philosophies. When it doesn’t, you either correct the caregiver or remove your child. Period. They are not responsible for raising your baby—you are.

I am.

And I have not tossed my most precious baby off to some hooligan to get him out of my hair for a few hours—I have vetted my caregiver, I know her family, and I know her theology. So when I leave my baby boy with her, I have peace in my heart that I have made the absolute best of the “situation” of being a working mother.

How dare anyone accuse me, or any other working mom, of callously having children only to dump them off on someone else, so that we can have our career aspirations? Not every working mom wants to climb the corporate ladder; some of us simply want to keep a roof over our family’s head.How dare this Isabella Dutton infer that working mothers are loving their children half-heartedly? That's absurd. I challenge Ms. Dutton to find a child more loved than my boy...To interpret her words, every stay-at-home mom is the best mom in the world. Being an SAHM does NOT mean that you are perfect, that you are the best, or that you are providing the optimal environment for your child. That's a generalization that is unfair. 

I have seen SAHMs that should rethink their options-they're not happy, and it translates to their child. Likewise, I have seen working mothers that do emulate Ms. Sutton's descriptions-they are more corporate than maternal, and that also translates to their child. It's not fair, to divide us as women and mothers into one category or the other. It's not Working Moms vs. SAHMs. One is not better than the other--we're just different, and we all make it work in our way. There's no shame or great pride in one over the other. We do what we do, and we love our babies the best we can.

My mother never made me feel like my needs were secondary to her very-stressful job. I never felt like she preferred her employment over me; I always knew my sister and I were the most important thing in her lives. We still are. If I am as good of a working mom as my mom was, my son is in great shape!

I resent any implication that my skills as a mother are diminished by my need for employment. I resent any implication that I lack maternal instinct, that I am short-changing my child, or that I am shoving my child on someone else to raise. Proverbs 31 talks about a woman who makes things, who buys, who sells, and who provides for her family(verses 15 and 24). How can anyone sit there and say that a woman who is providing for her family, who is doing everything she does with them in mind, is robbing them somehow?

If I were to work all day, then come home, and ignore my family, then yes—that would be grounds for such an accusation. As working mothers, we do have a responsibility to be even more present with the time that we have with our little ones. And for those of us that are? Our children get just as much love as the child who’s mom is home with him for those 8 hours…our kids just get it in a little more concentrated form. 

A working mother and a stay-at-home mom are equals. We love our children just as much. Our situations are different; our sacrifices are different. But we love our kids.

The choices we make, whatever they are, we have made them with their present and future interests in mind. They have our hearts when we are not around; they are never far from our thoughts, no matter the mess in the corporate world. We raise our children with a focus on how God provides, how He loves us, and how we love Him in return. We raise our children with responsibility, and we find caregivers with similar goals and motivation.

I love my son. I have to work. And like my mother before me, my son will always know that he comes first. He may not always understand my methods, but he will always know that he is loved.

Being a wife and a mother is all I’ve ever wanted to be. For now, I am a working wife and a working mother, with a working family. This is where I believe God has us, and it is what I believe He will bless us through. I don’t know if this is how it will always be; regardless, He has put us in this place, at this time. And He has incredible grace…I’ve seen Him pour it out on my mother, and I trust that He will pour it out on me when I seek Him.

Yes, I am a working mother.

I will not hang my head in shame of that title, anymore.

I am proud of the work that I do, and the reason I do it.

Bliss...

Sometimes, people who have been through a tragedy lose their ability to hope. We lose our ability to find joy, because we're so afraid it will be taken away again. We think that every smile comes with a price, that every piece of happiness comes with a side of tears.
We lose our ability to celebrate without fear.
As I've progressed through this pregnancy and into raising this beautiful boy, I've had kind of a spiritual rebirth as well. I've blogged about this before; I've been making myself stop and enjoy the moment.
I've been making myself celebrate, and I've been making the "what ifs" in my head be quiet. Any time one of them has presented itself, I've prayed about it.
My little guy is awesome.
Motherhood is a joy.
I do NOT want to sully it with fear or worry.
So I'm praying through it.
I feel like I could explode with happiness.
I'm sleep-deprived, stressed about money, smell like formula, and have, on occasion, forgotten to shower...but I don't care.
I'm happy.
JD's Baby Dedication was last Sunday (fitting,that our wee Irishman would be dedicated on St. Patrick's Day!), and we were so honored that our church family allowed us the opportunity to present our little miracle to our congregation! Several members of our families came; people from our home churches (past and present) came; and we all celebrated in a moment I thought I'd never see happen.
A Baby Dedication! For MY baby! I prayed so hard for that day!!!!!  To see it come to pass--words cannot describe how happy I was, to take part in that! I can't even verbalize it!  I hope that the people who were there understand how amazing that was...
To be told you can't have children..to spend years in prayer and research, to be told "no" so many times....to be told that the son you just delivered almost died at birth (cord issues)...to almost give up, but to have so many friends and family keep you uplifted in prayers and encouragement...to have a heart's desire...to see God keep His promises...To stand in front of those friends and family members, holding the very answer to your deepest prayers...
Is there anything more beautiful?

My 12-week long leave of absences from my job ends next week...Although I love my  job, it's far from easy for me to leave my little guy. He's in good hands...we have amazing childcare that is quite literally, a gift from God! It makes going back just a little easier. I keep telling myself that this is for JD--we are building him a future, and it is worth it. God willing, I'd love to work my tail-end off and get out of debt, ASAP. I know He can make that happen, so that's a huge prayer request right now. I'm asking for peace of mind, as I go back to work; for financial provision; and for financial wisdom, so that there won't be the temptation to spend foolishly. We have a long way to go, but for JD, it will be worth it. We can do this! The prayer on my mirror (I write my prayer points on my mirror in dry-erase marker so I remember to pray over them every day) reminds me to "Consider the Lilies of the Field." Considering how well God has had His hand on JD, and on me, I know that David and I can trust Him with our finances. He cares for us...and He doesn't want us to stain our joy with worry. Thanks for agreeing with us in prayer for this--it's time for financial freedom!
This blog isn't very well-written. I'm pretty scattered, but I think you get the point.
I have an abundance of joy...I am in the middle of a mountaintop experience, after so many years of valleys and deserts. I know we can't stay on the mountain forever, so while I'm here, I will embrace it.  I am so thankful to the Lord...He keeps His promises, He delivers on His Word. He doesn't give you a heart's desire without seeing it fulfilled, even when it's not on your timetable. He is faithful; He is truthful.
He is good....
And I am happy. :)
JD is here...
He is perfect...
God is awesome...
And there is
Bliss.

Breaking the Pieces Back Together...Adventures in Postpartum Depression

It's been a while since I wrote anything...but you can't blame me! I've been a temporary SAHM, learning the ins-and-outs of new motherhood and feeling like every day is a minor mountain to climb. It keeps me busier than I ever realized!  I've eschewed makeup for mornings with JD, and I currently live in my pajamas. Learning a "new normal" is a full-time gig that I do NOT look forward to giving up when I go back to work! Of course, I actually like my job, which is nice...but motherhood is, and always has been, where my heart is. Wish it paid the bills! But, I digress...
About 4 weeks post-birth, something unexpected happened to me...something I had been warned about, but chose to ignore until it was almost too late.  I believed a lie.  I believed everyone else I knew was a Supermom that had everything figured out, and that I was the only one who failed at motherhood. I just knew I sucked at this. He cried; I cried. I pumped; I cried. I woke up; I cried. I fed him; I cried. I called my mom; I cried. I went to the doctor; I cried. I literally got to the point where I could not stop crying. I started believing that David and I had made a terrible mistake, and that we should have never traveled down this path...that now it was too late, and I was failing miserably. I could not stop an internal rant that I. Had. Failed.
I had been warned.
Postpartum Depression hit me like a wall over the head.
What right do I have, to cry this much? How could I, who prayed and begged God for this for so long, be so sad? How? I could barely function...
The doctors had warned me; the nurses had warned me. Even the lactation consultants had warned me. Not only was I, as a woman with history of hormonal issues, at a higher risk for PPD; as a mother who was having a child after a loss, PPD was almost a given. I scoffed at the warnings. I didn't believe it. I knew that after all we had been through, there was no way God was going to let me go through that. Motherhood was everything I'd ever wanted; what could possibly make me sad now that I had my dream?
I was wrong.
I shut down.
One morning, after dreaming about playing with both of my children (I hadn't thought about never being able to do that, until that dream), the reality of raising the first child after a loss came to a head. The pressures of the last 3 months broke...the hospital stay, the anxiety, the fear, the self-imposed solitary confinement, the medications, the side effects of the medications (there were 17 at one point), the endless doctors' visits, the consultations and research, the information overload, the lack of sleep--I fell apart. I actually walked out of the bedroom as JD lay crying....I wanted to scream. I felt like I was going to explode.
I called my mom, to come over...and I called my doctor.
I was in danger...
I couldn't stop thinking about how much I missed Hannah, and wanted to be with her--there were crazy, irrational thoughts that I could not, no matter how hard I prayed, get under control. I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't breathe. I texted David that I was a failure as a mother, that I wasn't spiritual enough, and that I was a terrible person.
I wanted to crash my car into a cliff (Seriously. I had a plan).
The last time I had thoughts this strongly, I had been trying out a new birth control that sent me over the edge. Realizing this, I had the sudden clarity to know that I had to get medical help immediately. I called the doctor's office, even though I was mortified to do so, and got a prescription sent over right away that I started taking that night.
I started feeling better the next day.
I started enjoying motherhood the next day.
And I started to understand that I am anything but a failure.
I'm a darn good mother.
I value my son over my reputation. I don't care if you think I'm a failure for having to a take little pill to get my hormones figured back out again. I need to be able to care for him. I need to be able to pray, and I believe you can get so chemically messed up that you physically can't even make yourself try to talk to God. And chemically, for now, I need some assistance.
No one ever told me that there are other mothers in the church who struggle with the same things. I am not alone. I'm just not afraid to talk about it.
I am medicated.
And I am unashamed.
I can look at my son and smile now.
I can think about my daughter and not fall apart now.
I called a friend of mine who had been through a similar loss, and she was a huge encouragement. I didn't say anything to anyone else about this until now, because I was trying to get things under control...and let's face it: The church isn't particularly kind to those that struggle with depression or things akin to it. We're a judgmental group, and we're not supposed to be. I've been outspoken about Christians that struggle with depression before--the church does not treat them well. People, we have to have understanding and compassion. The human body can only take so much--the mind can only handle so much. Even the most spiritual human being on the planet has a breaking point....I found mine.  I don't plan on being on these medications for long; I don't believe that medication for chemical imbalances should be a permanent "solution." But for now, this is where I am. My family has noticed the change for the better, and has said that they knew I was getting to a very unbalanced place. I'm very grateful for their help, and for their understanding.
The first 2 weeks after JD was born, the sun couldn't set on my happiness...then there were 2 weeks of strange, awful, terrible darkness that didn't make any sense to me...
And now, the sun has come back out again...
So, for the past 2 weeks, I haven't blogged.
I've been too busy enjoying this little man that I'm a mother to.
I've been watching the milestones, and celebrating every single day that I have.
I've been praying for this little guy, and I've been thankful for the hope that I've been given.
And I have been too
Busy
Being
Happy.
:)