Orphan

I feel poisoned. I feel heavy, weighted down with the past and with my unmet expectations. I feel lost without the love I was promised, a love that I was expecting.

I feel the weight of the rest of my life, living without my parents. Because of their choices. And because they were both selfish people who chose drinking over me.

I am angry. I am battered inside. My tongue hurts from biting it to keep from screaming that this is NOT FAIR. NOT FAIR!!!!!

I hurt. Jesus I hurt. My eyes burn from unshed tears. My throat aches with the lump of a thousand swallowed down words, from holding back the river of pain I have kept dammed.

I am an orphan. While my father still lives.

Mark tells me over and over that his parents are my parents now. And I believe him. And I try to see them that way. But what Mark doesn't understand, could never understand, is that seeing his parents as my own is a double edged sword. I see what I have, and I also see what I HAVE NEVER HAD. I hear him on the phone with them, and while I am so happy for him, I just want to scream- What about me? Why, Jesus, why?

Chosen. Chosen to carry this. To hold the memories of a sick twisted mother an an alcoholic uncaring father. My back is strong, my Lord, but it is not unbreakeable.

Lily asks me about her picture. "Who's that?"

I tell her my mother. She asks where she is. I tell her in heaven.

"Do you miss her?"

"Yes, very much."

The words are forced out of lips frozen from wanting to speak the truth.

No, I don't miss her. Because you can't miss what you never had.

I have had many people fill the mother role for me. But they are square pegs in a round hole. There is always the gaping void. There is always the truth that no matter who fills the shoes, they are not the one born to the role. Their presence sometimes only amplifies the fact that the role is unfilled.

My mother chose to walk away from me. To leave me to others.

My father chose drinking over me.

How can I reconcile that without seeing myself as broken?

Without seeing something so intrinsically wrong with me that my own parents could not or would not keep me?

Jesus covers. He fills. He heals.

But sometimes Jesus also allows the pain to seep back through. Because pain cleanses as well. Pain teaches. And pain shapes us into the person we need to be.

But pain is pain. And no matter where it stems from, the pain of rejection is profound. And it scars.

And I am scarred today. Today I am riddled with the wounds of a thousand words said and unsaid. I am scarred with the turned back, the phone that doesn't ring, the sadness of that little girl left on a doorstep to wait for a daddy that never came.

The teenage girl struggling to not want her mother.

The pregnant woman watching as the ultrasound screen lit up with a girl, and feeling her heart sink. Wondering- how will I do this?

The 36 year old woman crying over her computer, wishing things were different.

I am scarred.

Inside and out. I cannot look down at my legs without seeing the cigarette wounds. I cannot brush my hair without feeling the tiny ridges of a hundred blows. I cannot think of the word mother or father without a flood of emotion I just wish to hell I could push away.

Are you waiting for words of hope? Because today I don't have any. Today I reserve the right to be sad and broken and lost. I reserve the right to still be emotionally spent from trying to keep a smile on my face through Father's day.

I reserve the right to be angry as hell that I was chosen for this.

I am angry with God today. I want to pick up the phone and laugh with my mother and father. I want them to know my children. I want them to know ME. I want them to love me.

I want them HERE. Invested in my life.

Sometimes feeling this is a gateway to greater understanding and joy. Sometimes releasing is healing.

Sometimes the weakness of giving in to sadness bring an upbuilding of strength.

So I am here, in it. And tomorrow I will hope that the tide of Jesus rushes in to fill the voids.

One Hundred

This past year has been a big one for me. My children have grown. My daughter has started kindergarten, my son preschool. I've begun writing for more than just a hobby- but as a paid freelancer.

And I've lost close to a hundred pounds.


It's something I planned on documenting here. But as the journey unfolded, it became much more personal and private than I anticipated.

I didn't have words for it.

And truthfully, I didn't want anyone to feel as if I was shoving this surgery down their throats, or promoting it as an option for THEM, when it was simply an option for ME.

I planned on posting pictures along the way. But the outside became much less important than the drastic change occuring inside of my body.

There are no words for this. For the realization of a dream I have had since I was 10 years old.

I am now as fit on the outside as I am on the inside.

My body works. It serves it's purpose of carrying me through my days. It helps me to accomplish what I need to. And it no longer hurts or weighs me down while doing so.

But the change I have experienced the most is at the core of myself. At my soul I am different. I stepped out on faith, did something that terrified me, and trusted God to carry me through.

I knew I would come through surgery. But at the core I was terrified I would fail at the weight loss like I have so many times before.

I surprised myself.

I have been reading alot about weight loss lately. I have seen on many message boards that alot of people feel this surgery is "cheating".

I did too. I did. But in the end there was no other option for me.

I was 230 pounds. I ate healthy. I exercised EVERY DAY. I worked hard to change myself. But my body was broken.

This surgery cured me of obesity. It gave me my life back.

It gave me my children back.

I was the mom who couldn't run. I had no energy. I was tired. I was sad.

I watched my children from the sidelines of my life because I couldn't join them.

I knew that if I continued the way I was going I would die.

So if that all constitutes cheating, then yes. I cheated.

I cheated my way into health. I cheated my way into being a better stronger person. I cheated my way into walking my daughter down the aisle. Into holding my son's firstborn.

I cheated.

This was a gift I gave my family, my children, and MYSELF.

I am 100 pounds lighter. But I am also a 100 times stronger. I am 100 times happier.

I am 100 times healthier.






I debated about putting a before picture here. But the truth is, it doesn't matter what I looked like then. What matter is that from the day I closed my eyes on the operating table, I woke up a new person. I was born into this body 36 years ago, but I was reborn on 2.14.12. God guided my path, guided my surgeons hand, and gave me strength to be where I am today.

And where I am is here, in this body, looking forward into a future with my health and my babies.

It doesn't get much better than that.

True Beauty

Dear Lily,

The other day I went to buy you new swimsuits. I wandered the section I normally browse. But the swimsuits only went to size 5.

So I crossed over the aisle to the girl’s section.

And baby girl, my heart broke. There along the wall were swimsuits. Every color, every pattern you can imagine. But our old standbys- the Princesses, the Hello Kitty, the pink polka dots…were nowhere to be seen.

You are six now. And apparently the stores believe you are too old for these things. They want you to wear peace signs. And zebra print. And boy shorts with bikini tops.

I looked through racks of suits, all of them smaller than the next. Tiny triangle tops. Strings to tie behind tiny necks. Small bottoms to barely cover anything.

I thought of your neck. The place right at the bottom beneath your hairline where the string would go. I thought of how I hold you on my lap and touch my nose to that very spot. How I smell your shampoo and lotion smell. How I close my eyes and rock you as I do.

I thought about the bottoms. How they cover less than your princess underwear you still love. How you adore picking between Hello Kitty and Rapunzel after your bath.

I stood there and saw our future together. I saw you one day wanting a swimsuit like these- because your friends had it. Because you felt it would get you noticed. Because you were made fun of for your modesty.

And I cried.

You are six. You love My Little Pony. You love your brother and playing veteranarian with him. You love to draw our family, flowers, hearts.

You are innocent. And pure. And so very good.

And that swimsuit I was holding represented the end of some of that.

I put it back and walked away. And as I did I thought of what I wished for you.

I wish you could be this way, this innocent, for much longer than I was.

I wish that you could be yourself, mature at your own pace, without any outside influences.

I want you to grow and mature. I want you to change. But I also want you to remain as you are right now- nearly untainted by others beliefs about you.

See the world will try to make you something different. The world will see the goodness in you and try to corrupt it. Because this world we live in celebrates the exploitation of innocence. This world corrupts. It always has.

I wish that you would love your body enough to keep it a mystery. To leave much to the imagination. To be modest not because I tell you to, but because it honors a deep spiritual place inside of you.

I want you to use your body to accomplish what your spirit needs for nourishment. I want you to dance, to express yourself, to write and read and kneel to your savior.

I want you to love yourself enough to not care what anybody else says about you. I want you to love yourself to only care what God believes about you.



And what He believes is this, baby girl:

You are an amazing creation.

You are beautiful.

You are treasured.

You are pure and good.



You are more than just a pretty face or a body- you are a soul. And long before you belonged to me, you belonged to Him.

I wish that you would know always that what you look like is secondary to what you do. Beauty is created more than birthed. You create beauty with actions and deeds. You create it with your ability to love and give.

True beauty is looking at somebody and seeing their Savior. And you have this, my dear sweet love. I look at you and see Jesus in your actions.

I want this to remain a truth about you. I want the world to not harden your heart or change the way you feel about your worth.

I want to freeze time.

But I can’t.

So what I can do, baby, is tell you what I will always give you.

I will be your ear when you need to talk about how you feel about yourself.

I will give you space to change and grow.

I will love you, in any size, in any way your body changes.

I will help you to be healthy. I will nourish your body with good food, and your mind with prayer.

I will tell you a thousand times a day that you are beautiful.

I WILL TELL YOU UNTIL YOU BELIEVE ME. Over and over. And then again.

You do not need anything to enhance your beauty- it is there in ever word and every gesture you make. In every smile and ever compassionate thought. THAT is beauty. Your perfect face and healthy body are just the outside of your perfect soul.

So if you never take anything else away from these words, please remember this:

Nothing you put on your body or face can make you more beautiful that your actions or deeds. NOTHING. Anybody who tells you differently is lying.

I will love you and celebrate that beautiful soul of yours forever.

Love,

Mommy

Redemption

It's been a day.

I'm worn at the edges. My heart aches with loneliness. I am being slowly pulled under by exhaustion.

I am feeling tugged from all directions. Pulled.

I am worn.

Ragged.

Done.

Laundry. Carpool. Watering the garden. Pulling weeds. Chasing the dog.

There's no me in this day, only...them.

A meeting. A room with three faces. My son sitting next to me, pushing cars as the labels ride over his head on the wall. Projected there in black and white.



Severe delay.

Failure.

Intervention.

Therapy.



All these words. Next to his name.

And him below it. With his eyes. His face. The face that looked up at me just minutes from my body. The face I caressed as he nursed. The eyes I have watched drift shut as I rocked, rocked.

His voice echoes across the sterile table. He says words only I can understand. I translate for him, watching his face.

I look down to hide tears I don't want anyone to see.

They ask- what do you want for him?

What do I see him doing 5 years from now?

And I say- I just want him to be able to speak.

But it's more.

I want him to be UNDERSTOOD.

And how, when the words are not there?

And will he be made fun of....and will he be lonely...and will he be sad. And god forbid any of these things because I WILL MOVE OCEANS TO SAVE HIM FROM THAT. Oceans. Mountains. I will NOT let him be lonely. I will not let him be mocked.

God help me. I will not.

The tears were swift. Hot coursing rivers. I did not let him see. He rode his scooter as I watched his joy and I thought -oh god how long will he feel this way? How long before he knows he is different?

My sweet sweet boy. My big eyed angel.

I put the kids to bed. Lily came out of her room with nonsense. I sent her back, harshly.

God told me to go to her. To make it right.

So I did. And it was back rubs and whispers and talking.

And then...



Mama?

Yes?

I stood up for somebody today.

Tell me.



And she does. Of the boy, the special boy, in her class. The one without many words. The one with big expressive eyes that look at you with such soul. Eyes like that don't need words.

She tells me of the boy who was laughing at her special friend. And how she told him to stop. Because it isn't nice.

My heart turned over. My eyes filled with tears as my heart filled with grace.

Because just as much as I have a sweet quiet special boy, I also have my kind compassionate loving Lily.

And there are many people like my daughter. Who see the soul, not just the body. That hear the unsaid words. That see the human beneath the diagnosis.

That hear the words that cannot come from the lips.

I looked into her eyes, so much like her brothers. And through tears I told her of how beautiful her soul is, how good she is, how treasured by God and by me.



Mama, it was nothing. I will always stand up for my friends.



I kissed her goodnight, whispering in her ear of how proud Jesus is of her amazing heart.

Redemption doesn't always come like lightning from the sky. Comfort is not always engulfing. Sometimes it can be the small voice of one heart, speaking for someone who cannot.

I thank God for the silence, and for the words.

Both have given me more than I could ever say.

It is enough

Dear mom,

Thougts of you come to me now like waves, rolling over my mind like the ocean does the sand. I see your face in my dreams, feel your hand on my shoulder as I sit and think. When I am alone you sometimes fill the space with your presence.

You don't like me to be lonely. You don't like me to be sad. The irony of this care now when you have been gone so many years is not lost on me. We share such a past.

You are at once my compass, and my example of who I don't want to be. Your mistakes haunt me.

But as I go further along this path of motherhood, I understand you so much more than I ever could. And as I battle my own demons of anxiety, I understand the struggles you must have gone through.

How lonely you must have been. I was right there, and you could not love me or hold me for fear of your madness breaking me.

I understand that now. You kept me at bay to save me. You held your love back, because with your love came your madness, and with that madness came destruction.

God. I get it mom. I get it.

For the first time in this life, I understand you. For the first time ever I can truly say that I have such pity for you. Because you tried to be normal. And you tried to be good. And you tried so hard not to wound me.

But your illness crept around the edges of your wall. And in the end the monster got us both.

I wish I could spend just one more day with you. A day in the sun. You and I. Talking about all of the things we never did. Saying all the things anger and madness kept us from saying.

I would tell you that I love you. I would tell you that you are not lost from me. I would tell you that I forgive you the scars. I forgive you the hurt. And that although I do not have many good memories of you, the ones I do have are enough.

They are enough.

And everything you tried to be, every effort you made to be more than your illness was not lost. It may have taken me 36 years to see the effort you made to be a good mother- but here it is.

I see it.

I remember you sitting and watching me sleep. Your tears were running down your face. I woke and looked at you. I was too tired to be scared, still half caught in my dreams. And you said I love you. Don't forget I love you. Never forget.

I know that was you talking. The you that got hidden and buried behind sickness and drink. I know that you pushed past that sickness so far you broke your own mind trying to be what I needed.

I would tell you that I look at my own daughter and see myself. I see the potential of what I could have been, unbroken and unscarred, and in a way it is as healing as it is damning. I see her face light up when I hold her, when I read to her. I see who I might have been had the weight of your illness not broken my spirit.

And that too is enough.

Because I can live through her. Through her careless days. I can live through her unburdened soul and heal a bit of myself as I mother her precious heart. I can give her what I wasn't given.

I can give her what I know, I know, you tried to give to me. I can do it for both of us.

You just couldn't. It was beyond you. And I forgive that.

Mom, I wish we had what others have. I wish I could call you. I wish you could see my babies. I wish beyond anything that I could look into your eyes and tell you all of these things.

I wish. I wish.

But wishes build nothing. So, I have this. Words on a page. Tears on my face. Love and forgiveness in my heart for the person who broke me.

And that, too, is enough.

We are enough. You and I together here and now. In what we can be.

And someday I will see you, and hug you. I will touch your face and cry. And in that day your eyes and mind will be uncaged. I will see who you are, without the bipolar monster staring back.

In that day you will love me. And I will love you.

Until then, this is enough. I am your daughter. With all of the weight and loss and hurt and love and pain that brings.

I am your daughter. I carry the memories. I carry the pain. I carry you, always.

Love,

Me

Call

I got into the car today, after loading Sammy up, going back inside 3 times for cups and snacks, and once to retrieve a lovey.

Can I get a holla from my mamas for the 8 trips back inside for stuff before getting to actually drive off? It's cardio right?

Anywho. Whenever I get still and quiet, my worries invade. All of everything that I have been super busy running away from sits in the passenger seat and decided to chat.

It began 2 minutes into my drive, as I was getting on the highway. Worry, worry. Uncertainty. Anxiety. Rushing of adrenaline. Tears. Hands gripping the wheel. Nausea.

I turned up KLOVE. I tried to redirect my mind. I tried talking to Sammy.

And then I hear it.

"Daughter, why don't you call my name?"

Clear as day.

"You are entitled to call my name. It is your birthright."

Honestly, I almost ran off the road. Because I rarely hear this clearly from my dear sweet Savior.

And my oh so eloquent response?

"Ummm well I don't want to bug you."

Ohmagoodness.

Really?

Really, Bella???

Yes really. That's what I said.

Anyway, let's move along shall we? Ahem.

So I opened my mouth and called on the name of Jesus. Nothing more. Just His name.

And I smiled. And was flooded with goodness.

It's kinda like the first bite of cake after dieting for years.

Delicious, lovely, wonderful, satisfying.

And I simply drove and spoke and talked. About it all. All of my hurts and worries and pain and....it simply turned into glory.

It turned into praise. It turned into worship. It turned into a song falling from my lips with tears from my eyes.

I sat at a stoplight and dried my eyes. And laughed.

And then again.

"Call on my name."

And I did.

"Now tell me why you don't believe I will help you."

Ouch.

But it's true. This is where I fall from my walk. I don't have a hard time wanting to be like Jesus. I don't have trouble with the commandments. I don't have a problem with giving.

I have a problem with believing I am WORTHY OF HIS LOVE.

This is where the cliff begins for me. Where thejumping off point becomes too high. And where I watch others soar from the ground.

It is in my own beliefs about myself.

And my own belief in the lies I have been told to keep me from loving God like I should.

And from trusting.

I am afraid. That as I am, I am not enough.

Oh I love Him. With a fierceness that I cannot explain. And I carry his love with me. And I give His love freely.

But my own worth just gets lost.

And if you don't believe in your worthiness to be loved by someone, how can they fully love you in return?

AND, AND, how painful it must be for Him to watch me struggle and not call for Him.

Because, people, let me tell you. He is REAL. He has SAVED ME. I would be lost if not for His love.

So it's time. To call for Him. To trust His word, that I am His. That I am HIS. That I am loved.

And that I am worthy of all of it.

Because half of any relationship is allowing the other half to care for YOU, to give to YOU, to love YOU. To be vulnerable. And to allow yourself to be deeply known.

And that includes asking for and accepting help.

Once again, God has shown me that I can go another step deeper into Him. That I can lean into His arms when I am lost, overwhelmed, or in need of shelter.

Jer 33:3......... "Call to Me, and I will answer you, and show you great and mighty things..."

Jer 29:12........ "Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you."

Isa 65:24........ "It shall come to pass that before they call, I will answer, and while they are speaking I will hear."

Given

She stood, in a dress with feathers. Smiling at those in the room around her. My heart was filled with love for this dear sweet friend as we celebrated her birthday.

Her daddy spoke. How proud he was. How much he loved her. Her mom spoke. How she treasured her.

And a little place in my heart that stays out of the light opened. It's a deep place. Full of sadness. The despair of a forgotten little girl lingers there. She longs for someone, anyone to choose her. To love her. To be proud of her. She longs for her mother and father to give her the things the world does not- safety, acceptance, and peace.

This place is one that stays hidden, closed away by a Savior that washed it clean and set it aside.

But sometimes the door opens. And stays that way for a while. I know in these times that this pain is important to sit with.

Some people believe that God washes away pain, and that it stays away forever- that it is forever healed. That is not true for me. In my case, the anger and sadness come back from time to time. But like everything else in my life, the pain is an amazing teacher.

I am sad that I have never had what so many others have. I am angry that I was cheated of these things. I am angry that I spent so much time feeling unsafe that even now as an adult I have to work through issues of debilitating anxiety and depression.

I am disappointed that God did not save me from these things.

And I also have a God that is not intimidated by the anger or sadness that keeps others away. He isn't put off by tears. He isn't fooled by the facade I put on for others.

He is not angered by my disappointment. He is not vengeful at my questioning of his plan.

I don't know the answers to why some have love and some do not. I don't know why some have childhoods of safety and sunshine while others have to fight tooth and nail for scraps of happiness.

I used to be envious of these other people. I used to be jealous. Ugly ugly emotions that can trap you into a cycle of feeling sorry for yourself. A cycle of questioning your own worth. Of validating yourself by how others have valued you.

The truth is, I was not treasured by my parents. I was not kept safe. At times, I doubt if I was loved.

But.

When I feel this way, I remember this: I am cherished by a Savior that died for me. He has walked with me every single step. He has followed when I turned away. He has waited when I strayed. He has welcomed me back when I ran to Him, desperate for love.

And I also remember what He has given to me: