When Worry is Your Drug of Choice

I stumble into worry the way an alcoholic stumbles into a bar after a long day spent trying to keep it all together.

"I'm just here for a few minutes," I stammer ... but before I know it I've spent the entire night drinking cocktails of what ifs and mights and maybes. I leave drunk on fear, and I wallow in the certainty of death ... before waking up in the morning and realizing I've done it all over again: I've died more times than I've lived this week, and yet I'm still breathing.

It's a waste. A waste of time, a waste of breath, a waste of energy.

A waste.

And is that how I want to summarize my life?

Wasted, drunk on fear. Wallowed in and swallowed by worry.

There is a beckoning of Grace nodded in my direction each morning as I walk in the shame of another binge, a gift from Heaven waiting to be received.

And I? I eye it wearily and mistake the offerings of grace for that of disappointment and anger, wonder if I'm still so drunk that I can't even determine between the two.

When will I live like I am living instead of like I am already half-way dead?

You asked who of us by worrying could add a single second to our lives. I realize the simplicity of this truth. And I also realize something more that was written in between the lines.

Who of us by worrying could erase seconds of our lives

moments that could be spent smelling the sweetness of a preschooler's hair

or the warmth of the sun shining boldly through the cold of March winds

the embrace of strong arms around my waist

and the faint smell of winter melting into spring just outside my window.

If worrying empties today of its strength

then I want to empty my heart of worry.

I want to fast from fears, forget even taking one sip of the drink that pulls me under.

I won't swallow it any longer

because I won't allow it to swallow me whole.

In the watering holes of my mind

I empty my bottles of fear

and I drink of the grace

You've poured for me instead.

Hope and Healing: Putting My Hand Up

Last Sunday night, I plummeted hard and fast into a deep, dark hole after weeks of trying to outrun the overwhelming anxiety and grief that's been building.

The shear force of the anxiety about my physical health coupled with the grieving of the three precious babies we lost during pregnancy during the last 18 months has had me running as fast as my mind could spin, feet could move.

Last weekend, I stumbled a few times and then Sunday night I fell hard.

A mess of tears, shaking on the couch, I surrendered the race because I had to.

I couldn't muscle my way out of that hole with sheer determination because fatigue has taken over and reality had been blurring from black and white to about a dozen shades of gray.

I made the move that seemed all along harder than trying to pull myself up and out: I raised my hand in surrender from the bottom of the hole; I asked people to help pull me out.

I welcomed my mom to come up and help without feeling guilt. I submitted to John's request to call my doctors. I explained repeatedly that I couldn't do this alone anymore. I told them I needed more help.

I met with a therapist we've been seeing and really love. I laid my fears and anxiety and grief out before me, and I gave to God what He's been asking for for a really long time: the control of my health I've been white-knuckle clenching since my dad died three years ago.

One week, lots of prayer, tangible help, art therapy and a few anti-anxiety pills later and I'm hearing clearly the truth in a good friend's words:

"We all fall in holes. But you have to put your hand up so we can pull you up."

So this week I've been practicing raising my hand

to grab others' hands

to give thanks

to surrender

all of that which I can't bear

and was never actually meant to.

Everyday Life: The Words

The words won't come.

Not in writing or in conversation.

And so I find myself quiet in this struggle.

The tears are free-flowing, though, in a way I've never known before now, like there's been years of them pent up.

The dam is apparently filled and any extra overflow has nowhere to go except for out. I feel like I should wear a sign that says "flood warning."

It's all so heavy.

The weight of the tears.

The weight of the losses.

The whole not knowing what's happening with my body and why when I stand up I still feel this spacey/off balance sort of feeling.

The feelings of depression and the accompanying anxiety that follows after sustaining so many losses in just three years time {we lost my dad three years ago this month on top of the three babies in the past 16  months and my grandfather this past December}.

They say it's normal for me to feel this way ... after what we've gone through.

But there's nothing normal about the way I feel right now.

The tears. The quiet. The racing of my thoughts and mind.

Not in writing or conversation.

Everyday Life: The Scary Kind of Storms

Before we left for Florida, I was starting to scare myself.

While I remembered pregnancy being pretty demanding on my body, and blog posts I converted to drafts assured me that I was just as nauseas and just as tired while carrying E during the first trimester, I didn't remember it being this hard on my heart and mind. 

Of course, the second month felt extra demanding this time around because I contracted the flu, a cold and a stomach bug all within a few weeks of each other neither of which happened with G or E and that can play on one's mental state, yes. 

But while I was pregnant with E and G, I didn't have this sinking, waves crashing over my head feeling. 

When I was pregnant with E and G, it rained in my head occasionally, but it didn't storm outrageously day in and out. 

Before we left for Florida, I was feeling a lot like the disciples when they were stuck in a raging storm on the sea in a small fishing boat, thinking perhaps their boat was going to go under with every huge wave that relentlessly crashed into the sides of the ship and slopped more water into the shaky vessel. 

And Jesus was just sleeping away at the stern until the disciples shook him awake and demanded to know if He cared they were all about to drown in the raging sea. 

I was one of those disciples, shaking in fear of the waves crashing around me and shaking Jesus to wake Him up and ask if He cared that I was going to drown. 

I was one of those disciples, just not getting it, asking the wrong question -- asking if He cared that was drowning instead of asking Him to save me from drowning. 

In Mark, it says He gets up and tells the waves to be quiet, be still and they sea calms instantly. 

I had my come-to-Jesus-and-shake-Him-awake moment on the airplane ride to Florida. 

Instead of asking Him if He cared, I changed me question to "would you save me?"

And He stood up and calmed the sea raging against my boat. 

As I begin week ten, I'm starting to feel a little more like my normal-pregnant self -- sure I tire quickly, cry easily, pee a river every hour and need to stuff my face with protein often to keep the stomach at ease, but I don't feel desperate and in deep despair anymore. 

Partly, I'm sure it's because I'm not sick on top of being in the first trimester. And, partly, I'm sure the sunlight and fresh air of our Florida vacation isn't just soaking into my skin and lungs but also it's soaking into my mind. 

Mostly, though, it's because in His mercy he calmed the sea after I cried out to Him for deliverance. 

I'd been trying to strong arm my way through the storm when I really just needed to rest in His ability and His willingness to calm it. 

The storm is quieted for now, though as we head home tomorrow back to cold and dreary Chicago, I don't know if, too, I'll be returning to more seasonal affective depression.

I know one thing though: if the seas start raging again, I know the One who can calm them.

And I just have to ask.

Note: Some depression can't be cured by simply just praying and getting into the sunlight; I have seasonal affective disorder, which largely revolves around Vitamin D sufficiency, not allowing my mind to wallow in muck and engaging my body in sufficient movement. 

Just Write: Desperate

He was six weeks old, a tiny little thing with huge demands, and I was tired.

No -- exhausted.

So when he began to wail five minutes after I put him in his cradle, I crumpled to the floor and sobbed on my mother's living floor.

A desperate pile of body heaving and cracked, feeling broken beyond repair.

Tonight I remembered that scene as I drenched my own shirt with tears, driving home from my first acupuncture session.

Desperate, I told John when I arrived home, face scrunched and head in hands and his arms around my shoulders.

That's what you have to be to let someone you can barely understand poke tiny needles into your skin in the hope of relief.

Desperate.

I am thankful to carry a new life inside of me. But in the midst of thankful I am sick, too, with exhaustion and nausea like I never knew and more food and smell aversions than one would think could exist.

I live on prayer and petition, turkey and lemon aid, kindness and snuggles and gratitude.

But in the desperate moments, I wonder if I'm really living or merely surviving.

I ugly cry onto my husband's shoulder soaking his arm with salt-water tears, too, until I'm exhausted and broken before God

and finally

that's where I find the Potter

at the spinning wheel

piecing me back together

and making me something new.

Bigger Picture Moments: Flood Waters

My mind has been absolutely drenched this week with a torrential downpour of thoughts. 

And I'm left struggling to remember what to do with all this water after such a long drought. 


We had a relatively quiet winter and spring event-wise and decision-wise, which was good because so much of our energy had to go into simply just parenting and connecting with each other and making it through each day while I was entrenched in such intense healing. 

A drought of major life events and a break from heavy decision-making was needed for sure.

But it feels like during the past month, the clouds have rushed forth, broken open and begun pouring on us; it's not necessarily bad, because you know, rain is needed -- both in gardens and in life. 


It's just, well, heavy and saturating.


Earlier this week, on what was my anticipated due date prior to miscarrying last fall a sweet little love, I realized I'm not just dripping wet and soaked with thoughts about, well, everything but that I've actually been caught up and washed away in the flood.

I've been short in patience, fast to sleep, slow to rise and quick to get all wires of communication crossed, my overworked brain unable to transmit correctly all of the information floating around in my head.

Classic over-saturation.

The beauty of this is that I now realize when I've hit that point of feeling like I'm floating away on all the rainwater of thoughts before I'm tumbling over waterfalls.

But I'm still further downstream than I'd like, flailing and kicking and grabbing onto tree branches, attempting to pull myself out.

Yesterday, as I grasped at leaves, God in all His goodness threw me a line first thing in the morning in my devotions. And then again -- just to make sure I didn't miss it -- while I was at our last Bible study session of the summer.

"My sheep listen to my voice; I know them and they follow me." Jesus in John 10:27

A call to quiet the downpour of thoughts. A whisper to stop fighting against the current and let the Good Sheperd pull me out and carry me against His chest.

Because, I remember in the midst,


sheep were meant for still waters


not deep, rushing, rolling floods. 

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

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Everyday Life: Rest

It came in the midst of living. 

In the aftermath of crying out to God and feeling held in His peace. 

In the determination to live life in the now instead of living life in waiting. 

Standing on the deck of a friend who is a soft landing 

in the bright sunshine

of a late Friday afternoon

nearing the after-business hours of the weekend

the phone finally rang. 

Before the doctor's receptionist could share the MRI test results, 

I reminded myself of the song that clicked onto Pandora

as I was begging God for calmness of heart earlier that afternoon.

"Only one thing doesn't change.
Only one thing stays the same.
All I know at the end of the day is
Your love remains." {Paul Coleman Trio}

Because no matter what she said

no matter the results of this particular test

or any tests to come

none of it would change the most important Truth in my life:

He doesn't change. 

That He is always and forever good. 

And, as my mom reminded me while I all but hyperventilated in my living room the day of the MRI, sometimes He calms the raging seas.

And sometimes He calms the passengers in the boat. 

But no matter which He chooses, He is still the Giver of Good Gifts. 

Always.  

As she apologized about the late call and the doctor being away from the office

I knew well that 

everything could change

and still nothing could change

and He would still remain. 

When she calmly and joyfully shared that everything looked perfectly NORMAL (!)

praise spilled from my lips

in a choir of gratitude and awe and reverence.

Not just for the rest, the relief of knowing that everything appeared normal

but also because in that moment and in that day

He calmed the storm

and He calmed the child.

I cannot thank you enough, my friends, for praying for me. For thinking of me. For loving on me during this growing time. Some have inquired about my symptoms -- dizziness, off-balance feeling, head pressure are a few. We're looking into hypoglycemia as a possible cause stemming from my super-low sugar, anti-candida diet and eating practices. 

I'm taking the rest of the weekend to practice Sabbath -- the act remembering His goodness and His faithfulness while resting deeply in both. 

Living Faith Out loud: On Battles, real and imaginary

I've been dreaming wild dreams these past few nights, my subconscious working overtime even in the hours of slumber.

Last night, this one is my favorite from recent sleeps, I was a part of a super-hero action team of animated characters fighting human foes who were intent on destroying Denver. None of it makes a lot of sense seeing as I'm not enthralled with super heroes nor do I live in Denver, other than my-self psychoanalysis telling me that perhaps I feel like I'm waging a war for which I'm not equipped.

These vivid nights filled with dreams always happen whenever I feel like my plans aren't materializing as I'd planned.

It also happens when I spend entire days wrapped up in heavy thought, trying to work out in my mind what could unfold and the action needed if each scene I'm imagining did turned to reality, trying to equip myself for each new battle. 

Really, I know, though, that the reason I don't feel equipped is because imaginary battles regarding immaterialized possibilities are unequipable. 

He arms us with exactly what we need in each situation to handle exactly what we're going through in the moment, but often, not prior.

I have to keep reminding myself that right now my battle isn't some masked disease causing these lingering physical symptoms -- because as it stands, I've checked out fine, which tells me that shouldn't make any more assumptions of something being seriously wrong unless something shows as seriously wrong.

So my battle right now isn't against un-realized and un-discovered diseases.

But, rather, my battle right now is against anxiety and the what-if worries that creeps into my heart when I feel like my body should be free of any lasting symptoms of the gut flora imbalance I've been asking God to restore for the past five months through diet changes and, more importantly, His healing hand. 

And, sometimes the struggle in my mind -- the one of anxiety -- is minimized though it stands tall and hulking in my daily life, a giant that needs slaying often. 

I've often felt discouraged in the midst of this battle, especially when I've shared my struggle and others have told me simply to not let these thoughts take me captive, suggesting there is a simple switch I have  yet to find and easily flip in order to find freedom from both.

In my hours spent crying out to God, I've yet to find such a switch.

The intense battles against worry and anxiety are fierce wars raging to liberate the mind and heart space from unrealized fears so that both can rightfully be filled with the deep joy that stems from the gifts the Giver gives us moment by moment. 

And I have found strong weapons with which to battle in these seasons of hardship that are part of living life outside the perfection of the original Garden. 

One sword that slays worry is living in the moment. One shield is finding His joy moment by moment. And perhaps the mother of all weapons is living a life entrenched in the Word.

I've been memorizing James 1: 2-6. 

"Consider it joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perserverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him. But when he asks, he must believe and not doubt because he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind."

James reminds me that there is purpose in trials -- even ones of worry and anxiety. He reminds me that there is joy found in maturation

joy found in perseverance.

and joy found in living in the moments placed directly in our open-palmed hands. 

And in those open palms, I've found, too, that He's placed the strongest weapons for slaying worry, equipping me for the battle at hand.

If you're going through a particularly rich growing season, I'd love to pick up the mighty weapon of the Word together and memorize James 1:2-6.

{I'd also welcome you to any of my end-of-the-day Gilmore Girls viewing adventures because I know that sometimes the mind just needs a break from the deepness of thoughts and the heaviness of life, so I bought for really cheap from local mom seasons one and two. Just keeping it totally real here!}

Everyday Life: There is joy

There is joy.

It is wild and spread out like fields of unexpected wildflowers rolling up hills and stretching out across meadows. Sharp bursts of lemon and violet polkadotting the lush greens of fields.

Photo courtesy of Corrin.

There is joy, and it cannot be stolen unless I first give it away.

Unless


I first 


give it


away. 

I steal my own joy, rob myself barren of it when I worry-wander into tomorrow while I'm still living in today.

What sense does it make to live in tomorrow's fears?

Fears that might never and will probably never unfold into realities?

Something happened this weekend, after the suffocating what-if waves began lapping at my feet

and I toyed with wading far into the worry-waters.

When I turned turned my back on that sprawling sea of uncertainty,

ran uphill,

fell to my knees

and opened my hands to the Giver of Good gifts,

I began to not just see the good gifts given, the many good gifts given, but I began to more intimately trust the Giver who keeps giving them.

I soaked up words from Ann Voskamp's book One Thousand Gifts, and I realized it was true, what she's written:

"The quiet song of gratitude, eucharisteo, lures humility out of the shadows because to receive a gift the knees must bend humble and hand must lie vulnerably open and the will must bow to accept whatever the Giver chooses to give.
Again, always, and always again: eucharisteo precedes the miracle."

The miracle, for me, is having eyes that can see joy spread out in the moment,

joy saturating the spanning seconds of today,

joy not stolen by the what ifs of tomorrow.

I've been so greedy.

I've been trying to unwrap gifts before they are given.

In my worry, I've been trying to see the potential dips and valleys that might be waiting in a new day with no more light than that of the moon; I've been trying to see the lay of the land ahead of me while its still, from my view, encompassed in shadows.

There is joy, radiant and saturating. 

And it dawns when the sun rises to shed real light on the day unfolding at the foot of the horizon, when palms are turned up and opened ready to receive the gift as the light inches higher and higher, moment by moment.

Thinking, That's All: Awakening

There is light at the end, but today I pray for wide-angle vision.

I don't want to waste it away -- the time -- on waiting to live fully only in the fullness of light.

I want to see, live nestled inside these moments with little boys who only want to snuggle their mommy and serve her pretend sparkling wine from the restaurant of imagination.

I don't want to lose it to the darkness of anxiety-laced thoughts about MRIs and ENTs and MDs and whatever follows those letters and their diagnosis.

I cry-pray rest enough to unclench white knuckles from clinging to my life.

I cry-pray hot tears, sink my hands into the low back of a black kitchen chair and feel two small arms wrap around my thigh, a head press against the side of my hip.

I weep quietly for a few moments and usher out breath from my shaking lungs, squeezing tightly the shoulders of my oldest son.


I won't go there.

I won't go to the places where I'm drowning deep in the waters of picturing his life, his brother's life, his father's life if the what-ifs were to unfold.

I stand my ground against diving into the waters and then force jelly-like legs to move into the wide-angle frame of life outside the tunnel in which I'm standing.

He follows me around the house, stays close enough in his play that he could dive in after me if I jump.

At not even five, he thinks he's lifeguard to my wild-toddler-at-the-shore moments.

And I know I have to move away from the sand, the beach, the lure of drowning myself in what-if waves and stand firmly on the Rocks

my back to the ocean face toward the Sun glowing in the horizon of tall grasses and little boys and a strong-heart husband and this life-gift spread out before my eyes.

This piece was inspired by the Bigger Picture Blogs Writing Circles prompt "awakening" in the Life-Out Loud genre. It was edited after critique from fellow writers. Join a Writing Circle and take part in the writing process at a whole new level!


A few friends have said I was too vague in this post and asked for explanation to the MRI references. I've had some lingering head pressure issues we thought were stemming from sinuses ... but my sinuses are clear. A specialist suggested doing an MRI to see if we can find what's causing the pressure. It's probably bothing but as someone who battles anxiety, the unknown can grow if I let it. 

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.

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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.

Just Write: Obsessive Brain

It just keeps running.

This brain of mine.

It's like a sink overflowing and I can't figure out for the life of me where knob is.

I thought all of this anxiety of mine began right after the miscarriages, but the more I ponder it and life and where my feet have tread as my brain has tried to keep up with them, the more I see that anxiety has been a constant drip of water spilling from the tap from the time I was small and worrying about what would happen if the tornado sirens sounded and I was babysitting at a house without a basement.

Like her, I've mistaken anxiety for responsibility, tried to dress it up into something beautiful like an ocean instead of just a leaky faucet.

And I write to her about how few nights ago while talking to my grandma about what she thought the Word was whispering to me in relationship to fearing the Lord in the awe-stricken sort of way, we fell face first down the rabbit hole conversation of anxiety.

My grandma, though, she said something that really struck me -- when we grow so quickly in our faith sometimes we have those extra-anxiety moments where it really comes into focus because we realize how not in control we actually are. 

How that awesome love-wrapped-fear of His power actually sends the leak into a full-fledge stream overflowing the sink that's all stopped up and clogged with these thoughts we don't even want.

And I knew suddenly what all those verses about fearing and revering the Lord meant to my heart -- He was telling me He could be trusted to turn off  the leaky faucet, dripping or streaming and to unclog the stopped up sink of my mind that won't let the thoughts run through but rather just remain stuck while the water's just flowing, flowing, flowing.

It was like He was telling me He's not just someone who comes in and finds the faucet knob.

But also that He's the greatest Plumber ever, too. 

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.

Thinking, that's all: Strange isn't all that Strange

It starts with my sister and I half joking about how other families seem so normal.

Until they don't.

Like mine, for instance.

At first glance, we're stereotypical suburbanites with our two parents, two kids, golden retriever, house with a fenced-in backyard.

But then upon closer inspection you find these oddities -- these unique-to-us traits

like how E wants, no, needs someone to rub his toes every night before he goes to sleep.

Or, G, how he still will reach up to touch our ears when he feels out of his element.

And John's sock length guidelines for jean-wearing versus shorts-wearing.

Oh, me, too. With my inner deep desire to be keeper of the chickens.

Maybe those oddities are laughable, all of them.

But there's the ones I don't normally wear on my sleeve, too.  Like my brain-eating amoeba fears. The ones that are strange and deep-seeded and not readily understood or mentioned.

There's those pieces of strangeness, the ostracizing and lonely kind that leave us tight-lipped, letting the thoughts meander or stomp around the romping grounds of our minds in solitude. The kind you don't really want to share with your family or best friend or even your husband because it doesn't just dance in the room of unusual or quirky ... the isolating kind of strange that binds our tongues and keeps us standing in the quiet of our thoughts.

We walk into the church building, smiling and saying hello to families we've known for years and some for just minutes. I catch another mom's eye in the mirror in the bathroom; we exchange pleasantries. The conversation ends with wishes for a great weekend.

She seems to have it all together together -- hair brushed, clean clothes, smiles abounding and words shared easily. We both seem to have it all together.

We both seem so normal.

Until we're not.

We've all got those deep pockets of fear, these wells of uncertainty that keep us lingering in isolation, keep us captives in the darkness because we think we're too far gone.

But the lonely of strange or abnormal can only be isolating if we keep it to ourselves and everyone else does, too.

I wonder, as a community, as a church, as people who seek to walk in His footsteps, what it would take to go past the places of polite conversation and smiles and normal and venture into quirky so can begin to walk into the halls of the lonely, the strangeness together and get real about what normal really means.

Because normal redefined would make these places so many of us struggle to get a grip on far less lonely and far more easy to tackle.

Everyday Life: The Things You Love

I've been picking up the pieces of so much of what I really love, trying to put it all back into the spaces everything normally fits so easily.

But the thing is -- spaces in the heart sometimes move and morph when we've been growing and changing and transforming.

So sometimes things that fit before don't quite fit in the new stretched and altered skin of the same beating heart.

Because life is different now.

The pregnancy losses, the anxiety, the GI isssues, a forever-feeling sinus infection - each has taken a lot out of me.

Energy out.

That energy out had left little time for anything other than simply healing, simply existing, simply caring for the day-to-day needs of a family for most of December.

And yet a new day, a new year dawns and suddenly in that stretched out heart skin, those spaces beg to filled with beauty.

I pick up my camera for the first time in weeks, and I find in the swift finger click shuttercloseopen that the effort to capture is worthwhile because the warmth in the moments frozen in time reenergizes me.

I press-bleed bright colors onto creamy paper, giving story to the blankness freely with nothing and everything and I feel the pinks and purples and oranges flush through my veins in a burst of life.

I push my body into the setting sunlight and cold air of December and words begin writing themselves on my mind before they ever find pages while my feet pound the pavement; and the energy out actually replaces twofold with energy in.

I'm left in these moments of beauty with more that's come in than what's gone out.

Though none of the pieces fit quite like they once did, they come into the new-stretched spaces and begin to swell and fill the openness.

And I call this, too, healing.

Bigger Picture Moment: On anxiety and amoebas

Brain-eating amoebas and anxiety are like two peas in an uncomfy pod: they both attack at the control center and begin trying to take over while hidden in the darkest recesses.

Thankfully, these amoebas are relatively uncommon; but the same can't be said for anxiety. 

At least not around my head these days.

Irritatingly enough, the very thing that set off a round of anxiety attacks {this anxiety stuff has surfaced after the miscarriages} was reading a  {via Facebook} a news story about those amoebas attacking two netipot users in Lousiana; I'd just started using one.

A simple news story turned foothold for fear to step into my over-zealous brain, you know. 

A tiny fear that planted itself inside my brain and began to grow as I watered it with thought and attention and time. 

Then, suddenly, my body was all kinds of freaking out -- blurry vision, tight neck, fatigue -- all symptoms of anxiety but also other problems. 

And you know what a brain high on anxiety does?

It explores those other problems, which only grows the anxiety and the physical manifestations. 

But I'm learning that anxiety is a learned habit. 

And in the same way I learned to become anxious, I can learn to replace the anxiety with peace. 

Because I have peace. 

I know Him. 

He has a face, and He was born and He died so that we might fully live. 

"We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ." 2 Corinthians 10:5

And how do we make every thought obedient to Christ?

"... whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy--think about such things." Philippians 4:8

Admittedly, I know, it's not always this simple.

For me, there's been a lot of honest-to-goodness actual deep breathing involved, a lot of sleep, unloading of stresses, some sessions with a counselor and quite a bit of crying out to God, crying out to my husband, mom and a friend coupled with the right nutritional supplements needed to help me heal.

And it's not just the way of thinking that must reformat and heal.

The brain must heal, too. Serotonin needs to be restored to it. The hypocampus must heal in order to accept it. Hormones must be balanced and that means cortisol {released when stressed} must be secreted less, too.

I'm still meandering my way through some of the fog, trying to follow the Light out.

But I guess I just thought maybe I'd just switch on my own little flashlight and share part of the path I'm walking, just in case someone else sees that little glow and meanders over to walk together.

Click here to read where I am now in my healing journey. 

 

Each Thursday, we come together to share the harvest of intentional living by capturing a glimmer of the bigger picture through a simple moment. Won't you join us? Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with thanksgiving in your heart. 

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

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your moment HERE this week. 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.