Growing in Hard Places

         The last year and a half has been one of the most difficult seasons in life I have ever had to navigate. We moved here only a few months after my dad died, and, still deep in my grief process I traded a network of family, friends and familiar places for a tiny rural town in a brand new country. Not only that, I did it in the middle of the Covid-19 pandemic. Border restrictions kept me from visiting my old network, and gathering restrictions here kept me from finding a new one. A medical system in disarray made getting necessary medical care almost impossible at times and left me uneasy. One of my kids had difficulties assimilating for several months into his new school, and I didn't know anyone in town to help me. Winter, which seems to last for eternity here, kept me inside for many months. The isolation I felt was overwhelming. 

    And yet, as I look back over the last eighteen months, I am amazed at how, even in this difficult season, I have grown. Grown in ways I don't think would have been possible had I not taken this adventure. What I didn't realize was, that although I was letting go of my network, I was also letting go of all the expectations and obligations and corners I had painted myself into in that former life. And in doing so, I've been able to rediscover who I really am, and who I want to become. 

    As long as I can remember, I've been worried about making other people happy. Somewhere along the way I internalized the belief that by making other people happy, I would, by extension, also be happy.  Whether it was going to the college my dad wanted me to go to, or giving my kids second helpings before I'd had a chance to sit down to eat my first, or saying yes to a friend's invitation when I really didn't have time, or agreeing to move to Canada for my husband's career even though I could hardly get out of bed with grief, I became an expert at making other people happy. Over and over I would say "Yes. Whatever you want. I have no preference. You can decide." Because if they were happy, I was happy. 

    The problem was, I wasn't happy. 

    Everywhere I turned, there were expectations. Expectations from my husband on the role I play as a wife. Expectations from my kids on the role I should play in the home and family. Expectations from the church on what it means to be a believer, a female, a wife, a mother, everything. 

    And, most of all, expectations from myself to be perfect.

    I'm not exactly sure how I ended up in this place. But I do know that the church played a big role. There are a lot of expectations that go along with the conservative, fundamentalist Christian church. Expectations on the way you dress, the movies you watch, the music you're allowed to like, the way your marriage operates. 

     There is also a huge arm of the church that is preoccupied with determining what it means to be a godly female. According to certain denominations of the church, women, as designed by God, are to fill the service, not the leadership positions in the church. Women cannot preach. Women cannot be pastors. Women cannot be elders.  A godly woman submits to her husband.  A woman's highest calling is motherhood. A woman is most fulfilled when she is serving her family. A godly woman thinks of others first, always. A godly woman is most holy when she is forgetting herself and serving others. 

    These are just a few of the messages I internalized over the years, beginning in college up until now. And yet here I sat, in my living room in rural Nova Scotia, one month after moving away from all that I knew, and I had a moment to think about where I had ended up. I was a stay-at-home mom of three wonderful children, married to a successful engineer, with a beautifully decorated home. I had believed all of the "right" things. I had stayed in the sphere that is "for godly women." I had forgotten myself and served others no matter the personal cost. I had done everything I could to make everyone I knew happy. 

    And I was miserable. Unhappy. Resentful. Unfulfilled. 

    I have spent the last year and a half finding my way back to myself. I had forgotten in the years of babies, and middle of the night feedings, and chaos to ask myself what I needed. I had forgotten in the years of trying to be a "godly woman" what kind of music, and books, and wine I really liked. I had forgotten in trying to be the perfect wife that my dreams and goals are just as important as my husband's. In fact, I had forgotten that I had my own dreams and goals altogether. 

    I allowed my desire to be perfect, to meet other's expectations, to be "godly",  to completely erase my own individual sense of self. 

    It has been a difficult journey back. I've had to ask myself hard questions. What do I really believe? Can I retain my faith while rejecting all of the messaging that sought to restrain me? Can I be a good mom and still pursue my own career goals? Is my marriage strong enough to withstand a huge overhaul of roles and responsibilities? Can I be comfortable enough in my own skin to stop caring so much what other people think?  

   As I found myself alone, the kids at school and daycare, I began to wonder what the future held for me, now that the intense years of baby and toddlerhood had passed. How could I find fulfillment while still making everyone happy? 

    The short answer is, I couldn't.  In order to be fulfilled, I knew I needed a challenging career. A job that allowed me to still be there when the kids got off the bus and home for summer and flexible enough to still attend all the school events and be home for sick days just didn't feel challenging enough. I didn't just want to pass the time while the kids were at school. I wanted to do something that mattered. I wanted something that I could really throw myself into. Something that would fully engage all of my talents and brain. 

    So, my therapist (everyone needs a therapist, just saying) encouraged me to take a few weeks to dream of a future without all of those expectations. If no one expected anything of you, what would you do? I didn't need a few weeks to think about it. I knew right away. I would go to law school. I had wanted to go to law school after college. But in my desire to make others happy, and in my worry about how to balance marriage and growing a family I had decided not to. 

    "Great!" my therapist said, "I think you'd make a great lawyer." You do??? I thought. It was the first time in a very, very long time that I thought about what I really wanted, and had the courage to take the risk to try it. 

    And that's how I ended up in law school. I researched programs that I could do from Canada that would allow me to sit for the Bar when I got back to the States. I studied for a few weeks for the LSAT, applied, and was accepted to Syracuse University.

    It has not been easy. I spend hours and hours and hours reading. Late night Zoom classes mean missing out on kid bedtimes. Ben is stepping in to help make dinners and pack lunches and backpacks. When the kids are sick at home, it means I have to make up the time I lose studying on the weekends. The kids have missed me when I have to travel for school. Ben and I have had our share of arguments over the many changes and the new split of household and kid duties, and had long talks about what it means to juggle two careers. 

       But I have never felt more fulfilled in my entire life. My marriage finally feels like the marriage of two equals. Two individuals with goals and dreams and both can be supported. Motherhood has moved into it's rightful place in my heart. It doesn't define my life, it is just one piece of it. My kids are seeing that my goals, dreams, and needs are just as important as theirs, and that in a healthy family we support each other. It's not just mom's job to serve and support all the people. And individually, I am so happy with my decision to go back to school. I finally have something I can call my own, something that engages my heart and mind and celebrates my talents and abilities. I've helped investigate war crimes in Ukraine, and written a white paper exposing human rights violations in China for the International Olympic Committee, and gotten straight A's while doing it. I've met some like minded women who inspire me to show up and be myself every single day.  I have no idea what kind of law I am going to practice yet, but I am excited for wherever the journey takes me. 

    I'm learning I love margarita nights. And Justin Bieber concerts. And I'm still thinking through my faith. My core belief in a sovereign Creator remains, but I am skeptical of the patriarchal power politics that go on in a lot of churches. The ones that are preoccupied with what they think a woman's role is. And I'm ok with saying so, which I was afraid to do before. I hope I can find a faith community that celebrates me exactly as I am. 

    Next summer we will move back to the US. And I will be moving back as a changed person. And while this season here in Canada has been so hard, it has also been exactly what I needed, and I am filled with gratitude for what it has allowed me to become. 

I read this poem by Morgan Harper Nichols that captures exactly how I feel in this season of life:

I am letting go. I am finally free to outgrow the spaces that tried to restrain me.

I will leave the lies behind and I will grow boldly under the sun. 

I will trust that my fears will not hinder who I become.

I am not who I used to be and that is a beautiful thing.

It's Ok to Ask for Help

 It's been a long time since I posted anything on this personal blog. I didn't realize just how long until I logged in and saw the last post dated 2019. So much has happened in my life between that post and this one. 

Many of you know that in late 2019, my dad lost his battle against Myotonic Muscular Dystrophy. It was a long, excruciating battle. It's a battle my younger sister and brother continue to fight. 

What you may not know, is that during those last couple of years of his life, and the year following his death, I too was fighting my own battle. For over a year before he died, I would go down to visit my dad as much as I could on the weekends. The visits were hard, seeing his decline a little more each time, and on my drive home I would think about what I would want to say in his eulogy, because I knew that he would not be with me much longer. I would try to create special memories on his birthday, or Christmas, but I was always wondering in the back of my mind if it would be the last time.  I would lie awake at night and think of all the questions I wanted to ask him before it was too late, and imagine what it might feel like when I couldn't ask him any more. 

And then, he died. 

And all that time I had spent thinking, anticipating, and imagining what it would be like when that day came, amounted to nothing more than practicing the backstroke in my bathtub, unaware that a 1200 foot tsunami was about to crash down over me. 

His death swallowed me up, and I felt like I had been swept down so far beneath the water I wasn't sure I would be able to swim back up. And, if I'm honest, I wasn't sure I cared either way. 

I began to think about life as a series of losses that I couldn't avoid. A loss that began with my dad, but I knew that many more would follow, and there was nothing I could do about it. I questioned everything I believed. I questioned the meaning of life. I could barely get out of bed for a full week, and when I finally did, I felt like a shell of myself.

I remember going away with Ben for a weekend in the spring to celebrate our anniversary. We chose a small B&B nestled on the Chesapeake river. We sat together on the deck, overlooking the water, the blue skies, the boats lazily making their way to the marina, and I just cried. I asked Ben, "Will there ever be a day that I feel truly happy again? Just happy?" I had lost hope that it was possible. 

Meanwhile, I kept trying to carry on as normal. I've always had a reputation as being the strong one. But the pandemic made things even harder. My kids were home all day, needing my help with school, and there was no easy way to escape to a quiet place to process all that I had been through. I was tired all the time, and often just going through the motions to make my family happy. But there were many, many nights that I went to sleep thinking I didn't care if I woke up again. 

Later that summer, I began experiencing panic attacks. Small things, inconsequential things, like when Ben's car battery died  5 minutes from home, and my heart began to race uncontrollably, my throat closed and it was hard to breathe. I felt like the world was spinning and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get it to stand still. 

It was time to ask for help.

That's when I began to see a counselor. I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety triggered by profound loss. 

Profound loss. It's a term I wasn't familiar with before, but it perfectly describes what I didn't know how to articulate. Profound means a great depth, like the ocean. So deep that it can't be measured. 

That's like what the loss of my dad was like. And not just his death, but the dying process itself. My counselor gave me permission to admit the trauma I had lived through. She helped me see that the trauma I had shouldered, and continued to shoulder, was life altering, and that it really was as bad as I felt like it had been. She gave me permission to feel whatever it was I needed to feel without guilt. And, when the time was right, she gently recommended that I see my doctor for medication. 

And so, I've spent the last 7 months or so seeing a counselor weekly over Facetime. I've been on anti anxiety/depression medication almost that long too. 

The changes were small at first. A few weeks after I began my medication Ben came home to find me making the kids laugh with silly voice impersonations. He wondered if I'd had too many cups of coffee that afternoon. The kids asked if I had eaten too much sugar. But I hadn't had any! I was just feeling silly. It was in that moment that I realized that not only had I forgotten what it felt like to play, my family had forgotten what it was like to see me play too. 

Since then, things have continued to get better a little at a time. I've started to take better care of myself, like the decision to put Caleb in daycare twice a week so that I have quiet time to heal and to reconnect with what brings me joy. I've begun dreaming and making plans for the future. I'm seriously considering returning to school in the next year or so to pursue a law degree. I've begun to think about the future as a place of possibilities, and less like a death sentence of loss and grief. 

Last week, I had to call my grandma to tell her goodbye for the last time. It was a hard phone call to make, and yet, I was able to have a conversation with her unlike any I was able to have with my dad. I told her all she had meant to me, and I thanked her for being such an incredible force for good in my life. When I got the news she had passed, I braced myself, waiting for the tsunami to come again. To suck me underneath it's massive, dark waves. 

But it didn't come. Of course,  I was sad. I still am sad. Life was just so much better with my grandma in it. But as I reflect on the difference between this loss and the one last year, this time I still have hope for the future. I want to wake up in the mornings (not to be confused with wanting to get out of bed... it's so cold here in Canada...) I want to study for the LSAT, and play fetch in the snow with my puppy, and use my Alexa to play pranks on my kids. I want to live, and dream, and hope. 

This is a lot to share on the internet. At first, I was really embarrassed to have to see a therapist and go on medication. I felt like strong people should able to handle life without that. 

But I was wrong. Strong people know when to ask for help. Strong people have a tribe behind them, to help carry them through trauma and grief and loss. Strong people go on medication when they need to.

I'm sharing these personal details because I have always believed in the power of a story. My story, your story, our stories, can help people. By being open about our triumphs AND our struggles, we can give someone else the confidence they need to reach out for help.  

If you are reading this today, and you can relate to being underneath a tsunami, not sure if you're going to make it out, not sure if you care, I understand. And I'm here to tell you, just keep swimming. Reach out for a lifeline. A friend, a therapist, your doctor. There is hope for the future, even if it doesn't feel like it today. 

I'm living proof that it can, and will, get better. <3

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

It's been about five months since I had my second miscarriage. So much about the experience was exactly like the first time, and so much of it was completely different.

Though the doctors initially suspected the pregnancy was ectopic, further testing and symptoms led them to believe the pregnancy was actually located in the right place but just wasn't genetically viable.

I miscarried the baby at home, just like I did the first time. It was painful, and unpleasant, and sitting alone in my bathroom I remember thinking, "it wasn't supposed to be like this. I made sure it would never be like this again." And yet, there I was,  three and a half years later reliving one of the worst moments of my life.

Since that moment five months ago, I have been on a journey of healing that looks very different than it did three and half years ago.

I am sure you've seen the posts celebrating "rainbow babies" that pop up all over social media. Precious babies, born after a pregnancy or infant loss, that signify hope and joy after an incredibly difficult storm. I myself am mom to one of these precious "rainbows" and for that I am forever thankful. Looking back, I can see how my pregnancy after loss gave me a way to cope, to move forward, and to heal. The minute my baby was born, I felt a sense of wholeness that I had been searching for ever since the miscarriage.

But what happens when there is no rainbow baby? What happens when you don't get to try again? What happens when your arms are left aching for a baby you never got to hold? How do you move forward?

I didn't expect to grieve so deeply. The pregnancy was entirely unplanned, and yet from the moment I saw those two pink lines,  my baby was wholly and completely wanted.

Most surprising to me, was that soon after the miscarriage was complete, I found myself overwhelmed with feelings of desperately wishing for another baby. It didn't matter that it didn't make logical sense or that we had already decided two years ago that we were done having children. I only knew that I had lost something incredibly precious, that I felt empty, and the only thing that I knew to do to heal my aching heart was to have another baby.

I have a good friend who lost a baby a few years ago, around the same time that I did. It was an unplanned pregnancy, but she went on to have another baby even though she had thought she was "done" because, as she put it, she "couldn't end on that note."

I understand her now better than I ever could have before.

I didn't want to end on that note.

I didn't want to end on grief.

I have found that the community of women who lose a baby and do not go on to have another baby is much smaller than the community of women who welcome a "rainbow." Type into Google "how to get through a miscarriage" and every single post talks about how to know when you're ready to try again, how long to wait, and what to expect in your next pregnancy.

I even went so far as to talk with my doctor, who confirmed what I already knew. It would be far too risky to try again, and that chapter of my life needed to be closed for good.

And so I found myself in a foreign place. How do you grieve a miscarriage when you cannot look forward to having another healthy baby?

I felt lost. Like a ship crashing around stormy waves without a clue as to how to reach safe harbor.

I was angry at God.

Why did this happen? Why did He let me get pregnant if He knew I was just going to lose the baby anyway? Why did He pick my birthday, of all days, to find out that I was pregnant? Now every future birthday will be connected to the baby I lost. A day that is already connected to my dad, that I already dread facing one day without him.  Why did he let this happen when He knows some days I can barely catch my breath thinking about how sick my dad is? What did I do to deserve this?

It felt personal. Like a trial picked out especially for me. I was desperate to understand, but none of it made sense. What was I supposed to learn from this?  And why did the lesson have to be taught this way? Was it to make me more grateful? How could I possibly be more grateful than I already am? Was it to remind me that I am not in control? Believe me, the illness my dad and brother and sister share remind me of that lesson daily.

What was the purpose of this loss? How could God let this happen?

The first time I ever remember hearing about God I was ten years old. My mom had just broken the news to me that Santa, was in fact, a work of fiction. Sensing my disappointment in the loss of magic in my life, she brought me into her bedroom and sat me on the edge of the bed and told me in measured tones that although she had taken away something that wasn't ever actually real that day, she wanted to give me something real that I could hold onto for the rest of my life.

And she told me about God. I don't remember anything specific she said that day, except that I could tell she was completely sincere, more sincere than I had ever heard her before. And I walked away from that conversation believing that there was a Creator who loved and cared about me, and that I could turn to Him in difficult times.

It's a gift I have carried forward with me the rest of my life.

But I think maybe, on that day that I lost Santa and found God, I made an unconscious association between the two.  Looking back, I can see that there have been many times in my life that I have expected God to fill in Santa's big shoes, giving me good gifts and rewarding me for good behavior.  And sometimes He has, blessing me above and beyond anything I could have dreamt or imagined. Just a look at my three beautiful children and my breath catches in my throat over God's generosity towards me. But whenever He does not act as Santa most assuredly would, such as allowing my dad, brother, and sister to be diagnosed with an incurable and progressive disease, I am angry and confused. It doesn't jive with my understanding of God as good and just.

And so I have been asking myself these two questions for the past eight years, ever since my dad was diagnosed, and especially the past five months: Is God really good? And if He is good, then how could He have let this happen?

I have been on a journey to find the answer to those questions. It would take several blog posts to explain, but the word that I kept stumbling upon was "hope." The first book I read after the miscarriage was Anne Lamott's "Almost Everything: Notes on Hope" where she talks about gratitude as the antidote to grief. It was a good start, because in the moments that I could focus on gratitude were the rare moments I felt like I could take a full, deep breath in the midst of the storm.

And though it helped, the waves of grief kept hitting me unexpectedly, both about my dad and about the baby. And so,  I was asking Google about how to grieve one afternoon  (because googling is so much easier than prayer some days) when I stumbled on an article by Nancy Guthrie. The article resonated with me, as it talked about what "not to say" to someone grieving. Something in me prompted me to type her name into the search bar. And when I read her life story, I felt chills run up my spine.

Nancy had given birth to a totally healthy boy, and then a few years later went on to have her second child, a girl, who she named Hope. But upon Hope's birth, doctors realized something was wrong, and she was soon diagnosed with a fatal genetic condition and was not expected to live even a year. Nancy took her baby girl home and watched her slowly decline over the next several months until she passed away at seven months old. Not wanting to put their families through such a tragic situation again, her husband had a vasectomy. Two years later they received the surprise of a lifetime when Nancy discovered she was pregnant. With only a 25% chance the baby would be afflicted with the same syndrome, they were hopeful. But weeks later doctors confirmed that this baby also had the same genetic condition as their daughter. They buried their rainbow baby six months after he was born. She didn't have any more children after that.

So much of Nancy's story resonated with me. The decision not to have any more children, followed by a pregnancy that ended in grief, and the deep knowing that there would never be another "rainbow baby."  I could fully relate to the roller coaster of emotions and the questions that followed. I decided to read some more of her articles.  I was struck by, and almost angry, at the way Nancy wrote with such peace. She wasn't angry with God. What did she know, that I didn't?

I decided to let the subject drop.

A few months later, a friend, in whom I had confided my struggles with grief,  texted me with a podcast she had listened to about grief that she thought I would find encouraging.

Guess who the guest speaker was on that podcast?  Nancy Guthrie.  My friend had no idea that I had ever even heard of her. I felt a nudge in my heart that I should listen to the podcast, and open up my heart to what she had learned in her journey.

So I listened. Through tears and gobs of tissues, but I listened. And that podcast changed my life. I know that sounds dramatic, but it's true. In the podcast Nancy talks about how the God of the Bible has promised to make all things new. That one day there will be no more tears, no more death, no more grief. But that until that happens, we are inhabitants of a world that has been wholly affected by sin.

As a Christian, my understanding of sin is sort of like this. God made the world and it was entirely awesome. And then He made man, who was also fantastic, but who had a free will to choose whatever he wanted to choose. And, in a story about an apple that shouldn't have been eaten but was, man chose to go his own way, instead of the way God had asked him to go. And the result of that was that man could no longer live in the presence of God, who is perfect and without sin, because the "I'll do it my way" sin separated him from God. And it wasn't just that man was kicked out of a beautiful and perfect garden, the disruption caused by man's choice to do things his own way affected the whole earth. Things weren't quite so awesome anymore.

Now, if you aren't a Christian that might sound like a load of looney stuff. But it frames the way I see things.

What I'm really saying is, things aren't the way they were meant to be.

No news there right?

And so, as I listened to Nancy I heard her talk about how we long for things to be made right. We struggle against this curse we are under where things in this world are broken. And it isn't just "bad people" or "sinners" who face brokenness. We all do. War, famine, disease, difficult relationships... all of it is a reflection of our brokenness.

Miscarriage too. Nancy talked about how after Adam and Eve sinned in the garden, God told Eve that she would experience "pain in childbirth." Many times we read that and think it means the actual pain of labor. But Nancy said that it wasn't just the physical pain of childbirth that was being described, it was everything having to do with bearing children. The pain of miscarriage, infertility, and even grown children who break our hearts. It all reflects the brokenness of this world.

And so I started to feel a shift in my thinking. If Nancy is right, that we live in a broken world, and that to experience pain, and loss, and grief are all part of this human experience, then why am I so indignant that I have been asked to face these trials? Why am I so angry that I haven't been spared this pain, when it is simply the price of admission to being human?

And I came face to face with the fact that I have been believing in a Santa Claus God. One that I expected to save me from all my troubles, give me a happy ending, grant all my wishes, and assure every experience I went through was for a specific lesson or purpose. But that isn't really who God is, and it isn't how this world really works.

So what now?

Well, Nancy says the story doesn't end there, and that the ending is what everything hinges on. She clings to the verses in Revelation 21 that say 

"God’s home is now among his people! He will live with them, and they will be his people. God himself will be with them. He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.”

And the one sitting on the throne said, “Look, I am making everything new!”

These verses are describing a day in the future, when God creates a new heavens and a new earth to live among His people. There will be no more sorrow or crying or pain. And that's why she has hope. Not because she hopes one day to have more children, not because she hopes she has "paid her dues" and nothing worse will ever happen to her.  Nothing is going to erase the pain she went through. Nothing is going to make sense of why she had to bury two precious babies. But she has hope that God is going to make good on His promise to make things right, to wipe her tears and make all things new. That He is working in His time and with His power to create a new heavens and a new earth in which death has no victory and grief has no place.

That's a big leap of faith. It all hinges on what I can't see, or feel, or know in the tangible sense of things. And yet it resonates with me. That God took the first step already, in sending his own Son to pay the price for our sin. I get to experience that part of his plan right now, the forgiveness for all my shortcomings and the closeness I get to feel to God because of Christ.
But the part of the story that really matters to me? God isn't done yet. He is going to make all this other ugly stuff right. This unexpected second miscarriage and unrelentless progression of muscular dystrophy and the ache of all the trials yet to come in my life.

Grief doesn't get the last word. And I don't have to end on this note.

And so I am clinging to hope.  It isn't hope that suddenly my dad will wake up with his DNA chain fixed and healthy again. And it isn't hope that hinges on having another rainbow baby. It isn't hope that I can touch or feel or hold.  It's a hope that is somewhere over the rainbow. A promise I choose to believe God is going to make good on. And for me, that perspective has changed everything.

Note: If you'd like to listen to the podcast that I listened to, go to https://journeywomenpodcast.com/the-podcast  Episode 15: The New Heavens &  The New Earth 

               

An Unexpected Birthday

A week ago today I celebrated my 34th birthday. For most of my life, my birthday has been my favorite day of the year. I love everything about October 30th. The vibrant colors on the trees, the anticipation of buckets full of trick or treating candy, apple pie instead of birthday cake, and sharing the day with my dad.
I was born on my dad's 26th birthday. He always sort-of-not-really jokes that I stole his birthday from him. But for me,  it makes the day a thousand times sweeter that I share it with him: joint birthday dinners, shared birthday phone calls, double desserts, and the knowledge that I have an indisputable leg up on my siblings in the favorite child category. I wouldn't trade it for anything.
But this year, I found myself apprehensive about this particular October 30th. I think that as I watch my dad's disease progress, as I see his body begin to fail him, I am forced to come face to face with the reality that my birthday won't always be a shared day. The thought is unbearable to me, and yet there it is, the truth of it staring right at me, coming closer every year.
And so, this year, I found myself wishing the day wouldn't come. The week leading up to my birthday I remember half-wishing that one of my children had been born on my birthday too so that even when that terrible day comes I would still share it with somebody.
This season of anticipatory grief is a difficult one. The last couple of weeks I have found myself tired and distracted, even feeling unwell at times. The night of the 29th I was feeling so unwell that Ben even commented on whether or not I might be coming down with something.
I woke up on the 30th with a resolve to face the day with courage, to live in the moment, and to enjoy it. Ben had planned to bring lobster home for dinner, the kids had gifted me my favorite coffee beans from Starbucks, and we would be pumpkin carving that evening.
But, as I tried to enjoy my coffee that morning, I found that with every sip I grew more nauseous, much like the night before. As I sent the kids off to school, a thought I had been shooing away since the night before came back again. Could there be another reason for my exhaustion and nausea?
No, there couldn't be.
After I gave birth to Caleb, I had my tubes tied. That's sort of a personal thing to post on the internet, but there it is. People used to ask me after I had Caleb when the next one was coming and I always answered without hesitation, "No. No more." Some would say, "You never know..." to which I always replied, "Sometimes, you know."
Caleb is my rainbow baby. I experienced a traumatic loss of a baby at 13 weeks before Caleb was born. The day that I saw my baby on ultrasound without a heartbeat, and later miscarried at home in my own bathroom is etched forever into my memory. After Caleb was born and safe in my arms, I knew I never wanted to experience that kind of loss again. And loss aside, I had so many serious medical complications including pre-eclampsia with all of my births that I did not want to put my body through another pregnancy.  So I made the decision not to have any more children.
Tubal ligation is 99.9% effective, and typically the most effective procedures are the ones done after a c-section like mine was. And yet I could not shake the feeling of what if?
I drove to the store, bought a test, and came home. I put Caleb down, got him a snack, and went into the bathroom to convince myself that I was crazy. But, after I took the test, and put it down on the sink, I watched as one line appeared. And then, almost immediately another line.
Pregnant. I was pregnant. 
What happened next is a blur to me now. I remember hyperventilating, my heart racing, as I stared in disbelief at the test.
It's my birthday, and I am pregnant. 
The words "complete shock" are an understatement. I don't know if there is a phrase in the English language that could accurately capture the fireball of emotions and thoughts that were racing through my body as I stared at those two pink lines.  Lines I had been certain I would never see again in my life.
After I regained semi-composure I called the doctor. I knew from reading about tubal ligation that pregnancy is rare, but that if you do become pregnant there is an increased risk for the pregnancy to be ectopic.
I spoke with a sweet nurse who told me she had never gotten a call like mine before. She might have been almost as shocked as I was. She told me congratulations, and that this baby must have been meant to be.The doctor sent me for blood work and they told me to expect a follow up call the next day.
Meant to be. The words stuck with me. A surprise pregnancy on my birthday. On the very birthday that I had been dreading for the first time in my life. Not to mention, the baby that I lost three years ago was also a total surprise that I found out about in October. Maybe this was the baby meant to redeem that experience, to give me a surprise in October that I would get to bring home this time. The baby that would make those future birthdays bearable, because it would remind me of real-life miracles.
When I called Ben, he was speechless. I'm not exactly sure how many times he said, "wow" but it was a lot.
Ben was every much as part of the decision not to have any more children as I was. We both had reached a point where we were more than satisfied with three beautiful children, and we were both ready to move on to the next phase of life. Ben took a position last year where he does a lot more traveling for work, and another baby was definitely not in the plan. We both were also worried about my health facing another pregnancy, as Caleb's pregnancy was incredibly difficult, both physically and emotionally.
This was life changing news.
And yet, I told him to be cautious. Let's wait for the blood work and see what happens. I am too familiar with the reality of loss to be confident about anything pregnancy related.
The next day a nurse called to tell me that my blood work had come back, and that my levels were in the normal range for 4-5 weeks pregnant. They wanted to send me for more labs the next day, because if my numbers doubled, that would be a good indication of a healthy pregnancy.
My numbers were in the normal range. This might actually be happening.
Ben and I had a long talk that night about the future. Four kids. We had never planned on four kids. The baby was due the exact same week we had already put down a deposit on for a beach house. We had gotten rid of ALL of our baby things. I had no maternity clothes.
We were overwhelmed and nervous.
Ben asked me if I thought it was a miracle. What is a real miracle he asked me? I told him I didn't know. Is it when God reaches down an intervenes in a situation to make something impossible, possible? Is it when we receive something good that has no explanation? Is this a miracle?
If I get to bring this baby home, I told him, I know it's a miracle. But if I don't, then I don't know what to call this.
There were just so many "signs" pointing to it being a miracle I said. And at that moment, that pesky little creature called hope started to sneak into my heart.
I never meant to let it in you know. Hope. And yet there it was. I found myself hoping beyond hope that this baby had made it where it needed to be and that it was growing healthily in it's secret place.
It was my birthday. Only miracles happen on your birthday, right?
I spent all of Thursday waiting. Friday morning rolled around and I grew more anxious with every hour that passed.
My hcg number, the hormone they were measuring, had been 183 on Tuesday. It needed to be above 360 this time to indicate that the baby was doing well.
My phone rang Friday morning. I answered the call with shaky breath. I had practiced this call in my mind a hundred times over the last three days.  Thoughts began to race through my mind.
How will we tell the kids?
How will we arrange bedrooms?
Will Josh be ok moving to the back of the minivan?
Will it be a girl this time? It must be. 

Your hcg is at 400! Everything looks great! I expected her to say.


But that isn't what she said.

"Hi Jenny. This is the nurse calling with your results. Your hcg did fall a bit, to 150. The doctor would like to draw blood again in 48 hours. If the numbers stay the same, that is highly suspicious of an ectopic pregnancy and we will need to bring you in. "
"And what if they drop further?"
"Then you will most likely miscarry naturally."
"And do the numbers ever rise again after they fall?"
"No."
"So, either I will need to come in and have the pregnancy removed, or I will miscarry it myself at home?"
"Yes." 

And in that short, three minute conversation, that sneaky little hope that had worked it's way into my heart over the last three days, vanished. Poof. Just like that.

That was it. No, "I'm sorry." No, "I know this must be hard to hear." Just, "Please go in tomorrow for more blood work."
I hung up the phone almost as dazed at the moment I looked at those two pink lines.
I walked slowly into the office to tell Ben the news. He was as stunned as I was.

"They're sure?" he said.
"Yes. They're sure. There will be no baby."

At that moment I felt a strange mixture of emotions. Sadness at the loss of this little life that we wouldn't get to meet. Confusion as to why this had happened in the first place. And yet, also relief that I would not face another difficult pregnancy and that our lives weren't going to be turned entirely upside down this summer. I've been fighting some guilt over those feelings of relief the past few days. If I could have chosen a different ending to this story, I would have. Without hesitation.
But I didn't get to choose.

I am still in the middle of this journey. My hcg came back again on Saturday at 95. The doctor is fairly confident that it was indeed an ectopic pregnancy. It appears my body is resolving it without intervention, but I will be closely watched the next few weeks with regular lab visits. Ectopic pregnancies can be life threatening if they rupture, and can be very unpredictable. I would be lying if I said I wasn't nervous about how all of this is going to end.

I go back to that conversation with Ben the other night. Was it a miracle? It sure doesn't feel like it. Is there a purpose behind it? I can honestly say I don't know.

And yet, through this entire whirlwind of emotions and dreams that appeared and disappeared in a matter of days, I am as filled with hope and gratitude as I ever have been. I look at my three beautiful, precious children and they are my miracles.

This loss is much different in many ways than my first one. When I lost my first baby, I felt like I needed to have another baby as soon as possible in order to be made whole again. I needed a rainbow baby. I don't feel that way this time. Perhaps because I made peace two years ago with the decision not to have any more children. Perhaps because I know now that rainbows can come in many forms. Nights when my little ones climb into my bed to snuggle during a storm, watching my littlest one shriek with delight at every passing school bus, sharing Eskimo kisses with my five year old, and bedtimes spent reading Little House on the Prairie with my daughter. Moments that remind me of goodness, and gratitude, and hope.

Why am I sharing this story? Well, it isn't easy to share it. Both because I am still in the middle of it, and because the mixed feelings of grief and relief are something I am not exactly sure how to work through. There are days like yesterday, where I wake up and feel glad that nothing has changed and I can get back to the life that I genuinely loved and felt grateful for every day. And there are days like today, when I realize it was exactly one week ago that I looked down at two pink lines and was filled with joy as I was with all of my other babies, and will not get to meet this little soul on this side of eternity and my eyes fill with tears.

But if I learned anything with my last miscarriage, it is that there is power in a story. There is power in sharing the deepest parts of ourselves, no matter how messy or dark or uncomfortable it might be. We never know who we are reaching or who we are extending a hand of hope or comfort to.

I don't know why this happened. I said after my first miscarriage that I could not handle ever losing another baby. I just couldn't handle it. And yet, here I am. I'm waking up every day. I'm getting out of bed. I'm choosing to let joy and hope in, and I believe without a shred of doubt that God is still good. I have wrestled deeply with my faith over the last few years.  I have questioned the goodness of God,  I have questioned His existence, and I have questioned the meaning of suffering and loss. And even now, I question whether there was any purpose at all in this whirlwind week. But I have felt Him beside me, each step of the way, holding me up, giving me peace, reminding me that I am not alone. And for me, for right now, that's enough. I may not ever understand, but I can rest in the hope that I will get to meet both of my beautiful precious babies someday on the other side of eternity. And until that day, I will soak up and enjoy every single minute with a husband that I love more every day and the three babies that I have the privilege of being mommy to here on earth.

5 Reasons You Should Wear Workout Clothes Everyday

I took my five year old son shopping for baseball gear yesterday, and in between making sure the baby didn't jump out of the cart, and my son didn't smuggle extra baseballs under his shirt, a sign caught my eye. It was a line of clothing by Carrie Underwood and it was labeled "athleisure."  It's an interesting concept, athleisure.  It's like you're dressing to workout, but you look so cute that there's almost no pressure to actually exercise.

Look like an athlete, but lounge like a boss. Count me in.

Which led me to today's decision to wear my workout clothes all day. And let me tell you, it's been going so well I'm thinking of making this an everyday thing.

In case you've been toying with the same idea, here are 5 reasons you should totally jump on the athleisure bandwagon:

1. It changes how people look at you.  Usually I show up to preschool drop off in a half baked attempt to look put together. I've got the jeans and blouse on, but my hair is still wet from my 5 second shower and I have no makeup on because the baby got ahold of my brushes and threw them in the toilet. The look invokes sympathy, and on bad days, even pity. But, if I instead put on my workout clothes, and show up sans makeup and messy bun, everyone just assumes I am on my way to the gym after drop off.  Now instead of thinking my kids run my house, they're thinking, "she takes care of herself. You go girl."

2. The term "athleisure" makes the lounge look totally credible. While in years past you might have looked too casual in your t-shirt and yoga pants, now you can remind yourself that the whole point of athleisure is that the clothes are supposed to be functional for more than just workouts. And Carrie Underwood is obviously on board and no one is heckling her for looking too casual.

3. You'll be ready for anything.  The dual functionality of athleisure is genius. For example, when my baby finally falls asleep at nap time and I am faced with the impossible decision of whether I should take a nap or exercise, if I'm dressed in athleisure I can't go wrong. It's way more comfortable to sleep in than my regular clothes, and on the rare occasion should I feel an extra burst of energy from the double shot of espresso I grabbed that morning, I don't need to waste precious baby-nap minutes changing my clothes for a workout.

4. Suddenly everyday activities actually feel like you're working out. I don't know what it is about athletic pants, but I'm pretty sure they have a secret way of burning extra calories when you wear them. It's like a heightened awareness of how much exercise I'm doing all the time without even trying. Instead of just bending down to pick up yet another cheerio spill off the floor, now I'm doing squats. I'm toning my glutes, and stretching my hamstrings. Where's the FitBit I got last year and always forget to wear? I need to be tracking this amazingness, because I'm pretty sure I'm getting double the steps just by wearing these pants.

5. Workout clothes make you look and feel skinnier, even without the actual workout. Maybe it's the construction of the clothes that do this, or maybe it's just a state of mind when you're wearing them, but I feel a good ten pounds lighter in my spandex black capris and tshirt. Even on days when I feel extra fluffy, if I put on workout clothes, at least I feel like I am in the process of getting in shape. It's all about progress, not perfection right? I definitely feel like I'm making progress in these clothes. Working out is the next step, but right now I'm celebrating my wins, and my choice to wear this super cute zip up hoodie and compression pants is feeling like a win.

I don't know why someone didn't come up with this concept sooner. Hats off to you Carrie Underwood for giving some credibility to what us tired moms have instinctively felt was right all along. Workout clothes are not just for working out.

My Deep Need for Christmas

It has been one heck of a week here at my house. Last weekend, we took Abby, my oldest to a museum with her friends to celebrate her 7th birthday. When we returned home the babysitter told us that our 12 month old, Caleb, had some explosive diapers while we were gone, and she had had to give him a full bath and change of clothes. Just what you want to hear before Christmas...
My husband and I were supposed to go to New York City with two of our best friends on Tuesday, to see the city and the fantastic Christmas show put on by the Brooklyn Tabernacle. It was a RARE kid free day we had planned, and the babysitter was lined up months ago.
 On Sunday, Caleb began vomiting. On Monday, Josh, our four year old began vomiting.
Adios, New York City.
Though Josh recovered quickly, Caleb continued his random and frequent vomiting spells. Each day he seemed a little more tired and a little less himself. I took him in to the doctor twice, once with a diagnosis of an ear infection, and then two days later another doctor declared there was no ear infection and it was just a tummy bug. That doctor also declared that Caleb would stop vomiting after the visit and I need not worry.
Then he vomited the next day. And the next.
Each day that he wasn't better, my worry began to grow. I found myself googling everything from allergies to baby brain cancer symptoms.  What started as a small seed of apprehension became a rather large knot in my stomach, which, by yesterday, had turned into overwhelming anxiety that something was very wrong. After seven days of my baby vomiting, I was scared.
I try hard not to be the crazy mother. The one who goes to Google for medical advice and immediately thinks the worst of the smallest illness. But I find with Caleb, I am always on edge and anxious. I think because he is the baby I had after loss, deep down I am always terrified that he will be taken away from me and my rainbow will be gone. I'm afraid I don't deserve him and that it's just a matter of time before the universe steals him away from me. I have learned that fear lends itself easily to irrationality.
With all of this stress, and worry, and constant vomit-cleaning I was on edge yesterday. While shopping at Giant, a man, who in retrospect I suppose was probably also having a bad day, was very rude to me, and instead of letting it go,  I exchanged some heated words with him in the Christmas card aisle. I said things that should never have escaped my mouth. I went back to apologize to him for what I had said, and it only made him angrier, so I said some more unkind words in return. What a disaster. I might as well have been in middle school all over again.
I got into my car and cried my eyes out. Cried because I was worried about my baby. Cried because I had let my temper get the best of me. Cried because Christmas is stressful.
And as I sat there, feeling quite sorry for myself, and rather humiliated by my grocery store display, I was reminded of the words that God so lovingly spoke to me on the day of my miscarriage.
Emmanuel. 
God is with us.
There are days, and weeks, and sometimes months that I can fool myself into thinking I've got it all together. That I am a pretty good  person and decent Christian. And then there are days, like yesterday, where the mirror is put up to my face and I see that, despite having things together on the outside most of the time, there is still plenty of sin in me, and I need Christ now more than ever. 
I came home and tearfully confessed the whole ordeal to my mother-in-law, who was staying with us. She reminded me that this is exactly why we celebrate Christmas. We celebrate that God, who loves us despite our worst failures and shortcomings, sent Himself in the form of a baby, to teach us how to relate to God and, eventually, to die in our place.
I had forgotten the truth of the Christmas season. I had taken my eyes off of the One that I should have been focused on all along.
After getting home from the grocery store, Ben and I attempted to go out to lunch with friends, leaving the kids home with his parents. We had driven less than a mile when we got the call that Caleb was throwing up again. After a call to the pediatrician we were sent to the ER.
The entire drive to the hospital I was wrestling with fear. You see, once you experience loss, you know that deep down the worst thing really can happen. No matter how many people tell you things will be okay, you know your child could have cancer, or your father does have incurable muscular dystrophy, or you can find out your baby has no heartbeat. There are no guarantees. 
It's in moments like this that I come face to face with the fact that I have no control over life's circumstances. And that no matter how many good deeds I do, or nice thoughts I think, or religious practices I follow, I can't rack up enough "good karma" to prevent bad things from happening.
I have found in these circumstances that I have two choices: to turn my back on God, or to run closer to Him. Yesterday, as we drove to the hospital, my apprehension at an all time high, I found myself praying the most sincere prayer I have prayed in a long time.
God, I do not know what is wrong with my baby. I'm scared that he isn't going to get better, or is sicker than we know. I acted like an idiot today and don't deserve any answered prayers. Please just be with me and give me peace. 
 I felt him whisper back to me, Child, you are dearly loved, and I am Emmanuel yesterday, today, and tomorrow. You can trust Me. 
And I can. I can trust in the One who never leaves me. Who always forgives me. Who offers a second chance. Who convicts me when I do the wrong thing and reminds me that apart from Him, the ugliness and fear in my heart will win.
We were at the hospital for a few hours, and doctors believe that Caleb just has an extra stubborn virus that is hanging on longer than usual. We were sent home with some anti-nausea medication, and he woke up today smiling for the first time in days. Hopefully we are over the worst and headed toward sunnier days.
Today, on this Christmas Eve, I awoke with a deeper sense of what today is truly about. Christmas Eve is the anticipation of the greatest gift that the world has ever received. A Savior, born as a baby in a lowly manger, who came to save us from the ugliness of sin and to comfort us as we walk through life's most difficult circumstances.
I need Christmas today more than ever.

For to us a child is born,
    to us a son is given,
    and the government will be on his shoulders.
And he will be called
    Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
    Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Isaiah 9:6

Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst. But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display his immense patience as an example for those who would believe in him and receive eternal life. Now to the King eternal, immortal, invisible, the only God, be honor and glory for ever and ever. 1 Timothy 15:17

Gratitude in the midst of chaos

Today was just one of those days. It was hot. Too hot. Something about the summer heat brings out the worst in my family. My six year old, Abby,  and four year old, Josh, were at each other's throats all morning. Abby, upon waking up, looked at Josh "the wrong way" as they sat down to the breakfast table. So, naturally, in an act of swift justice Josh stole Abby's bagel and fed it to the dog. I came downstairs to find the two of them locked in some kind of wrestling death grip screaming into each other's faces. Sighing, I looked at the clock. 7:15am.

Lord, help me.

Summer vacation is wonderful and horrible all at the same time. The freedom to stay in our pajamas as long as we want without the pressure to look presentable at the bus stop is liberating. The fluidity of our schedule: pool one day, play date the next, is a welcome change from the rigidity of the school year. And yet, the sudden lack of structure lends itself to boredom, and the intense "togetherness" has us all out of sorts as we adjust.


This summer is also much different than last because now we have a baby in the family. Caleb is almost 7 months old, and throws a delightful monkey wrench into the summer schedule. Last year, when Abby and Josh were ready to kill each other I just packed them up and headed off to the pool or Chick-Fil-A or anywhere except home.  Now, we have nap times and diapers and breastfeeding and summer heat to worry about, and zipping off somewhere seems a lot more complicated than it did last year.

Adjusting to having a third child has been more challenging than I anticipated. Perhaps because I feel pressure to meet the needs of three tiny, screaming humans simultaneously on a daily basis. Perhaps because Abby and Josh are so much older than the baby and have an entirely different set of wants and needs. Perhaps because I'm still running on a deficit of sleep that no amount of coffee can offset. I would be lying if I didn't admit that it is a stressful season of life. I can often be found yelling, stomping my feet like a toddler, or locked in a bathroom for a few minutes of deep breathing.

And yet, in the midst of the chaos and my often less than stellar mom moments, there is an underlying gratitude that permeates throughout my life and gives this difficult season of life a particular sense of sweetness.  

Not a day goes by that I don't remember how exceedingly blessed I am. 

Chatting with a friend this week, she reminded me of what was happening in my life at this same time a year ago.  I had just gotten my first trimester   screening done. I was thirteen weeks pregnant and the doctors had found some abnormal fluid levels on our baby's neck and advised us to do further DNA testing. Today, right now, one year ago, I was in the middle of the worst, most stressful two week wait of my life. Having just been through the grief of a miscarriage, to hear that something might be wrong with our rainbow baby was a crushing weight. I cried every single day of those two weeks, afraid that we would hear the worst. I will never forget when the results came back and I finally heard the words, "everything looks good."

Can I just tell you how deeply thankful I am for my baby boy? Oh, the chaos adding another child to our family has brought. It has been such an adjustment. And yet, when I look at him, now even seven months later, I can't tell you how many times my eyes fill with tears at the utter gratitude I feel that I was entrusted with this little soul.

Tonight, I had the rare chance to put him to bed without anyone else at home. Ben had taken the older two to Abby's softball game. I took the opportunity to finally hang Caleb's newborn pictures up in his nursery. In the chaos of my daily life I have little opportunity, let alone two free hands to hang pictures on the wall.

I had chosen two of my favorite pictures for his nursery, and for the last seven months those two places have remained patiently blank on his walls, just waiting to make his room complete. So tonight we headed up to his room and I laid him down on his back to wiggle around while I hung the pictures. He promptly flipped over to his belly, and pushing up on his hands, proceeded to do some kind of caterpillar wriggle to grab a toy in front of him. Crawling is just around the corner.

As I looked at the pictures I couldn't help but feel a little sad that he is no longer so tiny, and that the last seven months have passed by so quickly. All those wishes made in the middle of the night for him to hurry up and grow are being granted. Can I take them back?

I stepped back after I hung the final picture, and looked around at his nursery, finally complete. Each picture, shelf, decoration chosen especially for him.  And the gratitude washed over me. One year ago I feared the worst. Eighteen months ago I lost the baby before him. But tonight,  I finished the nursery for my sweet, happy, perfectly healthy little boy.

Today was rough. Abby and Josh fought all. day. long. Caleb has some weird cradle cap thing going on and his head is itchy and he's really cranky and entirely opposed to napping. Sensing my weakness today, the dog decided to steal dirt out of my houseplants and trail it all over the floor in a muddy, half chewed mess. I burned most of dinner on the grill when something caught fire and flames shot up over my head. Not my best performance. 

And yet, gratitude. It keeps everything in perspective. There's  something about the milestones of loss and of close calls that reminds me to take a deep breath and practice gratitude.  I thought back over all I've been through in the last eighteen months, and suddenly, the half burned dinner I was standing over paled in comparison. 

If we let it, loss can make us better people. Not perfect, but better.

 Loss.  It's painful and awful and terrible, and yet, as I continue to heal and step forward out of the darkness of grief, I find that the world looks different than it used to.  I'm more present, more reflective. Colors are brighter, emotions run deeper, and I hang onto the moments of joy with clenched fists, willing them to stay a little longer. I'm grateful for all of the messiness and chaos and laughter.

Gratitude. It changes everything.

Tonight, as I put  Caleb to bed in his now finished nursery, I didn't rush to leave. I lingered over his crib, watching him sleep peacefully, his chest slowly rising and falling with every breath. And I marveled at what a miracle he is.  He is the fulfillment of a promise of restoration that God made to me shortly after I lost my angel baby. Caleb brings a joy, and laughter, and sweetness to my life that I have never known in such intensity.

This season of mothering isn't easy, or simple, or perfect. But I couldn't be more thankful for every single second. And the gratitude makes days like these bearable, and even poignant, because I know they are fleeting. When we remember times of loss, of pain, and fear, and grief, we are more thankful for days when the worst that has happened are scorched dinners and cranky children.

Tomorrow is a new day, and I welcome it in all it's imperfection, and couldn't be more thankful for it.