It's not fair.

I don't think I have been fair.

Not to myself, my husband or our son.

It's just that I forget what's important and I "can't see the forest for the trees," or however that saying goes.

I was reading back in an old journal from last year and I felt like I was listening to a broken record. That day I was worried about money, worried about the business, worried about not making budget. Last week I wrote a journal entry that was almost identical to that one a year ago. And today I'm kind of tired of those sort of words cluttering my journal.

You know why? Because last year the issue of coming up short resolved itself. It's called a new business...some months are abundant, some are lean. The similar situation from last week is already taken care of. I could write those exact words in my journal today and they would be insignificant by June.

Insignificant.

Do you know what's not insignificant? The pearls my husband gave me yesterday as an anniversary gift. The look of ecstatic anticipation while our son waited by the gate to ride the carousel in the mall. The smell of the bright pink peonies Mom sent home. The progress in getting healthy and the doctor who has helped me so much. That patient Lover-man who introduced our son to fishing. The letter from a friend who talked about our miscarriage and made me cry all over again. The laughter we shared with our friends at Bible study Friday night. And God -- that all-surrounding Man who has been showering me with an overwhelming amount of grace and revelation and a new kind of understanding of who He is.  

In comparison, journal entries worrying about budgets and business just don't seem fair. Or right. Or righteous.

My life is much too full and glorious and crazily God-blessed to waste time with words other than the ones to describe the extravagance that surrounds me and the feelings of my heart. Everything else is just earthly clutter.

There, I said it.

Now to live it... 

It suddenly occurs to me.

I scroll through my phone looking for a text message conversation with him. I can't find one. There's inquiries about horses for sale. Someone wants to sell us hay. Our employee texted her hours and the sister assured me our little man slept fine last night. A brother needs information for the website, the cousin is praying for us. Someone wants to know how their horse is taking to training. The conversation with Lover is at the very bottom of the list.

I pause.

Have I texted all of these people but not him? Of course not...he's been beside me; hasn't budged through two days of severe hemorrhaging, two emergency room visits, a dozen nurses and doctors and another ultrasound of an empty womb. He was holding my hand when the doctor decided on another D&C. His face was full of compassion when he told me he was sorry I hurt so.very.badly, like the pain of giving birth to a baby but there's no baby, only some part of it left in me that my body is desperate to be done with.

The nurse turns up the pain medication and I ask him to stay with me in case I lose my bearings. He promises he won't leave and I know he won't because he never has.

I'm wheeled back to surgery and the doctor asks how I am and I can't stop crying from pain. That blessed anesthesiologist gives me oxygen and makes me too tired to feel anymore and I wake up to the sound of that all-familiar husband's voice. I can't force my eyes open. He squeezes my hand, tells me it's ok. The cell phone is beeping with new texts. The nurse writes her number on the board and tells us to page her if we need anything. But I don't have to page him because he's always here.

And it suddenly occurs to me.

The only time you need someone's phone number is if they leave you. Only if they aren't sitting inches from you, holding your hand, soothing you with their voice, stilling the chaos with comfort.

The nurse tries to help me up but I collapse and she catches me. The doctor says I need to stay overnight. That Lover-man settles into a nylon-covered recliner with one pillow and a flimsy blanket, still wearing his jeans and t-shirt. Another text rings on the phone but it's not from him because he's close enough for me to hear him whisper that he loves me.

And the whole world is silent and I hear God say, "I don't need a phone number because I never leave."

Suddenly, that verse about God never leaving me -- the one I memorized as a child over two decades ago -- it travels from my head to my heart with a sigh of relief. And I know I can do this. I can grieve a child, I can make it through surgery, I can bear the pain and survive the recovery. Just so long as God never leaves. Just so long as he's here, as close as that all-faithful man; close enough that I can touch his skin while I sleep and hear him breathe next to me. 

I pull the blankets up to my chin and close my eyes and thank God for all I'm worth that he never needs a phone number.

There's that moment when you don't think you can handle one more day of being nauseous from morning 'til night.

That one day when you listen to his deep, familiar voice talk about baby names as you drift to sleep beside him.

The morning you force yourself to cook for the toddler even though you may throw up at the smell. And you tell yourself one more week and it'll be second trimester and the sickness will fade away.

Then there's a spontaneous ultrasound just to see the little sick-causing, wreaking-havoc, can't-wait-to-hold-you little one who doesn't have a heartbeat.

And the waiting. Waiting for the joke to be over, the next ultrasound to prove technology isn't always right. 

The day you're still so sick that all-compassionate man is giving you water while you throw up, and all for nothing. Because that little baby's heart stopped beating and it's not growing and there's not going to be a newborn at the end of this.

There's the sister who cleans the house, the mom who washes the laundry, the friend who visits, the cousins who cheer up the toddler. There's phone calls and texts and "any news?" and "don't lose hope" and somewhere there's God, but I'm not sure where.

Then the second ultrasound and that tiny body that didn't grow and the heart that just.won't.beat. and you look away from the screen. 

There's the day for the surgery to deliver the baby and the doctor who calls it a tissue. Text messages with "let us know how it goes" and "praying for you" and I wish God would send a text. 

There's "all went well" and "next time you get pregnant" and tears on his shoulder because this was supposed to end six months from now with a bundle in our arms and that special name we can't wait to use.

The toddler doesn't understand and he cries at night so we let him sleep with us.

People bring food and Mom stays overnight and Grandma sends a card with memorial money. There are notes on Facebook and texts and calls and I wish God had a Facebook.

The day comes when you buy quilt material because you always make your babies a quilt and your sister goes with you because you know you're gonna cry.

And there's that little sunshine who still wants to play and giggle and sit on your hip even though you're not supposed to pick him up.

That engulf-you-in-comfort man feeds the animals in the bitter cold and tells you to give yourself a break and takes the day off so you don't have to pick up the toddler. He gives you your medicine and compliments that body that is now a little softer with an empty baby bump. Maybe he's a glimpse of God.

All those Bible verses and scripture promises and everything you know you believe come back to you but you're not sure how to get them from your head to that aching heart.

Maybe there's a reason the baby died or maybe it's all part of the fallen world because Jesus promised comfort, not immunity.

Someday maybe you'll understand and maybe you never will. Maybe the clean house and the meals and the visits and the laundry and the texts and notes and calls and those arms that hold you at night when you start to cry...maybe those are God making sure you're okay. 

At the end of the day, the tears still fall and the womb is still empty and the heartbeat is still gone. There's no spiritual answer, no magic healing, no churchy phrase to make everything okay again. 

For all I'm worth, I wish God had a phone number. 

Thanks, God

Photo copyright In the Blink of an Eye photography

What a difference a year will make!



Photos copyright In the Blink of an Eye photography

I blame it on the toddler.

The lack of blogging over the past two months? Yeah, definitely putting that one on the baby's head. He's just so.stinkin'.cute. that I haven't been sparing any of the time he's awake to do projects on the computer.

Well, that's the truth most days, anyway. Sometimes his cuteness is somewhat shadowed by a bit of crankiness but I've just decided something : life is too short to have my son watch me spend it doing projects on the computer.

Wesley has turned into a sponge ever since his first birthday in July. He watches everything his dad and I do and repeats it. Warren and I are both very spontaneous people who thrive without a rigid routine and very little expectation on our days. Our son is polar opposite of us...hmmm...you did that on purpose, didn't you, God?! If Wesley watches one of us do something a certain way one time, that's.the.way.it's.done.every.time.period. I'm talking about every detail. For instance, when he wakes up in the morning I usually go in the living room, flip on the overhead light and go in each corner and turn on the lamps. There's no window in our living room/kitchen so I like to start the day out with a lot of light since there's no natural sunlight. I never knew I had this habit until little shadow-man began insisting that those three switches get turned every morning before absolutely anything else can happen.

Once several weeks ago Wesley wanted to take a bath. I told him he could but he had to shut the bathroom door before I would undress him because it was really cold in the hall. Now when I tell him it's time for a bath, he walks into the bathroom, turns around and shuts the door and proceeds to take his clothes off. It is very disturbing to him if I start undressing him before the door is shut.

When we vacuum, Wesley pushes the button to wind the cord back up. When we watch a movie, he has two pillows he positions on the floor in the exact same spot every time. When we wash the dishes he sits in a certain way on the counter to watch. When I sew he's in charge of putting the foot down on the machine. When it's time for bed he carries his milk under one arm, drags his blanket behind and has his binky in his mouth.

I've learned lately that our little Owen thrives knowing that some things are going to go the same way every time, and we are trying to let him do some things the "proper" way while still helping him learn to be flexible. If two unstructured parents live through parenting this very structured child, I'm sure we'll be the better for it!

But that brings me back to the computer issue. I don't know how long it's been since Wesley has really been observing us in order to understand so very many things like he does now. I do, however, know that tomorrow he's going to wake up and his all-curious eyes will search every expression, act, tone, and habit and he will copy it. I don't want his little mind to accept the worldview that being zoned into a computer or cell phone is the most important way to spend time.

So, I really am blaming the lack of blogging on the toddler.

Maybe he'll sleep an extra long time tomorrow and I can sneak back on here to share some of my insights, pictures and projects I've been working on lately. Until then, enjoy a little peek into my crazy-God-blessed life via a few pictures:

I got to go on a Colorado vacation with this outstanding man...

...who happens to be the king of dutch oven campfire cooking.

Thanks to having a wonderful husband and Daddy, we can't stay away from the barn for very long...we miss Warren too much!

Wesley's first "pony" is a borrowed donkey named Nacho. He's pretty proud to have a saddle his size, too.

Love riding with my boy.

Warren happens to be very talented at making Bible stories come to life!

Little shadow.

We've shared two years of married bliss. Can we have two hundred more?!!

Confessions of a (previously)idealistic mother

(A few thoughts I had written before Wesley's birthday in July)

A year ago today I had a belly the size of a basketball, swollen feet, a perfectly clean house, constant uninterrupted time with my husband, an intense aversion to the blazing hot weather and an ideal in my head of how the next year was going to go.

Today I have none of those things.

Now I have an almost one-year-old.

I knew motherhood would change me. At least I was told that. But looking back on the past year, I had no idea how much it would change me. The first day of this adventure was July 6th, 2012, the day our little guy was born. You see, I knew how the birth was going to go. I had heard dozens of birth stories from my female family members and they all went the same: water breaks before due-date, three to five hours of labor, a couple pushes and voila, baby is born. No meds. No intervention. Painful, yes, but relatively simple, right? Our son came after fifteen hours of hard labor with a posterior, asynclitic baby that was nine days overdue. The exhausting labor was followed by an emergency c-section when his heart rate dropped to 40 as he was finally crowning. When he was born, he had the cord around his neck and looped on his ankle so that every time he moved he was strangling himself.

Days after bringing our precious bundle home, I was confused by those sleep training books that make it sound all easy to let your baby CIO (cry it out), resulting in an infant that sleeps thirteen hours a night by the time it's two months old. A year ago I was telling myself just to hold on for two months after the baby came and I could return to regular sleep. Tonight I'm going to bed early so I can survive the two times my eleven-month-old will wake me up tonight.

O, and that pesky baby weight that refuses to leave even with my greatest efforts? I thought this stuff was supposed to be simple. Natural. Easy. "Just keep nursing and the baby weight will melt off," my doctor told me. I don't think a nursing five-year-old is exactly what she was thinking.


God has this kind way of tearing down the expectations I put on myself so I can move a little further into grace. I wasn't the least bit prepared to be the woman hoping for a VBAC next time I get pregnant. I didn't think I would get caught being the mom who was still sleep deprived after almost a year. And heaven forbid that I wouldn't be able to kick my body into lose-the-baby-weight mode no matter how hard I tried.

I have a confession to make: dealing with the reality of these things is so much easier than living with the expectation of my own ideals. The desire to have it all together is stifling. I wasn't expecting my own ideals to be such a rigid taskmaster that would leave me feeling like a failure so many days this past year. 

In four days my bright-eyed, giggly little boy will turn one year old. I'm sure he'll wake up on his birthday with as much spunk and excitement for life as he does every day. He'll probably spend the first hour of his morning wrestling with his dad and bouncing all over me, then begging to "nore-nore" (nurse) with those completely heart-melting brown eyes looking so serious. When I get up with him on that day, I won't have time to sit and ponder my ideals of how parenting will go for the next year. I won't get to clean my house til it shines. I probably won't get a nap, an entire day alone with my husband or the luxury of putting my feet up to read that da-blame sleep training book. It's doubtful all my laundry will be done at the same time, I'll probably have dirty dishes in the sink and I may run out of diapers for the thousandth time. For heavens sake, I bet my baby will even eat some non-organic form of sugar before his birthday is up.

I can hear my own Mrs. Idealistic Pregnant Lady self a year ago gasping in disbelief.

Now? I'm way too busy enjoying every second of mothering a curious, alert, delightful little man covered in arena sand and remnants of lunch to care about that ideal stuff. 

Besides, who really needs sleep anyway?!

(Yawn...)