Joy

Yes, that is what you think it is. We are blessed, yet again, to be carrying life.

You would think I would be nervous. Filled with anxiety. But I'm not. I have such warmth and peace. I am resting in my God.

I am more cautious, in one way, more joyful in another. Will I get to hold this baby? I don't know.

It's simply not up to me.

And there is such peace in that, my friends. This child's days are all known. They are all marked. This child is known by his heavenly father. This child is loved. And whatever comes is God's will. I accept it with open arms.

Thank you for praying. Thank you for spending some of your precious time with God for me. It is humbling, and I love you for it.

Be joyful with me...



For this child I prayed; and the LORD hath given me my petition which I asked of him.
1 Samuel 1:27



13 For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.

14 I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.

15 My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place.
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,

16 your eyes saw my unformed body.
All the days ordained for me
were written in your book
before one of them came to be.

17 How precious to [b] me are your thoughts, O God!
How vast is the sum of them!

Psalm 139

If you are looking...

for evidence that Mark is the best daddy ever, stop. I've got it right here!

I could write a million words about how wonderful he is. I could go on and on about how Lily adores him, depends on him, loves him, and looks up to him. But no words will ever suffice. So instead, I will let these pictures speak for themselves.

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Mark, you show me everyday what a father should be. You are devoted. You are selfless. I could not EVER ask for anyone better for Lily. Thank you for making this family all that it should be. Thank you for making sure that Lily would never have to search for love, or look to anyone else for acceptance, grace, and to be cherished.

I love you for a million different reasons, but the first is because of the way you love our daughter.

I know I said I wouldn't...

I said I was done. I was past writing about my lost baby, and his effect on my life.

And I was.

But today, grief reared it's ugly head.

I feel so, so sad.

I miss him. I never got to see his face, to know if he would have been dark eyed. I never got to hold my hand over him as he kicked. I never got to sit, swollen with life, his life, and enjoy the feeling of his hiccups and wanderings in my body.

I had him, for so short a time. And I miss him, terribly. I would have been close to meeting him now. Just a few months away.

Oh how I would have loved him. I just wanted a chance to hold him.

Don't get me wrong. I know how blessed I am. I have my Lily. I have my husband. I have my great and mighty God. But I long for my baby. Nothing has dimmed the longing. The sadness ebbs and flows, but nothing takes away the longing to just have held him, to show him the world, to love him.

Most days I am fine. But tonight I am filled to the brim with tears. Tonight, I laid my head down next to Lily's while she said her prayers. It's been weeks since she mentioned his name. But tonight, after Daddy, she blessed Joshua. I cried. She laid her hand on my face and told me to be happy.

And I am. I know where he is. I am happy that he is where we all long to be. But how I wish for his sweet little head to rest my lips on. I wish for his tiny feet to kiss and rub. I wish to hold him close and nurse him.

Tomorrow will come. The day will be new. But he will still be missing. From my body, from our home.

I still don't know how to make that okay.

New eyes

Sometimes I am just plain surprised by the immensity of my God. By His ability to know what is best for me, for my family, for the world. Even though I don't always understand, there is an intense peace and rest in knowing that He is in control of it all. That I can give it up and pass it over. That I can give Him my life, my pain, my joy. That He can take such devastation and turn it into beauty.

Remember a few posts back when I talked about my family? How I felt God pressing me to try to restore it? Yeah. Tall order there. I could give you some background. I won't. It doesn't really matter, what has happened before. I used to focus on it. I used to think about it, have flashbacks. I used to be tortured by memories. But I gave those up when I decided to pursue restoring the ruins of my family. I had to.

My father is at the crux of all of this. He is a good man, but a lousy father. I needed so much from him that he never gave. I still do. I long to be held by my daddy, to be comforted, to be cherished. It's just not in the cards. And that will hurt all of my life, but it won't steal my joy.

I've made an effort to pray for my father every single day. Not the prayer I used to pray- "Oh Lord, please change him." But a new prayer, a shift in my thinking- "Lord, please change ME so that it is easier to love him. Draw him to you, Lord. Call him. Let me be the catalyst for healing, God. Let me resore what has been ruined." This is a powerful prayer, ya'll. And one I don't take lightly. I believe my father's soul is riddled with hurt and pain. I believe his drinking is a way to avoid the world. I think he hears God's call, but doesn't want to do the hard work involved in getting right with Him.

And I love him. I love my father. I don't idolize him like I used to, but I cannot put into words how I love him. He is deeply flawed and selfish, but he is my earthly father. I was given to him for a reason. He was given to me for a reason.

Yes, I have grand ideas of saving him. Many people would look at him as a lost cause. He is 74, doesn't leave his home. His health is bad. He drinks all of the time. He has no friends. He can pass days without seeing another living soul. His life is his 4 walls and his bottle of whiskey.

But God sees beyond all of that. He sees the man he truly is. He sees past the wounds and the hurt and the drunkeness. He sees His creation. He sees, also, redemption.

And now, so do I. Because I am looking through God's eyes. Not my own.

I picked up the phone to call my father yesterday, because I felt compelled to. I expected, since it was early evening, to hear his slurred words. To put up with his dirty jokes, his nonsensical ramblings. But the voice that greeted me was clear, strong, and awake. His words were kind. His voice was soft with care at times, gruff with emotion at others. Yes, it was all about him...as always. But that's okay. It IS all about him now.

It's about his soul, and his life, and where he is going. And I am willing to guide, to listen, and to pray. For as long as it takes.

Sustenance

I did alot of thinking this morning while I was in the shower. Not because my dove soap was particularly thought provoking, but because it is sometimes the only time all day I am alone.

Usually when I get undressed to shower, I avoid looking at myself. I avert my eyes until I am somewhat dressed again. I try not to look at myself, because what I see hurts me.

Just looking at me, you wouldn't know the lengths I go through to be healthy. The energy I put into trying to eat well. I exercise nearly everyday. I think about every bite of food I take. I think about my weight, my body, and how much I hate it many many times a day. Sometimes I feel trapped in my own skin.

I know there are many people reading this right now who understand what I am saying. We all have something, don't we? Our weight, our hair, our nose, our butt. We can all pick ourselves apart. We can all put ourselves down. It's human nature. Well, to be truthfull, it's female nature.

So this morning, while I was soaping up, I was chastising myself. From my big ankles to my saggy mom boobs, there was nothing I liked. Nothing about myself was beautiful to me.

And then I started to cry. I was a weeping mess for a few minutes before I asked God, like I often do, to help me change my body. For once, I felt like I got an answer.

"No."

It was gentle, but firm. Sadness stretched even farther into me, as I allowed myself to really wallow in self pity. I knew then that I would never been slim. I would never look the way I want to. Never. It's just not going to happen for me.

I started to think about worthiness. About loving myself. About how much energy I waste in hating my body, the house of my soul. And in time, I began to realize that I was hating...God's creation. He made me this way. Big hips, big belly, flabby arms and all. He made it. He fashioned it. He knit me together.

And He also knew, when He did so, that hatred of my body would be a bondage I would carry all of my life. That it would teach me something. So what can I learn?

I started to look at myself, really look. My body does not look like society would have it look. It is not sculpted. It is soft and heavy. It is round and large. But it is a house of miracles. It carried my babies. It fed my child for over a year and a half. It carries my sleeping child, holds my husband. My hands create clothing and meals and comfort. My mind creates stories and words. My legs and feet have traveled the world. My womb...well, it is a miracle itself isn't it?

How much time I have wasted. How many hours and tears and sadness. How much unenjoyed food have I put in my mouth? How much guilt have I felt with every morsel of sustenance?

So, in all of this, I cannot say that I won't hate my body anymore. It's a struggle I am going to have to persist in combating. But I made myself a promise this morning. In every moment I seek to drag myself down, to put myself down, to hurt myself with thoughts of my ugliness and weakness...I will instead praise God. I will turn it, on a dime, into praise for the One who cares nothing about the "packaging" I am in, and instead cares about ME. The real me. The soul. The person. His child. His creation. Me.

I can't say that I won't think anymore about how I wish I looked. About how good it would feel to be light on my feet, or to run. But I will use the time and energy I used to spend on pointless self injury spending time with God and trying to heal the brokeness I have created within myself.

Can't. Even. Speak.

So much to say, no way to say it.

Good stuff. Awesome stuff. Happy stuff.

You'll have to wait.

:P

Coon Coon Ca Choo

It's 10 PM. I walk into the living room to see Mark perched on the edge of his easy chair, an intense look on his face. He points to the window which faces the backyard.

Squatting beneath our birdfeeder is a HUGE racoon. Huge. I mean the size of a small truck. Or a housecat.

The window is open, and he is staring right at Mark and I while he dines. Stare stare, chew. Stare stare, chew.

"Awwwww he's cute!!!" I say.

"I'm calling animal control." Mark says.

I go to unlock the door, thinking he will surely run. I mean, come on, scary lady in an old nightgown with no makeup? I'd run, birdseed or no birdeed.

He has other ideas. Not only doesn't he run even when I step out onto the deck, he also does a little shuffle and head bob, Ali-style.

Oh no he di'nt.

I decide he isn't cute anymore. I decide he is rabid and filthy. Mark is on board with this decision.

We both stand, only 10 feet away from him. He continues eating and staring. While I am glancing down to find some shoes, Mark picks up Lily's toy popper- you know the one that looks like a little vacuum and is so utterly annoying? You have one. You know why it's on the deck. Don't judge me.

Mark shakes the popper in the air and does a little dance, Egy-style. Of course, since I am not expecting this, it scares me to death and I drop to the deck and pee myself. This makes us laugh until we cannot breathe.

He still doesn't move. He is really creeping us out now.

Oh, where is the dog you ask? Asleep on our bed, naturally.

Mark finally gets close to chase him off. He climbs the fence lazily, casting us one more creepy stare over his shoulder as he goes.

Mark swaggers inside, proud. Man chase off beast size of cat. Man is big man. Man is strong man.

We are sure he is gone for good. Ten minutes later, however, he is peeking over our fence like a masked bandit.

This calls for the big guns. We let out the dog.

Brooklyn stumbles unsteadily out of the doogie door, having been woken from her sleep on our WHITE duvet. (white duvet, black dog...insert gasp here) She comes face to face with the racoon, seeing him perched on the fence. And she does....nothing.

She stares. He stares. I shriek at Brooklyn to earn her kibble and "Get im!!" She pees. She scratches herself lazily. The racoon sits on the fence and watches calmly, waiting, I am sure, to hop onto one of us and eat our face, hannibal-style.

Finally, the racoon makes a move to come down the fence onto the rocks below. That's when all hell breaks loose and Brooklyn goes to town. She barks, she yelps, she growls, and she repeatedly hits the fence like a little wrecking ball. The racoon is now on the other side of the fence, hissing and spitting and growling itself.

Brooklyn barks and growls, Mark takes the hose and sprays the varmit with it. "Great," I mutter, "Now he's had food and shower. It's the wild kingdon B&B!"

We hear him crash into the underbrush and run off. Brooklyn gives one last bark and then saunters into the house with her "Gimme a treat, lady!" doggie grin. I oblige.

Need I remind ya'll of the snake incident? Remember, back over a year ago?

http://itcouldabeenworse.blogspot.com/2008/07/oh-ma-gawd.html

You'd think we were Ma and Pa Clampett with all this dang wildlife. I think it's time to buy me a wicker rocker and start whittling on the back porch. Naw, that would ruin my manicure. Ahem.