Bigger Picture Moments: At the intersection of Gay Marriage and Abortion Poltics and Being Cool

Probably he lied.

I cupped his five-year-old face in my hands, his cheeks still round enough to remind me that he's not all that old, and I asked him earnestly, softly if he had stretched the truth and why.

Why would you stretch the truth out of the shape of reality? Why would you lie to your friends, son?

It cascades out of his mouth, a waterfall of truth spilling over his lips after the damn was broken by the sheer force of a genuine inquiry. 

"Because I want to be cool."

We all do, baby.

We all want to be cool.

We all want other people to look at us and see that we are worthwhile and lovely and valuable

I confess this to him as much as I confess it to my own self.

We care for what others think of us, and we forget for Whom we're living

so much that we

forget to care for others and remember the life we've been offered through grace.

We forget that every interaction is either laced with grace or condemnation; we can either help each other see the goodness of a good Creator that they were intended to reflect

or we can pick apart each others' flaws and parade them across the stage, encouraging those around us to wear the mask, to hide our hearts, to lie for acceptance.

I share with my boy, this oldest soul with whom our family has been graced, and I tell him that even when the rest of the people in his life miss the mark

even when grace isn't overflowing in relationships

even when we feel everything but loved and valued and worthwhile

we can rest heavy into God's grace

we can know we are loved because of that grace

and simply because we are His. 

Still, though, I know, that our hearts long to also be woven into the threads of community here.

Our hearts long to be unwrapped carefully by those around us who can show us pieces of the character of God

and also help us see His very image in our own lives.

He nods in understanding and says, "Yeah, and wouldn't it be boring if we were all the same? If we all tried to be like everyone else?"

It would be boring.

And it would be limiting.

And it would be the farthest thing from a great design.

We meet each other on the solid ground of Grace, on the solid ground of the Word that gives us truth and grace and decide that as we move forward in loving God and loving each other, that we'll camp out on this sacred ground. 

I remember these words this morning when I wake up

and I find myself on edge.

This morning there's been a lot grounds on which to land and stand firm: the Supreme Court appealing parts of the Defense of Marriage Act, more abortion politics out of Texas, gun rights here in our local community -- all topics that stir deep thought and even deeper feelings.

All topics that leave us divided and irritable and shaking fingers at each other.

All topics that grieve me because we are constantly missing what's at the heart of the matter in more cases than one and in more ways than what can be summed up in a short paragraph.

I'm human, and I'm tempted to go to those other grounds, and die on those hills where others lay slayed open and bleeding out beliefs and values, their convictions and understandings.

I'm tempted to go there and say, "but this is {fill in the blank}" and "that is {fill in the blank}, and I'm often tempted to go and do it all in the name of God. 

But I remember what my boy and I discussed yesterday, and how does that help me love God and value others?

I remember our conversation about feeling valued and loved. It's not me, but the Spirit who does the hard work of changing people's hearts when they need to be changed. And see how I said hearts? Not their politics. It's the heart that needs to be changed toward the heart of the Father. We know the Father's heart for us because His Word lays it out. We don't have to guess. But when we use scripture as a weapon, words as swords to piece each other instead of a truth wrapped in love letter, I just wonder what we are doing to each other; I just wonder what we are doing to the Body. 

We act either as agents of grace, showing His heart for us, or squash grace before it overflows; we either help find the image of God in each other or we reflect a heart of condemnation. We can help others see the Father's heart for them, or see help them see our own individual beliefs. We can speak the truth in love (and, friends, there is truth and it's His Word), or we can speak it mercilessly.

I am reminded, slowly, almost daily, that 

the only hill on which I want to stand and dig my heals in

is the one where Jesus died, Truth splayed across a cross and grace came alive.

One Word 365: Off Balance {On Rejoicing}

There's this off-balance feeling that's been floating around inside my body since a few weeks after the miscarriage.

The irony is thick.

Life has been off balance in general and this physical manifestation of the feeling seems to be a reminder to continually reorder my mind's priorities and our life priorities, too. As badly as I want my life ordered right, I want my physical body in balance, too.

I want to be able to stand tall and walk straight without feeling like I'm on a slightly wavy sea boat; this desire for normalcy in all the facets of life keeps my mind spinning with thoughts -- how do I make it all normal?

Frustration mounts tenfold when despite numerous doctors' visits, everyone says everything looks normal despite my not feeling normal. You know, I'm glad it's all normal, but ... that leaves me feeling like a detective who's been constantly searching for clues and trying to put all of the pieces together. It's been taking up a good bulk of my thought life and even conversation with John and, of course, time spent at the doctors.

A few weekends ago when I visited Michelle, I'd been mulling over taking on a fast but hadn't thought of anything that seemed appropriate. We found my much-needed fast through conversations about our meager attempts at controlling our lives ...  for me, I knew I needed to abstain from reading health-related articles, books, posts, papers, etc for 30 days. For the past 20 days, I've been avoiding overloading my brain with all of this information ... and I simply cannot believe how much health information I've been consuming daily.

When something other than Christ's way of life becomes the focus, it's no wonder everything feels off balance.

After that clicked I realized I'd been clenching my fists trying to grasp control of the wrong things -- I cannot control how quickly my body rebalances no matter how much I read about the workings of the body, but I can through His strength control the thoughts that come through my mind.

Because while God gives our bodies the awesome ability to heal and we can do our parts in treating them the way {I think} He intended -- rooted in the rhythms of creation {more on this later} -- He has given me the ability to take all thoughts captive to Christ.

He has given me the choice to think on all things pure, right, noble, lovely, true, excellent, praiseworthy {Philippians 4:4-6}.

He has given me a choice to rejoice even when life seems anything but joyful.

I've sat in these thoughts for weeks now asking myself why He would command us to take captive our thoughts, think on what is true and right and lovely and rejoice always. Why is there so much more in the Bible about caring for our minds and hearts?

And what I've come back to is the thought that so often our bodies go the way of our minds.

So often our thoughts are what really lead us to the fullness of life.

Slowly, daily

I surrender at least some of my thoughts to Christ's way.

Slowly, daily

I try to make the choice to rejoice

at least some of hours I spend awake.

And slowly, daily,

balance, beyond the physical, restores. 

Bigger Picture Moments: The Small Storms

It's not the biggest storm we've ever had, but he's completely overtaken by it.

We've been trying to go to sleep for about 20 minutes, snuggled together in his bed, but he can't relax enough to take his eyes off of the storm.  He's wholly intent on watching the lightening flashes jet across the sky just outside his window, and he nervously asks about each loud rumble of thunder that meanders in through the open window of his darkened room.

I open my arms for him, but he's too preoccupied with the storm ... until he grows tired and cannot keep his eyes open.

Finally, he tucks himself into the crook of my arm. The thunder roars a bit louder ... and he sandwiches me into a headlock between his 3-year-old arms, drapes his legs over my body as while the tree branches dance wildly in the wind just outside his window.

I try to slowly slide myself from his grip after I think he's drifted to sleep, but he whimpers about loud booms and holds on for dear life.

There's surrender tonight, heaping high in the midst of the storm.

Him, drifting to sleep.

Me, sinking into the bed until deep slumber takes over his body. And while I'm lying next to him, I know I've had trouble averting my eyes from the storm.

It's not the biggest storm I've ever known, but my eyes are glued to the window, worried about what's coming next ... when exhaustion sets in

and I, too, have to choose

to fight

or throw my weary arms around my Father's neck

and surrender to the Rest that only surrender brings

when there's storm thundering outside.

Life After Miscarriage: Seeking and Stuffing

No matter what it seems beforehand, there are no answers to be found half way through a container of ice cream, no matter how far the digging.

It didn't stop me from trying, though, last night after my heart felt like it dropped from its rightful place in my chest and onto the floor, a weeping mess of angry tears following closely.

This week I had to schedule an ultrasound for next week  -- part of post-operation check up -- and that was pretty much the last clipping of the final string from which my weeping heart had been hanging.

This week, I should have have been nearing 20 weeks of pregnancy.

This week, we should have been taking a longer glimpse during an ultrasound to find out whether the baby was a boy or girl ... not staring into the empty open space of my baby's former home.

I've never said "should" before because I've been busy clinging tightly to the thought that only what should happen happens.

It's not true.

Mothers aren't supposed to lose their babies to death before their babies are born.

Babies aren't supposed to die.

Bodies aren't supposed to go wonky after giving birth or ever.

Mothers shouldn't have post-partum depression ever let alone after miscarriages.

Bombs aren't supposed to go off at marathon finish lines and claim little lives and sever limbs and leave people fighting for their lives.

Earthquakes aren't supposed to shake the ground on which we're standing until we fall to our knees wondering if solid ground is a myth we've taken as truth our whole lives.

This world, these people, this very heart -- it's not supposed to be broken; it wasn't meant to be that way.

And I'm angry.

I'm angry that deception ever had the opportunity to slither into our hearts.

I'm angry that we ever bit off more than we could chew of the most tempting and destructive of fruits.

I'm angry that my heart falls off its strings when I feel like I'm being battered from every direction, an unlucky piñata at the hands of a most strategic and skilled batter and that I pick up a box of ice cream and go digging for answers there

when my heart knows that where I'm digging just melts and gives way.

I cried and yelled and swore Friday night, my husband sitting next to me in bed, listening to me list my grievances; he listened carefully, looked me in the eye, anger blazing bright and told me what I need to hear:

"You're right. It's not supposed to be this way."

He didn't tell me to pray harder.

Or read more of my Bible.

Or seek Jesus better.

Or stop crying and just have more faith

So I raged on until the storm inside quieted for the night.

But I woke with it raging again yesterday and a little today, and it started to dawn on me that I think I skipped this part of the grieving process -- the letting myself feel and express and say and voice my outrage before I accepted the calm that seemed to come so quickly and easily in just recognizing that God is God {and I am not}.

So by the time I had pizza and wine and conversation with my brain twin Saturday afternoon, I was ready for the words I didn't know she'd share.

"It's OK to be angry. It's OK to be pissed off. What happened sucks."

I like peace. I crave calm. I mean, I felt like the word "rejoice" was my word for this year. I want for joy and gratitude and I long to live in those spaces and places, and I think I longed for those so much during the turmoil of finding out about our baby having died and giving birth and then having an emergency d and c that I began seeking that calm and peace and joy and gratitude before I ever expressed the other emotions that come

when something happens to that heart that the heart was never intended to bear.

In seeking, I stuffed down deep inside me the grief that needed to escape so I could move forward.

So I'm letting it all unravel, slowly and trusting that in the meantime

His grace is and will be sufficient to carry me through the day-by-days that seem so daunting right now.

Bigger Picture Moments: On Asking God Hard Questions

Three miscarriages in a row.

The last one thisclose to the second trimester.

There's been so much heartache in the losses of these babies,  these dreams and these hopes that it's left me questioning God:

Where are you, God, while I'm grieving our sweet baby?
Where were you when my baby stopped growing inside me at nearly eleven weeks? 
Why didn't you stop the baby from dying?
Or, God, why let me be pregnant for so long with so many good signs of healthy pregnancy only to birth my baby at 12 weeks and some days?
Why even let me get pregnant at all? Why not just keep us from getting pregnant if our baby was going to die?
Why give me a desire for more children if we can't have more children?

I've asked all of these questions, sobbing in the arms of my husband, or while sitting with friends over coffee or scribbling notes into my journal.

Why?

But I was scared to ask them to God. I didn't want to give these questions voice in prayer; I'd chided myself over my lack of faith until a colleague pointed out during a staff meeting right after this last miscarriage that Jesus welcomed questions.

It doesn't scare God or make Him angry when I ask questions, really tough and messy questions that showcase my messy, heavy heart

My colleague even went so far as to say that God cares less about the questions I'm asking and more about the fact that I'm simply coming to Him, seeking Him.

So I began asking. And He began answering, that following Sunday, in fact, during a sermon our pastor was sharing from Isaiah 51: 12-13:

"I, even I, am He who comforts you. Who are you that you fear mere mortals, human beings who are but grass, that you forget the Lord your Maker, who stretches out the heavens and who lays the foundations of the earth ..."

But in God saying that, He doesn't point His finger at me, shaming me, saying: "Who are you to question me?!"

Rather, He says to me, Who am I that you can trust me? If I stretched out the heavens and lay the foundation of the Earth, how much more am I able to care for you?

The same God who put those stars in the sky is the same God who knows what never has happened but what could have happened and what won't ever happen as well as what has happened and what is happening now and what will happen -- that God.

I don't know any of that, and I'm not sure I want to know. I don't know God's reasons, and I'm not sure I want to know them.

But I know who God is.

He's the God who loves us so much He sent a piece of Himself wrapped in flesh to an imperfect world.
He's the God who doesn't give his children snakes when they ask for bread.
He's the God who sends His Word to speak into my hurting heart.
He's the God who sends His Church to love and comfort and walk with the hurting.
He's the God who hears even the deepest groans of our hearts and sends us a counsellor who intercedes for us.
He's the God who made a way for selfish me to be with perfect Him forever.

And knowing who He is has answered the questions raging in my mind  -- just not in the ways I expected. 

But in ways that give me rest and peace and hope. 

Share your Bigger Picture Moment HERE!

Living Healthfully: Welcome to Puberty {again}

I couldn't button my size four pants.

And, in the midst of a hectic-Tuesday morning, I promptly had a mini-meltdown, tears of hot frustration running down my face, there in front of my bedroom mirror.

All of this, I'd cried, would be much easier to swallow if my body were pregnant, growing out of my jeans for the sake of growing new life and crying tears of emotional roller-coaster pregnancy hormones instead of just ones of crazy highs and lows.

But I knew better. I knew I wasn't expecting.

In my moment of meltdown, I text messaged Kerry, an integrative medicine doctor who has recently begun working with me on a genetic, biochemical level and nutritional level, and explained the situation.

To which she replied, "Welcome to puberty ... again."

I groaned.

Then I cried.

And then I laughed.

Because actually that's actually much closer to what I'm feeling these days -- like I'm a teenager in the throes of life changes rather than an expecting mother.

I guess I should back up a bit because I've been extremely quiet about my health and what's been happening the past few months.

I haven't shared lately about my health or about Kerry for a few reasons; I've been to so many doctors, all of whom have helped, yes, but none who seem to have ever completely gotten down to root of what's going on inside my body that has been causing such imbalances.

Have I been battling a gut yeast overgrowth? Yes.

Are my hormone levels really out of balance? Double yes.

Was my body detoxing? Yes to that, too.

But all summer long I've had this persistent and lingering feeling buried deep in my gut that there were other issues underlying -- mostly, I felt like something wasn't right at a deeper level. I mean, I've been having neurological problems that affect my balance and my speech and a smattering of other functions, too, and one can only detox for so long and attribute such abnormalities to the detoxing process before something has to give ... before the body has to brought back into a state of symbiosis.

I walked into Kerry's office at the end of August hope swelling in my heart; I knew her as the doctor people turn to when they've seen every specialist, the doctor who turns stage four cancer patients around.

But for as much hope as I felt, just as much confusion and skepticism ran rampant. I think I sweat through our entire 1.5 hour session.

When I left her office? I could barely fathom all of it really.

But, too, when I left her office, I felt like she could. She really seemed to understand what was happening inside my body {as best as a human mind can understand.}.

I mean, despite Kerry being really, really smart {she is a former trauma surgeon and a biochemist who focuses on genetic expression, nutrition and how the body functions at a cellular level and who has written a diagnostic program with MIT to help her read bodies at such levels, so you know, just your average everyday genius}, she has a gift for explaining complex, detailed things in a way that is sort of graspable.
Sort of.

The terms auto-immune disease, hormonal imbalance, neurological chaos and genetic mutations were all part of the conversation.

But also part of our conversation were her bold words of promise.

"Ninety days," she told us. "You should feel like a new person by then."

I left there hopeful but if I'm going to be honest one thought lingered long beyond the rest.

"Guard my life and rescue me; do not let me be put to shame, for I take refuge in you. May integrity and uprightness protect me, because my hope, Lord, is in you." Psalm 25: 20-21

Now here I am at 30 days with that same lingering hope in the Lord, but also hope that perhaps she was right -- that He had given her insights to help me really heal.

My energy returned, headaches mostly gone, digestion completely restored, food sensitivities mostly resolved, most of the neurological senses improved vastly, I really do feel different.

This second puberty stuff? It's a sign that my body is deep healing and rebalancing {though I wish I could do that while wearing size four jeans! Demin and bras are expensive!}

And I don't know -- maybe the vast emotions, the unbuttoned pants, the ever-evolving bra size really are signs that I am a women expecting; it's just that right now it's not the kind of expecting that ends with a new life wrapped in the bundle of a baby.

Rather, it's the kind that seems to be more of a rebirth of vibrancy, a rebirth of who I was and who I am and who I'm fast becoming both heart and body, mind and spirit.

He says He makes all things new

in His time

and maybe this time

His time

is finally my time

to be the molded shaped clay to which He's been busy giving new shape

in more ways than one.

Linking with Kelli today for the Healthy Mom Series she's hosting.

Everyday Life: Lumps and Bumps and Steering Wheels

After we read,

after lights out,

after we pray,

after we are tucked beneath warm covers, my oldest drives into wide-awake nightmares instead of drifting into his normal peaceful slumber.

He begins to sob, asking through tears, "Mom, do kids get cancer? Or do just older people?"

And just like with most unexpected veers into darkness, I find myself swallowing my own fear at this sudden jerk of the car toward the edge of the cliff and try to calmly recover the direction of the conversation, steer it back onto the safety of the well-paved road.

I answer as simply, honestly as I can -- yes, sometimes little kids do get cancer, but that it doesn't happen very often.

He continues to weep next to me as I gently explain and whisper-pray for the right words to become my words to become his words of comfort and understanding.

His small body shakes next to mine, and I pull him close as it becomes clearer that he's not just asking hypothetically.

"Is the lump in my throat that won't go away cancer, mommy?"

I don't know how he's taken this leap from simply just telling me earlier about this lump to equating it with cancer, but I'm all too-familiar with how such leaps are made; I bridge the gap between these mountains all too often, linking symptoms and fear with disease and what ifs.

Though I gently whisper that I don't think the lump in his throat is cancer, he still can't rest, so I ask him what made him think about it and he reminds me that we've been praying for my Grandpa Filippi to be healed from cancer.

"Do people die from cancer?"

My heart flips again and sags heavy, holding his question

I steady the wheel, regain traction on solid grand and pray peace over him from the One Who knows our bodies and our hearts and thoughts; the One Who loves and protects. And the one who heals when we need to be healed.

His cries soften and fade into rhythmic breaths as he drifts to sleep.

But now I am wide awake

mopping up the soppy mess in my own heart

sad and dripping with the reality that

at just five, he would even be internalizing such heaviness


and

that at just five, there are even such heavy things to ponder.

Frustrated, I wonder aloud via Facebook at why none of the parenting books address how to explain things like cancer and such to soft and permeable five-year-old hearts.

I swerve my car toward the edge and into darkness, but she catches my hand at the wheel and she does, too,

and they calmly steer me back toward solid ground

reminding me

just as I reminded him

that we know Who really does the driving around here.

It's just that sometimes it takes those who have been on the road a little longer to remind you

to let go.

Bigger Picture Moments: The Question I don't Know How to Answer

Editor's Note November 2012: If you are looking for information on restoring your digestive system, please know that The Body Ecology Diet helped me, but it didn't completely restore my health. My body actually stalled out on the the diet, and I needed to go off it to heal other parts of my body. You can read about my last steps in healing by clicking here. 

It's the question I don't know how to answer.

When we walk into church and we're greeted by faces familiar with the prayer requests.

Or when I workout at my club after a long stretch of vacation.

In responding to emails

texts

phone calls

greetings.

"How are you?"

And the truth is I know.

But I don't know.

I am better, yes.

But I'm not better.

I'm well.

But I'm not totally well -- totally recovered from the monstrosity of a gut flora imbalance that not only wreaked havoc on my digestive tract but also my mind, my emotions, my vitality, my energy and my sense of mental and even physical, yes, physical balance.

I've healed in so many beautiful ways, and I'm better.

But I'm not.

Yet.

And I keep saying yet.

Because, honestly, I'm still waiting for the restoration, for the full healing to sweep over my body.

And that's funny because I haven't exactly known what it is that's still not right other than something is still not right. I've been walking around not completely sure of what's out of balance other than the obvious smattering of seemingly unrelated physical persistence of feeling slightly off kilter in stance coupled with headaches and food sensitivities and other abnormal but mostly boring and mild annoyances.

Until I wasn't.

Monday afternoon, a little call from my primary care physician with the results of an easy saliva hormone test gives name and precise diagnosis to what I've been long been told is a hormone imbalance of some sort.

The call sent me into a tailspin of memories as we talked about this being both the likely cause of the two miscarriages last fall and the likely cause of all my latest ailments, too.

But it's fixable, he said. There are creams, shots.

I don't want that kind of fix.

I'm not a throw-a-patch-over-the-hole-in-the-tire kind of girl; I'm a find-the-stretch-of-road-where-my-car-ran-over-the-nail kind of fixer who wants to clean up the box that spilled so it doesn't keep happening.

And that's a lot harder because it's not just a matter of finding someone who understands my body in that kind of detail; it's money, time, energy and effort {on repeat}, all of which are resources that have dwindled significantly during these past nine months of focused healing.

I tossed myself into bed Monday evening completely overwhelmed at the thought of starting fresh with this new but actually old health issue and resigned to prayer and reading my Bible when Jesus seemed to ask me the question I've kind of come to dread: the old "how are you?" but in Jesus speak.

"Are you tired? Worn out? Burnt out on religion?"

Except, in that moment, I didn't hesitate like I normally do when asked, filtering through what I want to say and what I ought to say and what would be short but complete enough to be honest and genuine.

Instead I just breathed out what I really felt, what I've really been feeling.

Yes.

Yes. Yes. And yes.

"Come to me, and I will give you rest." {Matthew 11:28}

Haven't I come so many times already? I asked.

My morning devotion came to my mind immediately, a barely audible whisper reminder.

"You have not because you ask not." {James 4:2} ... which was followed by "Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find." {Matthew 7:7}

And in the stillness of confession, of answering the question to which I'm always struggling to find the perfect reply, I realized that maybe it's not so much about finding the right answer but finding the rest that allows me to say no matter the circumstance

that even though I'm well

but not totally well

 it is well

so very well

with my soul.


Each Thursday we come together to share the harvest of intentional living through sharing a piece of life gleaned: a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week. Link up your gleaned moment this week at Jade's!

Link your moment at Jade's this week!

Five-Minute Friday: Connect

Under the wide-open overhead spread of stars

I see Your hand stretched out, palm open

pouring out blessings in the form of rain drops

over parched land

parched heart-soil.

I watch You move

steady and in the time-beat

I must learn to keep daily;

You are purposeful,

unfolding each day with intentions

and grace.

I am awed,

unwrapping each day with clumsy hands

but willing heart.

At the end, when the sun fades behind the horizon

I stretch myself over grass

gaze up

and try to connect the dots

you've so strategically placed

in sky

and in my days.

Five-Minute Friday: Beyond

Long chased and loved there's this dream I've carried around in the pocketbook of my heart, all folded up and tucked gently away like a love note or a picture of a beloved.

And every once in a while I've been known to pull it out in the midst of laundry and lunches and love and read it over and over again 

until I can see it alive and vibrant with breath in its lungs and soul sparkling in its eyes -- me pressing feet onto untred paths, me pressing black ink into white paper, writing their hearts, their lives into words that wander into other hearts, take a seat at the table and linger long after dinner guests normally stay 


-- invited and enjoyed --

There are long days filled to the brim with laundry, lunches and love and my heart sings for the reality I love and the boys and the husband and the life that's unfolded. 


I may not be a journalist walking tepid paths telling stories of the brow-beaten souls on faraway soil


but I've been given long-term assignment from the Editor here in this lush and hot and incredible jungle of motherhood tattooing these stories, our story onto a small screen, into a small space.

And you. You come here to share life and share words and share stories.

And it's beyond what I've imagined, what I've long dreamed and carried for so many years. 

Bigger Picture Moment: On Being Ready

I fully expected the test to display one line.

Negative.

No Baby.

Just a late period.

Fully expected.

But I had to confirm, what with not having taken a vow of abstinence while simultaneously taking herbal supplements that could be dangerous during pregnancy, when the days easily slipped past 30, 31, 32.

I'm not ready, I've shared with my husband at least a dozen times per month since we last sent a baby from the the womb and into heaven.

I'm not ready, I've declared and ensured we'd taken precautions so as to not find ourselves as surprised and with-child.

I'm not ready, I cried out to God as I looked at the end results of a positive pregnancy test.

I stared at the double lines before calling John into the bathroom to examine the test for himself.

He confirmed the reading, and we stared at each other incredulously.

No hugging.

No tears of joy.

No wide grins.

We just sat there staring at each other like two high school kids, air thick with shock and disbelief.

Quick to read my face, John gathered his mind and quickly shuffled the boys outside, left me and my positive pregnancy test in the bathroom alone to wrestle with each other ...

alone to wrestle with God.

I fully expected for my chest to tighten and my heart to thump wildly beneath my breastbone in a state of panic, my breathing to morph from deep breathes to short whisps of air sucked in through a straw, my mind to race in panic.

But I stood there

test in hand

Word in heart:

"Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you."
Psalm 9:10

Nothing takes the Designer by surprise, and with plans to retest with first morning urine, I fell soundly into hard, deep, fast sleep later that evening knowing that if He wanted this baby to be here, even if I weren't ready, I would be ready when he or she arrived.

****

Again, in the morning two blue lines displayed across the test, this time smudged and faded and running from a line into a u-shape, alerting my mind to the possibility of faulty tests.

I cursed the invention of the early-detection pregnancy test as I fed the boys breakfast, preparing to make our way through the Target aisles for another box of tests. 

Irritated, I thought to God

What are you trying to do to me?


Haven't we had enough of the ping-pong emotions?


Could something just be or not be?


You know I've ached to stretch and swell again ...


my arms have longing to be heavy with drunken-nursing child dozing against my skin. 


You know, I whispered in my mind.

And then ... the question turned

on my own heart,

but did I know?


Am I really ready?

Had I really realized the depth of that ache, the lingering longing as I prayed and wondered what He'd have for our family


if we should grow in number or remain four.


Am I?


Ready?

****

The early summer fields spread out before us, I watched two birds flutter and twist in the sky side by side while driving home from the store.

Gracefully, in confidence, they swooped and fluttered and dove and lifted higher and higher, like mirrors of each other.

My heart beat in time with their early-morning dance, knowing too well the fell swoops of low and the ecstasy of high-bright sky horizons.

****

Three more tests, all negative.

Relief and calm whitewash my mind,

only to be tinged with the color of disappointment.

My mind races to the birds and their early morning dance.

No turns have taken you by surprise, Oh Lord.

Not one.

You've been following along with each turn of my heart's wing.

You've been listening to my cries for guidance.

Am I ready?

I find answered prayers in the aftermath of two faulty pregnancy tests coupled with three negative ones.

And I know He's answered.

Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week.. 

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week HERE! Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Everyday Life: As Planned

I woke to a face full of thrashing, kicking toddler feet and only pillows piled in the space my husband normally fills.

Not my favorite way to start the day.

In the quiet of Saturday morning, I walked downstairs with my toddler, hand-in-hand and found my best laid plans cracked at the foundation.

John, curled up in the guest bed, groaned that he didn't feel so well and that he wasn't going to make it through the day with the boystorm

which meant I wasn't going to make it through the day without them, as I'd planned.

Groggily, I scrambled to call our manager and coaches and let them know the conference was no longer a go for me explaining how we could proceed and then fueled straight into the normal week-day mom mode of unloading the dishwasher and preparing breakfast while fielding a hundred and one questions from my boys, my mind still in overdrive about trying to reorganize the day.

Until my oldest made a remark that spun around on my heels when he essentially asked what happened to our morning quiet time.

In the fullness of routine after plans diverted, frustration brimming over my plans having gone haywire, he reminded me I'd skipped over what is normally part of each day's plan. Quietly, and with a resolved deep breath in and out, I abandoned the clean dishes and snuggled up on the couch with the boys only to read from Jesus Calling:

"As you look into the day that stretches out before you, you see many choice-points along the way. The myriad possibilities these choices present can confuse you. Draw your mind back to the threshold of this day, where I stand beside you, lovingly preparing you for what is ahead.
You must make your choices one at a time, since each is contingent upon the decision that precedes it. Instead of trying to create a mental map of your path through this day, focus on My loving Presence with you. I will equip you as you go, so that you can handle whatever comes your way. Trust Me to supply what you need when you need it."
"Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, “The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him.” The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him; it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord."—Lamentations 3:22–26
"Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the man who trusts in Him!"- Psalm 34:8 

The God-breathed whispers of the divine are sometimes buried beneath my clean dishes, my frustration, my best laid plans scattered and dispersed.

And in the quiet of Saturday morning, my heart slowed to regular keeping time, mind untwisted, as I waited for His to unfold, fully assured that though Saturday wasn't supposed to go like this, it actually, really was.

Because when I make Him the priority in the plan, I've accomplished the greatest part of  His plan for the day.

Bigger Picture Moments: Rocks of Remembrance

I've been standing here at this riverbank, peering into the newness of this lush land, getting ready to cross.

But I can't move just yet because all I've had to mark this journey toward health, to celebrate this gift of healing is a few small stones I've picked up and turned over in my hands again and again with offers of thanks abundant on my lips.

I thought I'd take these small stones with me, thought the clanking in my pocket would act as reminders of the desert sands I've traveled through sickness and anxiety, heart pounding with fears, mind saturated with fog and body aching with exhaustion and discomfort toward freedom and healing.

But I need rocks for this -- not these small, smooth stones, like ones my boys bring in from the backyard, but large landscaping stones, solid and glistening and unmovable.

Though there is still road to be traveled, that which has been tread so far calls for me to stop and pile stones of remembrance here at the place of realization:

that for which I prayed feverently, unabashedly, loudly, that for which I clanked noisy cymbals and clanged on and on like a noisy gong doing rain dances in the middle of this desert beneath the vastness of heavens, has been given. I have been delivered from the desert and satisfied with manna and I now stand before lush green land.

It has been given -- this healing of body and most importantly this healing of spirit and mind and heart. And to mark the time and space in which it has been given is necessary; it's needed so that I can look back and remember the grace, the mercy, the love rained down on thirsty skin.

But more importantly, I need to push rocks of remembrance together, piled high, to not just celebrate the gift  of healing but to make an alter for remembering the goodness of the Giver. 

To remember the gift itself is wonderful and carrying stones in my pocket would have sufficed.

But seeing the Gift Giver Himself revealed requires rocks of remembrance and praise that reflects what my eyes have seen: a tall and towering, strong and solid, a faithful and lasting Almighty Healer, my God.

Editor's Note November 2012: If you are looking for information on restoring and healing your digestive system, please know that The Body Ecology Diet helped me, but it didn't completely restore my health. My body actually stalled out on the the diet, and I needed to go off it to heal other parts of my body. You can read about my last steps in healing by clicking here. 

Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week.. 

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week HERE! Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Thinking, that's all: Trying not to Try

Last week, a wave of panic sloshed into my mind when I realized I was late.

Late, late.

Because we're trying not to try.

It's not that I don't want another little set of feet pitter-pattering in tap dances across a stretched and swollen belly or that same tiny pair later scampering across my floor; it's more that I don't feel well enough yet to support another pregnancy or take care of another little in the here and now.

And.

I'm scared.

I'm scared of getting pregnant again.

I didn't know exactly how scared I was until I flipped open the calendar, counted the days and passed the number 33.

Three negative pregnancy tests calmed my nerves, but each test and the negative results that brought such relief forced me to confront how far I still have to go in healing my mind and growing my trust in His perfect time and provision and love.

The thought of miscarrying a third time is daunting, yes; but, also, now equally daunting is all of the changes the body encounters while growing a new life.

See my brain has kicked into overdrive and become extremely in tune with each symptom and feeling felt in my body since the pregnancy losses last fall. And because my mind has been dancing in the darkness of anxiety, I have to battle myself to take captive all thoughts to Him and focus on whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, excellent or praiseworthy {Philippians 4:8} instead of allowing obsessiveness to prevail.

That takes quite a bit of energy.

So to embark on a journey of nine months where nothing in the body feels normal and everything changes all of the time sounds like a recipe for exhaustion on so many levels.

I'm not ready yet.

Amid these panicked moments of what if, though, I've heard loud and clear that sweet, sweet whisper of the Spirit that repeats Follow Me.

Tiny buds have formed on trees outside our home, and I notice them as we pass by from the driver's seat of the car as I drive G to school in one of those moments of fretting about being late and being late.

At the same time my eyes meet the buds, snow begins falling from the sky.

The tree doesn't worry about its leaves blooming too soon because it knows the Creator knows when His creation is still in a season of rest.

I still my heart as the car falls into line with the speed limit and I root myself in the Truth.

The Creator knows when His creation is still in a season of rest.

And so I stand firm in frozen soil, waiting, trusting, knowing that the blossoms will bloom when He deems it time for spring to come.

Five-Minute Friday: Trust

It's not until his screams match the intensity of the sirens that come in whirling and swirling and making a mess of noise in in my mind beyond just what fills my ears that I finally suck in my own deep breathe of muggy south Florida air.

It's a heart-in-stomach kind of feeling when your smallest child is clinging to your neck gasping for air before those gasps become loud wails of terror. And it's a cement-in-lungs kind of weight that sits square in the middle of the body as your baby's raspy voice emerges, his own lungs shake in some air of their own.

I sit wide-eyed on the couch, stunned, holding a recovering two year old as paramedics listen to his chest, his lungs.

Clear, they say. Clear.

As for what he choked on, we might never know. 

But I know what I've swallowed.

Anxiety-drunk and adrenaline-drenched, I'm choking on fear and helplessness.

In those moments of mother-lode panic, I often forget to throw myself into Arms that hold because I'm so busy trying to shoulder the weight of emergency as well as my own heavy body.

Later that evening, while the boys are sprawled across a big bed, I surrender to bathwater and writing out the gratefulness of my heart across blank pages.

And with each moment of mercy penned, He builds trust into my heart number by number, gift by gift, grace by amazing grace.





{Totally longer than five minutes this week! Sorry! It needed to come out.}

Bigger Picture Moments: Remember

In the midst of living, I forget.

I chase a toddler running wild and free, newly escaped from the house, down the sidewalk and because I've been tired, chasing him is the last thing I think I want to do.

I lose sight of the exploring 2-year-old mind that's developing as fast as his running legs until I capture his giggling body in my arms and kiss his smooth skin.

As my brain spins with its own questions and pondering in silent prayer and reverie, my ears filter a million and one questions, it seems, from a curious preschooler :

"Why can't I drink juice for breakfast?" {Water, child!}

"Mom, why does zero make a ten and mean nothing?" {Well ... ?}

"Why does Ms. Denise think my shrinker tool is a gun?" {Umm?}

"Mom, can you snuggle me?" {YES!}

I forget the wonder of four years old until he presses his forehead to my eyes, his freckles almost kissing my cheeks and exclaims, "You always answer yes when I ask for snuggles!"

I wander through the seeming desert of cleansing and pray for the rebuilding periods to come and give my body, my mind rest so I can pour into the man I love at night instead of cascading into sleep all while asking Him if He's listening ...

I forget the faithfulness of His hand.

I meet with a man wiser than myself every Wednesday to walk together through the grief, the anxiety, the loneliness of healing and he often holds the light for me.

And finally, after a day of questions I cannot answer -- from my own mind and from my own preschooler and even my own husband -- he asks one I can:

When was a time God showed Himself faithful?

My mind flutters and immediately I'm whisked back to time spent in the catacombs on Alexandra, holding the hand of my future husband.

I tell the story of how Love carried me to Egypt to weave together love that binds two into one.

And there it is.

Sitting mostly unnoticed on my left ring finger ... still sparkling, still shining even almost seven years later; it melts the worry and fear, reminds me of the gifts, the faithfulness that He's since sprung forth



the laughing body of a two year old

the four year old freckles kissing my cheeks

the strong arms of a loving husband wrapped around my body every night

My rock of remembrance for His love, His faithfulness.

 

Each Thursday, we come together to share the harvest of intentional living by capturing a glimmer of the bigger picture through a simple moment.  And to spice it up a little, during the month of FEBRUARY, we'll be reflecting upon the simple yet lovely gifts that are sprinkled throughout our lives. 


Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with LOVE in your heart. 

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Alita's. Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Everyday Life: Arms tight

E. has been doing this thing for about a year now where he throws his arms around my neck and just squuuueeeeezes and squeezes and squeeeeeeezes until his little arms give out from hugging me so tightly.

An E-squeeze, captured last Thankgiving

It wasn't something I taught him; rather, he just decided one day that he'd hold on so tight and for so long nearly every time I picked him up that I couldn't possibly even think about putting him down.

And when he's got his arms secured around my neck in a big hug, I can't put him down.

Nor do I even want to.

I just want to hold him and love on him the way he needs to be loved.

During those ultra-long embraces, it's like he simply cannot get enough mommy. And then I simply cannot get enough of him.

A few nights ago* as I lie in bed thinking about my sweet boy who was actually lying beside me in the fierce hug position, I thought to myself this is what God wants from me.

He wants me to hold on and squueeeeze and squueeeeeze and squuuuuueeeze when I need to be loved on -- like I simply cannot get enough of Him.

Sometimes I look other places for that love.

But right now, this week especially, as I prepare my heart and help my family get into the right spirit to celebrate our Savior's birth, I know I really just need to throw my arms around His neck and hang on so tight and just squeeze.

I hope you will have a chance to do the same.

I'll be scheduling some of my favorite Advent posts this week, but, my main focus this week will be spent on making room and space in my heart for the Baby King.

Happy Advent, friends.

*This is an edited repost from last year around this time. I'm feeling even more the need, in the midst of healing and grief and trusting, to hang on to my Heavenly Father's neck and really know that impossibly beautiful and glorious gift He gave us in sending a King in the flesh.

Life Unmasked: Joy in the Mourning

At first my knee-jerk reaction was to let these words remain only in the black on white of an unpublished draft, let them fade into the archives, left unread, unspoken.. 


But this  weekend, in my sadness, in our loss, I've found comfort through the experiences of other women who've walked this same road of miscarriage  ... and this? It's been the elephant in the room of my mind for the past almost week as I've tried stepping around it.


And He moves me. He moves me from weakness to strength. So with caution to any pregnant mothers and those with very tender hearts to perhaps skip reading this one, I press the publish button for the prelude to what I wrote last Friday morning. 

I am watching two adorable little boys play trucks infusing their play with a side story of Finding Nemo.

I should be on the floor with them, playing, enjoying, living.

But I am bleeding, being initiated into a secret club I didn't want to join.

Bleeding. The tinge of pink darkening to red, after not one, not two but three positive pregnancy tests.

I am supposed to be closing in, wrapping up this week of being newly blessed with child.

I am supposed to be heavy with new life in my womb instead of heavy with emotion.

I am supposed to be ...

right where I am. I resign again, whisper that God is God, and I am not.

And because I don't understand why

why, why, why

I throw myself into a tailspin, turning and turning and turning, kicking up dust and sputtering on it.

There is guilt mixed with grief.

There is thankfulness interwoven into guilt.

And then there is guilt bleeding back into grief.

Everything bleeding -- the lines of positive tests, my body, my mind, my heart.

I have two adorable little boys playing trucks infusing their play with a side story of Finding Nemo nearby.

And I am thankful that they are still at my feet, able to be scooped up into my arms for kisses and cuddles and giggles.

I circle back around to grief, wishing May 2012 could somehow still bring a new tiny baby born fresh from my body and into our arms, snuggling in for kisses and cuddles and giggles.

And then swoop back to thankfulness for two little boys

and around to guilt again after thanking God for gifting us with their sweet little lives ...

I have two adorable little boys playing trucks infusing their play with a side story of Finding Nemo, and I slip onto the floor next to them and cry out for Him to break me out of the rounds I'm circling.

Because right now, that's taking me nowhere fast; I need to go somewhere good even faster.

I make the slightest cry, and He hears.

So, slowly, gently, He moves me from spinning in the circles of a dusty, dirty roundabout of fear and sadness back to the paved road through His truth and the truth spoken by my husband and the words shared from a friend ... He moves me, layering salves over a wounded, heaven-homesick heart, to the next rest area on a journey where there is grief, yes, there is sadness, yes, but, too, there is both joy in the morning and joy in the midst of mourning.

"My soul clings to the dust;
give me life according to your word!
...
Make me understand the way of your precepts,
and I will mediate on your wondrous works.
My soul melts away for sorrow;
strengthen me according to your word."
Psalm 119: 25, 27, 28

Everyday Life: Word

There is soft sunlight slipping through the slits of shades on a peaceful Sunday morning.

I can almost hear a Whisper from the Divine calling me out of a plush hotel bed and into the newness of morning.

I quietly sneak out of the suite I'm sharing with my bride-to-be sister and some friends, slide out of a creaky door and inhale the freshness of country air, breathe in the nostalgia of farm fields.

The promise of harvest dances in the golden tassels, sways in the gentleness of late summer breezes.

And the farmers who've tilled and sown strong seed into fertile fields, watered and weeded, carefully looked over and maintained their crops will reap the fruits of their labor soon.

It beckons me, so I open my Love Letter and begin to read the carefully penned words of James, encouragement to tame the tongue and seek out Divinely inspired wisdom.



But the words that linger on my lips, as I speak them into the warming morning air, plant themselves in my heart alongside the view of stretches of cornfields, pregnant with abundance:

"Peacemakers who sow in peace raise a harvest of righteousness." James 3:18

I breathe it in, breathe it out.

And I know that Truth isn't only carefully penned onto fine pages and bound together into a big Holy book; it's also written beautifully across all of Creation.

Thinking, that's all: Cracked

Beneath my bare feet, the Earth is cracked open and dry, clumped into rock-hard pieces.

Deep lines split the soil from one end of the garden to the other.



Surrounded by crisp, tanned grass, drooping, yellow leaves hanging wearly from the vines under the heat of July sun, I pray for rain.

Only what we've diligently watered via the hose is surviving, blooming, bearing fruit.

The other flowers have wilted and any flora in the sun's direct path all day has withered away.

And I hope for rain again, a deep soaking that goes beyond what I can provide from the hose -- a drenching, thirst-quenching downpour, saturating the landscape, reviving the color, the livlihood and beauty of summer.

In my uttered prayers, I find myself feeling much like the soil on which I stand.

Cracked. Dry. Parched.

Wishing and praying for that deep, soaking rain to brew up in the clouds of creativity and wash over my soul, reviving the words inside my heart and the vision wrapped in my mind's eye, hoping that the flood of water would fill the cracks and soften new fertile soil to bear deep, rich fruit.

And, in my prayer, as I see the dry, parched Earth in a new way, I am thankul, again, for the Gardener who waters my artistic soul even in seasons of drought.