Tag: Thoughts

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Palm Sunday Thoughts…

Yesterday was Palm Sunday. We were given little crosses made out of palm fronds at church. The liturgy was different. The vestment colors were different. And as I dealt with a 3 year old who threw up all over her church dress and her carseat… and as I bounced a fussy, overtired little 4 month old… I was happily comforted in the reminders that my Jesus, my King, is Lord over all things ~ both small and great. He came in lowly ways. He ministered in the daily things. He came to save.

My mind repeatedly wandered back to a year ago… six weeks pregnant with Sweet Teen… and the terrible dance of hope & doubt I was enduring…
So today, I am sharing with you something I wrote that day; last year on Palm Sunday. It’s as true today as it was 366 days ago. Hallelujah! Hosanna in the highest!

 

Today was Palm Sunday—a day full of good reminders of our King who reigns, of His lowly entry and faithful rule, of how we as His people can & should cry out to Him, hosanna! Save us now, Lord, we pray! One of my sons in heaven is named Hosanna, and I love the excuse to say his name. When I do, I am crying to the only One who can save to the uttermost. This morning’s church service, as we visited a church we love a couple hours away, began with the choir, pastors, and dozens of children processing through the sanctuary with palms in their hands while we all sang to the Lord of His glory and honor, lauding Him with our praise. We cried out to Him beseeching Him to save us! And since we are on the other side of the story, we know with confidence that He is the Savior! He has saved us! He didtriumphantly bear our sins and conquer death, saving us from the holds of those shackles! Amen!
But we are still in the midst of the story. This morning I felt painfully, acutely aware that the story continues.

I sat there with my family, in the midst still of our own story of asking the Lord to save and preserve and give us life in place of death, begging Him with every little panting breath to cause this baby to live…
In front of us was a family whose daughter suffered a terrible cancer some years ago, and the Lord preserved her precious life, and there she sat with parents and siblings, with health glowing in her cheeks and hair and the saving presence of the Lord spilling from her eyes as she sang…
In front of them sat a family who buried another son this very week—the Lord saved their little boy by ushering him to heaven, and now He saves this family every moment by upholding them even in the midst of horrible grief…

I cried repeatedly.
Suffering everywhere I looked. Sometimes already redeemed. Sometimes not yet.
It is hard to wait for the redemption, and wonder whether we will see it here in this life, or whether we will be yet waiting to see it in the next.

And then Pastor Sumpter preached on hope & joy.
He said, so much of joy is bound up in hope.
How painfully, purely accurate.

I am so afraid to hope and so afraid to be joyful. Even though there is a sliver of me that wants to shout from the rooftops that the Lord has filled my womb—I want to plan and prepare and anticipate and expect an autumn baby—I want to let the kids kiss my tummy and pray aloud all day for the little baby without wincing in my heart of anxiety—I want to talk about baby names for this little person, to embrace this pregnancy rather than moment by moment telling myself not to get attached.

Today we heard an exhortation to ignore the voices in our head that shout realism and logic and probabilities. We ought to rather take joy in hoping, and not to grow weary if we have to keep asking. It is exactly realism, logic probabilities, and my own history that causes me to limit my joy and squelch my hope. But we serve the Lord who delights in giving good gifts, who takes pleasure in acting outside the boundaries which people expect of Him, who came in order to redeem the broken places so that our joy could be full and our hope renewed.

So this week, even as I constantly preach truth to myself not to give in to anxiety just because it certainly doesn’t do any of us any good, I will also be reminding myself day by day to be joyful even when I don’t know the end of the story. Because that is why Christ came. I rejoice in hope—and this hope is not bound up or settled on the things of this world. This hope in which I rejoice is bound up and settled on the glory of God. And because of this, because of God’s glory, we can rejoice fully! Even when suffering comes. Even when endurance is necessary. When character is tried, tested, affirmed. (Romans 2:1-5)

This hope is not foolish. Hope that is grounded in God’s glory will not put us to shame. He died for me. So that I could have hope. So that I could rejoice.

So as I remind myself of these things this week, walking toward Easter as well as taking daily steps further and further into my pregnancy, I will remember the joy and the hope along with the suffering and the grief. It’s the dichotomy of living the Christian life. May He give us the strength and peace to glorify Him this week through all of this.

I want to hope with unabashed, reckless abandon. I want to have incalculable, irrepressible joy.

This is the Lord‘s doing;
it is marvelous in our eyes.
This is the day that the Lord has made;
let us rejoice and be glad in it.
Save us, we pray, O Lord!
O Lord, we pray, give us success!
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!
We bless you from the house of the Lord.
The Lord is God,
and He has made His light to shine upon us.
Psalm 118:23-27

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Photo Challenge, Week Nine

Week Nine: Shadows

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This week’s inspiration of shadow takes on a visceral, gutteral frame for me.
You’ll notice I ended up with a black and white version of my own shadow on a stony path.
Shadow is the absence of light. Or at least the blocking of light.
I have spent years feeling lost in shadows.
Walking on a stony path, groping for the Light.
Things look skewed when you just focus on the shadow.
Perspective is different in the shadow.
So while this may seem like a juvenile, easy attempt at capturing “shadow” for a photo challenge,
this was actually a very thought-out and well-provoked subject.
It hit home.
I understand shadows.
In a large sense, they feel like home to me.
But here’s the thing: notice that I didn’t say darkness.
It isn’t that there isn’t Light, or that I don’t see the Light.
It’s that I realize the Light has to overcome something
in order for its potency to mean something.

Light needs darkness
for its counterpart.

That is what makes Light so amazingly stunning.
And when it comes to shadows, we truly see that juxtaposition.

~…~…~

Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery’s shadow or reflection…
&
Reality is harsh to the feet of shadows… but will you come?

~C.S. Lewis~

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Bliss-Full

I had expected to feel defeated. To wake up every day still longing for more.
That’s the honest truth.

But when someone said to me at the mall on my birthday (and maybe it’s simply because, who honestly goes shopping at posh J.Jill during naptime with four little kids in tow?!), you certainly have your hands full after I answered her question about the kids’ ages… I smiled, and replied, yes; blissfully, happily so.

After so desperately wanting half a dozen kids filling my home, to feel full of bliss and contentment that I can not adequately describe is truly humbling and beautiful. It is a gift from God.
I don’t feel defeated. I do not daily yearn for what-will-not-be.
Joy fills my home, and supersedes the sorrows.

Rather than defeat, I feel a sense of peaceful victory.
God gave us the courage to push through.
And He gave us the grace to overcome.

And these four little miracles who fill my home are just so downright blissful themselves.
Joy, wonder, excitement, creativity ~ it is in every corner of the home, every hour of the day.
And while the duties of my days have their monotony, their frustration, their dull sheen at times…
the joy and gratitude and marvel of my life truly take the monopoly.

Take a peek. Because these little people truly fill my heart with bliss.

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I discovered that at the heart of my misery—beyond the homesickness and sense of failure—was a misunderstanding about faith. I had confused faith in God with faith in what God could do for me. I had been viewing God like a mystical vending machine: I inserted my prayers, pulled the handle, and expected the desires of my heart to pop out the bottom slot. It turns out God has very little in common with Pop-Tarts. And what makes me happy is not necessarily what draws me closer to the God who knows my every nook and cranny. It turns out He loves me enough to say no when, as every parent understands, saying yes would have been so much simpler, with less call for temper tantrums.
~Lisa-Jo Baker, Surprised By Motherhood, p100~

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Life in the Weeds

I was gritting my teeth through the morning… two crying in one room while two squabbled in another… one wetting her pants while another filled his diaper… two boys throwing up hands because of math problems while the baby throws up milk because I didn’t pat out his burps while I want to throw in the towel at the sight of a dog tracking in mud-and-who-knows-what… costumes and matchbox cars and crayons and sippy cups strewn all over the house…
I am smiling though my body aches and my soul is stretched, because I know there is no other choice.
But there is a struggle going on while I nearly drown myself in self-doubt and self-loathing. Yes, this day feels like an exercise of futility. But does that mean that it is not valuable? Deep in my heart I know that it is invaluable, but that is an intangible & invisible price tag.

Then at noon my phone rang. It was my husband, calling to check in on my day. When I heard his voice, it felt like a drink of cold water when you are really thirsty. I needed that. And when he asked how my day was going, I said, “tell me about your day” – to which he said, “that good, huh? tell me how things are.” I sighed and walked to the bathroom. It’s funny how a bathroom can become a place of refuge, of comfort and quiet. The rest of the house may be a busy, noisy, bustling, messy place ~ but my bathroom? I can close out everything else, even if just for five minutes. So I did. Well, except for the kids calling me from the other room, and the sleeping baby strapped to my chest. But you know. That is basically the same as being alone. 😉

I poured out my thoughts (anxieties, fears, self-doubt, struggles, frustrations) to my generously listening husband. I emptied myself.

And then he poured his thoughts back to me, seeking to fill me back up.
I may have cried while he did.

He encouraged me, it is hard to see the fruit when we are still planting.

And, it is hard to see when you’re in the weeds. You have to be able to step back and see where you came from.

My husband took the time amidst his own busy workday to encourage me in mine.
I don’t get graded or adjudicated or reviewed to find perspective.
But my husband can see my emptiness. Especially when I am not too proud to lift the veil and let him see it.

Sometimes all I see are the weeds that need pulled out. And when the plants are still small, the weeds and the seedlings can actually be hard to distinguish. I need a fellow gardener sometimes to give me perspective and remind me that I am still planting, still watering; the harvest at this point is in tiny portions. Someone else’s eyes may better see the good growth while surveying the land, while I am on my knees in the furrows, hands covered in dirt and eyes focused on the weeds.

My job isn’t to wonder how great the harvest will be. Not yet.
It is to keep planting good seeds, keep watering, keep fertilizing, keep plucking out the weeds, to let the sunlight in, to patiently wait while the tiny plants take root.
Someday it will be easier to see the work that has been accomplished.
Right now, all I need is to be this empty vessel, this diligent planter, this person who takes five minutes to cry “alone” in the bathroom and then gets back digging into the dirt.

I need to remember that only eyes of faith can see the beauty of future fruit even when life feels lived in the weeds.
Oh Lord, help Thou my unbelief.

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Life as SAHM is (More Than) Enough

I praise my King, that He and His grace are sufficient
(which means not only enough, but completely and totally filling it up to all the corners!)
even for the moments where I muse about the following…
where I wonder about myself and my work…
where I ask Him, is it enough?
and am I enough?

I can feel like I run around all day trying to just keep little people alive, fed, clothed, and moderately happy.

And is that enough?
Sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough.
There are moments where my brain says, “I’ve HAD enough.”
And there are moments where my heart screams, “This is enough to fill me up for six lifetimes!”
But there is a tug of war going on inside myself.

Is it enough? What I do? Who I am? How I do it?
I spend all day every day just trying to keep our world going. To keep bellies filled, house clean, home havenly, children tended, errands run, bills paid, prayers said, minds educated.

“Just.”

As if there were anything JUST about it.

For today, while yet another ellipses claims my thoughts and my time, I will leave you with a wonderfully long missive that G.K. Chesterton said about the massive duty of motherhood, for which it could never be said to have “just” as its adjective.

Supposing it to be conceded that humanity has acted at least not unnaturally in dividing itself into two halves, respectively typifying the ideals of special talent and of general sanity (since they are genuinely difficult to combine completely in one mind), it is not difficult to see why the line of cleavage has followed the line of sex, or why the female became the emblem of the universal and the male of the special and superior.

Two gigantic facts of nature fixed it thus: first, that the woman who frequently fulfilled her functions literally could not be specially prominent in experiment and adventure; and second, that the same natural operation surrounded her with very young children, who require to be taught not so much anything as everything. Babies need not to be taught a trade, but to be introduced to a world. To put the matter shortly, woman is generally shut up in a house with a human being at the time when he asks all the questions that there are, and some that there aren’t. It would be odd if she retained any of the narrowness of a specialist.

Now if anyone says that this duty of general enlightenment (even when freed from modern rules and hours, and exercised more spontaneously by a more protected person) is in itself too exacting and oppressive, I can understand the view. I can only answer that our race has thought it worth while to cast this burden on women in order to keep common-sense in the world.

But when people begin to talk about this domestic duty as not merely difficult but trivial and dreary, I simply give up the question. For I cannot with the utmost energy of imagination conceive what they mean. When domesticity, for instance, is called drudgery, all the difficulty arises from a double meaning in the word. If drudgery only means dreadfully hard work, I admit the woman drudges in the home, as a man might drudge at the Cathedral of Amiens or drudge behind a gun at Trafalgar. But if it means that the hard work is more heavy because it is trifling, colorless and of small import to the soul, then as I say, I give it up; I do not know what the words mean.

To be Queen Elizabeth within a definite area, deciding sales, banquets, labors and holidays; to be Whiteley within a certain area, providing toys, boots, sheets, cakes and books, to be Aristotle within a certain area, teaching morals, manners, theology, and hygiene; I can understand how this might exhaust the mind, but I cannot imagine how it could narrow it.

How can it be a large career to tell other people’s children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one’s own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone, and narrow to be everything to someone? No; a woman’s function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute. I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task; I will never pity her for its smallness.

-What’s Wrong with the World by G.K. Chesterton

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Life in Ellipses

I know there are lots of jobs that dictate a life and routine with a rinse & repeat nature. Truly, that is how God created the world. Even He seems to live within a refrain ~ times and seasons, which are necessarily repetitious. It clearly does not mean that a repetitious, cyclical job is not fully useful. Just because something is cyclical does not mean it is futile. Read Ecclesiastes to see that truth right in front of your eyes from the incomparable wisdom of Solomon.

But it does mean that I can only live so linearly. Even a description of “two steps forward, one step back” doesn’t always prove true when one’s vocation is cyclical by nature. Round and round I go. The nature of my cyclical jobs are domestic, but I realize that it is not the only one that has a cyclical form.

But I don’t think it is simply the repetition that has forced me to go without a checklist.

It is my vocation. Motherhood has caused me, little by little, to give it up.
To have open hands for each day.
To live in a moment-by-moment mindframe.
To accept that my entire world right now is controlled by the tyranny of the urgent.

For example, in the forty minutes it took me to write the simple, short thoughts above… I have changed a diaper, switched the laundry, refilled a cup of milk, taught an English lesson, stoked the fire, sipped my coffee, and nursed the baby.

Whew. No wonder my thoughts rarely seem to flow smoothly anymore. My life is filled with punctuation. But it isn’t always periods or commas. It is most often ellipses. What we describe as dot dot dot. Meaning, to be continued. Or this is a lapse. Or fill in the blank.

I try to multitask, for sure. Just ask me about the crazy things I have done lately while breastfeeding my son. I may have sat in the rocker to nurse and a read a book with my firstborn son and called it multitasking. But that is nothing compared with talking on the phone, wiping a 3 year old’s bum, teaching a piano lesson, and nursing the infant… and no, I’m not making that scenario up. Ask many a mom, and they will tell you the same. A big part of our career is multitasking, definitely & no question about it.

But more often and more definitely than even multitasking is my life of ellipses. Stopping and starting. Fits and spurts. Interruptions of all kinds, sizes, lengths, reasons.

Whoever coined the phrase (it seems to be a man named Charles Hummel in 1967, at first glance google), “tyranny of the urgent” had to have some major inside scoop on motherhood.

I can start sixty things from a checklist in one day, but I don’t know how many months it would take to check them all off as “complete.”

And that has been a big struggle for me, in all honesty.
It is a new thing for me (eight years into my motherhood journey!) to embrace life without a checklist.
It’s only recently that Mommy decided I live life better, more fully, more joyfully, more completely, more God-honoringly when I am not beholden to a piece of paper covered in bullet points.

And it is amazing to me that things are still getting done.
They are even getting done on time and in a routine way.
And when things don’t get done (or done on time, or done in a predictably routine way), none of us are worse for the wear.

The things that really matter in my vocation can not be described or defined on a checklist anyway.
Most of the things that happen in my day to day life can not be predicted or put on a timeline.
The people that I manage, and those who I report to, do not adhere to checklists.

So I am learning joy in flexibility.
I am learning to embrace the ellipses rather than clinging to a desire for checkmarks.
I am learning to find encouragement and fulfillment without relying on a completed checklist for my sense of value in God’s world.

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Life Without a Checklist

If you know me very well, you probably know that I am often classified as type-A, verging on OCD, very list oriented. I love to know what is expected of me, to perform to my utmost, to achieve success, and to cross things off my to-do list. As a child, I even wrote down my daily to-do lists with a schedule down to the minute. That’s right. At nine years old, I was scheduling my days like a corporate CEO. I don’t know why or where that tendency came from. But there it is.

College life suited me well. Being told before classes even started what books I needed was fantastic. Getting a syllabus for the whole semester on the very first day of class was like opening a gift. I always kept ahead of the game. No last-minute late night cramming sessions unless it was completely and totally unavoidable. I was never honestly surprised by good grades; not because I thought I was super smart or overly clever, but because I knew that I was planning and following through. Organizational skills and a dedication to checking things off my list was serving me well.

And then life happened. I graduated with my bachelor’s degree and got married seven days later. While I was working as a medical secretary and piano teacher part time, I quickly headed down the avenue to motherhood ~ my son Gabriel being due on my first wedding anniversary.

The whirlwind of married life, motherhood, homemaking, and housekeeping has never slowed down ~ in fact, as you probably well know, it never will. Life doesn’t slow down, and I find it doesn’t even seem to maintain speed. It picks up momentum as we go along, and before we know it, we will be realizing we have to turn off the cruise control because our exit to heaven seems to be glinting down there on the horizon, and I just don’t feel like I am done with the here & now.

The checklist continues to grow.
But I hardly have time to keep an eye on the checklist now.
And if the truth be told, I don’t even think my life is conducive to crossing things off a checklist anymore!!

Have you ever tried to be finished with the laundry? the ironing? the dishes? the meals? the housecleaning? the diapers? the bums to wipe? the boo-boos to bandage? the books to read? the times tables to repeat? the pudgy bodies to snuggle? the situps to crunch? the bills to pay?
Not to mention the music to play, the photos to take, the scrapbooks to make, the things to sew and craft, the gifts to buy and wrap and give, the coffee dates to have, the friendships to pursue, the little souls to nurture, the people to prioritize?

It never actually finishes.
None of it.
I can’t ever actually check anything off.
As soon as I do, it gets put back right on at the end of the list again.

So how do I live my life without a checklist?
How do I love living in a rinse&repeat career?
How do I learn to encourage myself when I don’t have quarterly school grades or managers giving me yearly reviews?

Stay tuned. I have more thoughts coming.
But for today, maybe I will just go ahead and check “blog something” off my to-do list!

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Adventing Still

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What a glorious time Advent is! And I’ve been too caught up in the business of Adventing that I haven’t been taking the time to write about it. Of course traditionally (so we have been hearing, especially, in the Anglican tradition) it is a season not unlike Lent. Advent prepares for Christmas like Lent prepares for Easter. The two glorious hallmark holy days of the Christian faith are preceded by seasons of waiting and anticipation, preparation and repentance. So we don’t party like it’s Christmas until Christmas. There are no flowers on the altar at church. The word “alleluia” is suddenly absent from some of the liturgical texts in worship, and the eucharist liturgy is actually altered a bit during this season too, with an emphasis on sin and repentance ~ and, praise the Lord, plenty of grace to soak in.

It is good to be children sometimes,
and never better than Christmas,
when its mighty Founder was a child Himself.
— Charles Dickens

In our family, we remind our kids of the waiting and the anticipation by giving them tiny tastes, little sips. They get one chocolate each night, and one tiny glass of wine at each Advent dinner (which we’ve been doing on Saturday nights, and we love this tradition!). I ask them questions (“what does Advent mean?” “who is coming?” “what does Emmanuel mean?” and more…). We sing songs (they’ve got O Come O Come Emmanuel memorized, and most of O Come All Ye Faithful). We read little books that are toddler friendly to remind everyone of the real Christmas story, and I sometimes ask the boys to fill in the blanks to see what they can recall (“what did Herod want done?” “what did the angels tell the magi?” “what did Mary say when Gabriel told her about the baby Jesus?” “what did the angels sing at Christ’s birth?” etc…).

And the kids are eagerly counting the days until Christmas. Every morning (and probably half a dozen more times throughout the day) they declare the countdown for everyone to hear. They love their Advent calendars in their rooms to help with this endeavor.

Most notably, the children know that Advent is about anticipation, hope, looking back but also looking ahead. While they only get one chocolate each evening of Advent, Christmas will soon be here ~ and on Christmas, they can have handfuls of chocolates if they want! We get a sugary, gooey breakfast with rich drinks. We get a big brunch, and a beefy dinner. There will be wine and cookies. And gifts ~ oh, there will be gifts!! I have put some under the tree already, because the kids were begging… but they are ones that can not easily be peeked into, haha! or they are ones not for the kids. :) Although even our two year old seems to be embracing obedience about the tree, the ornaments, and the gifts all being off limits for touching. We are thankful for that!

When the kids wake up on Christmas morning, the rest of the gifts will be under the tree, and the stockings will be full. Breakfast will be baking in the oven and coffee & hot cocoa will be steaming. Music will be on, candles lit, fireplace roaring. Gifts and games and laughter and singing and rejoicing will fill the day. And, Lord willing, it will overflow into the days yet to come afterward. Which is just what grace should be like. It should fill  you up, then overflow you. And one of the best ways of showing that to children is by the tangibles. For that matter, it’s a pretty downright good way to remind us adults too!

Thanks be to God for being the perfect Father, the giver of all good and perfect gifts, so that we know Who to imitate! Now… may He give us the grace to joyfully imitate Him with vigor, and the mercy to grow closer in our imitation accuracy year by year.

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“Man’s maker was made man that He, Ruler of the stars, might nurse at His mother’s breast;
that the Bread might hunger, the Fountain thirst, the Light sleep, the Way be tired on its journey;
that Truth might be accused of false witnesses,
the Teacher be beaten with whips,
the Foundation be suspended on wood;
that Strength might grow weak;
that the Healer might be wounded;
that Life might die.”
― St. Augustine of Hippo

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Pregnant with a Rainbow, Part VII

To give you a smaller, easier-to-get-through glimpse into my second PAL ultrasound with Sweet Teen last spring, here is a lens I call Second Glance.

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~…~…~…~

Second Glance

I am just as nervous as last time,
my bladder isn’t quite as filled.
Walking into the hospital now
makes me anxious rather than thrilled.

I hold my husband’s hand so tight
and bounce my knees as I sit,
waiting to hear the nurse call my name,
praying we’ll soon know everything’s all right.

The same sonographer is ready for me,
we recognize one another from before—
I breathe deeply, follow her steps,
lie down on the table, squeeze hubby’s hand some more.

The questions are asked, the gel squirts out,
I scrunch my eyes, too afraid to see—
But, there it is! I hear my hubby say,
So I glance up: there you are, bouncing & wiggly!

My eyes fill with tears, my breaths quicker now,
trying to grasp with my brain, things look good!
My fears and anxieties give ‘way to relief
as I look at my baby, as thankful as I should.

How can this be? that our dreams might come true?
Suddenly I wonder, as I look up at you,
so small on that screen, but with fingers, even toes!
How did this miracle ever happen? Oh, God only knows!

We’re sent away with pictures
to take home to other kids,
we leave with happy goosebumps,
ear-to-ear smiles, tears in eyes, and one more kiss.

I dream of you, my tiny baby,
whether my eyes are open or shut,
you are with me every moment,
and in my prayers unceasingly yet.

What a comfort to see you today,
in the secret places our Creator only knows,
to know your heart beats steadily,
your body’s form and functions grow.

With joy we update family and friends,
and toast your precious life,
we praise our God for giving us
this glimpse of hope and light!

~…~…~…~

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Generally, I err on the side of verbosity.
Today, I think less is more.

This journey, this roller coaster, continues ~ and my hands are up in the air. My heart still races, my hair still flies, my flesh still gets covered in goosebumps…

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Pregnant with a Rainbow, Part VI

After previously giving you a small glimpse into the nuance of pregnancy-after-loss that is anxiety, I wanted to share with you a longer snippet: the account I wrote of my first ultrasound with Sweet Teen, many months ago now. But still fresh in my mind. This is a way to share with you some of the very real anxieties mixed with joys. To give you a more long-winded version of one short experience, in a long series of appointments, milestones, and months of pregnancy.

This happened when our baby boy was only seven weeks old. I’ve held babies that age in the palm of my hand before.
And I call this, First Look:

~…~…~…~

FIRST LOOK

Mommy, where are you going? I heard you say Grandmama was coming over today. Why? My little-big boy asks. I breathe deep, and kind of chuckle to myself seeing my husband leave the room—I wonder if he is standing in the next room listening in, or if he is avoiding hearing the conversation, or if he even heard the question in the first place. To me, all of a sudden my ears are ringing and my palms are getting a little sweaty. Another sigh, and I step close to my son. I kiss him on the head and I smile at him. Do you remember the special camera that gets put on Mommy’s tummy when there is a baby inside? The one that lets us see into the secret places where God does some of His most amazing work? And we get to take little peeks at our babies? My son’s eyes get big and he says, I love that machine Mommy! I love getting to see our babies! Do you get to go see our baby today? I smile at him, Yes honey, we get to see our baby. But remember—this is the first time seeing this baby, so we technically don’t know what is going on inside Mommy. Remember how sometimes, in the past, I have come home from appointments to tell you that God said yes, and other times God has said no? Well, we don’t know what God is doing, so we just get to keep praying for life and hoping for big miracles. He smiles at me, hugs my tummy tight, reassures me that he will be praying all day, and reminds me that God is good when He says yes and He is also good when He says no.

The faith of a child. I understand Jesus calling us to become like children in our faith.
My son preaches to me with his words and his eyes.

My frame was not hidden from You,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in Your book were written, every one of them,
the days that were formed for me,
when as yet there was none of them.
Psalm 139:15-16

Hours drag. Nerves bubble up.
I drink a big bottle of Perrier—I am supposed to drink over thirty ounces of water anyway, so it might as well be the good fizzy stuff that settles my topsy-turvy tummy.

My mother arrives just as I have braided my hair, put on a cozy sweater, and put on makeup. I avoid mascara, but take a leap of faith and go ahead with eyeshadow and eyeliner anyway. If I end up bawling my eyes out, it won’t be too bad that way, but at least I feel prettier with some sparkle above my nervous eyes—and if I am going to be a nervous wreck, I might as well be a pretty one.

I kiss my three little children goodbye. I remind my oldest that he can be praying, and that I am proud of him for being such a brave boy, such a faithful big brother. I promise to call him, even though my mother says she doesn’t want me to call. Before I walk out the door, my boy kisses me—then he draws a cross on my forehead with his right thumb, a faithful seriousness across his face and an empathetic glint in his eye. I know that deep in his soul, he is praying for me—and praying for his littlest sibling’s life. I feel the blessing of God as his thumb traces the cross above my brow and remember Who is bearing my burdens for me—even right now, even in this moment, even as I take the next step in a terrifying and unpredictable journey.

The drive feels long. It’s nearly thirty miles to begin with, but it feels longer. We don’t talk much, my husband and I—our nerves are edgy and prickly, neither of us quite wanting to voice our deepest fears. I feel like I am driving to the guillotine. The other shoe is about to drop. I don’t want to let go of these hopes and joys and dreams that have been building up in me. But the veracity of reality is about to look me in the face… and my skin gets covered in goosebumps because ignorance can be bliss, and knowledge fearsome.

My husband parks the car in the familiar parking lot. The hospital. The place where I have faced both life and death repeatedly. It’s a wonderful place—a horrific place. We pray. It is a simple prayer that my husband speaks, honest and vulnerable—not doubting or hopeful—simply requesting our Father to be with us, and begging His mercy upon the life we have not yet looked at with our eyes but know His eyes are always there.

Getting out of the car and walking into the hospital is painful—partly because of memories that are dancing in my head and partly because my bladder is close to exploding. The irony of asking pregnant women to overload their bladders with thirty-two ounces of water in the hour prior to an ultrasound is almost insane. I wiggle slightly back and forth while I check in, and I ask the receptionist, I’m not supposed to use the bathroom, right? She smiles knowingly and shakes her head. Okay, I say with a sigh and a forced grin, just thought it was worth asking. I guess it might be my way of communicating to her that I was more than ready for my appointment, and would appreciate being seen in a timely manner.

We sit down in the waiting area. A couple other people are waiting, too, reading magazines, looking at their feet. Elevator music fills the area. I squirm and rock side to side in my chair, willing my bladder to stop throbbing. A mere three minutes later, I hear a young woman speak my name. I look up—she is almost angelic—the sonography intern, telling me they are ready, and will take me back early so that I can go potty as soon as possible. Oh! I want to hug her. Waiting another twenty minutes until my actual appointment time would have been miserable on so many fronts—just having those minutes of bladder pain and painful memories avoided is such a gift, such a grace, such an act of mercy.

She takes us to the same room we were in for our last ultrasound—eleven months ago—with a baby who did not wiggle, whose heart did not flutter—a room where my husband’s head sank into his hands near his chest, and I laid on the paper covered table feeling like the weight of thirty-five rainclouds suddenly laid upon my chest and I tried my uttermost to hold back the storms of tears.
Oh God, I silently close my eyelids for a moment and pray, redemption. Oh God, please! Redeem this room, I beg You!

Unbuttoning my jeans, I lay my head back. Since an intern is performing the scan, she gets started right away while her supervisor asks me all the preliminary questions from a nearby computer desk. Keep breathing. Keep answering questions. Don’t look at the screen. When was my last period? How many times have I been pregnant? How many live births? Do I have a history of miscarriage? Yes, clearly, I say with a small snark under my breath. At almost this exact moment, Steven squeezes my hand—I see the heartbeat! My head jerks to the left and cranes upward to see the screen he is scrutinizing. What?! I almost shriek, unbelieving. The sonography intern verbally agrees with him, and for a brief second I see that miraculous flutter. But now my eyes are full of tears and I can’t see anything.

Steven’s smile is ear to ear. He keeps squeezing my hand. I think he just kissed it. I realize the intern is moving on to scan my ovaries and other lady parts but promises to come back to show us more of our baby in a minute. I also realize the supervisor has continued asking me questions but I am not paying attention. Medications? Oh, umm, yes I definitely take medications. I can tell you what they all are if you want—she types quickly and logs my pills and my injections—she looks over at me and smiles with this understanding, compassionate smile—she gets that this is a big deal, a big moment, a big day, a big lifetime.

I focus on breathing. I keep reminding myself that things are okay, don’t burst into tears. Things get more quiet when the questions stop, except for the click, click, click of the ultrasound machine and the intern taking various measurements of things. My brain starts going backwards in time, and I remember other babies, other ultrasounds. I start getting scared again and whisper to Steven, I don’t want this one to be like Heritage—I’m afraid this will be like Heritage. She outgrew her sac, and I am so scared that such a thing might happen again. Steven keeps grinning at me and squeezing my hand though—not only more calm of spirit in general, but also having a much clearer and more direct view of the computer screen—he seems unfaltering, unwavering, solid. I cling to that. I repeat Psalm 46 to myself and sing a version of Joshua 1:9 under my breath that my dad taught me just this week.

Behold, I have said unto thee
Be strong and bold,
Neither fear nor dread.
For the Lord thy God is with thee,
whether so ever thou goest.
Joshua 1:9
(William Tyndale translation, 1549)

Finally, we get to focus on seeing our baby. I am so thankful the sonographers call it our baby! No cold medical terms here, but warm familial words. They comfort us with their encouraging tones and phrases that reassure us things look okay. The sacs measure the right size, and we can easily see that precious little heart fluttering away! My bladder is so full that half the computer screen seems to be filled with a big black bubble—it’s even squishing the baby’s gestational sac to the point that it makes it hard to measure the baby’s size! They squish and squash things around, but finally realize that the only thing that will allow us to properly see our little baby is to let my bladder shrink a bit. Go to the bathroom, and try to go only partway, they say. I make a joke about needing to practice my Kegels anyway. I eagerly find the bathroom and do my best. While I wash my hands, I look at myself in the mirror—I can even tell that I look weary and petrified, almost old. I purse my lips, pinch my cheeks, tell myself to brighten up because the sun sure is shining today.

I return to the room and lie down again. The paper on the table is crunchy, and I giggle to myself thinking about how my kids would love to color on that stuff. They return to scanning my belly but quickly stop, laughing that I need to go back to the bathroom and try again—this time, she says, pee for a solid ten seconds before stopping, okay? Chuckling, I run back to the bathroom and decide to go for a full eleven. Why not.

It is such an indescribable relief to be chuckling in the middle of an ultrasound appointment!! Levity is not lost on me even at this moment when the world feels so heavy on my shoulders.

Back on the table again, with the warm gel squirted on my belly again, this time with the senior sonographer doing the work—there’s my baby. Oh bliss. No longer hidden and squished by my overfilled bladder, I can see those details I had basically convinced myself that I would never again see. Not quite big enough to look like a gummy bear with arms and legs moving around independently, but we are schooled enough in the world of first trimester ultrasounds that we can determine the crown to rump area, we can see the yolk sac, we can even see the umbilical cord connecting up to the placenta in my uterus. Measuring someone so small is no wee feat, but repeated measurements show that this tiny person is measuring exactly, precisely where it ought to, right down to the day. I have been everything but textbook with pregnancy in the past, so to walk the line of expected or average is a foreign thing to me, in any capacity.

Look at that heartbeat! It is the most miraculous movement in the world to my eyes. Flutter, flutter, flutter. Consistent and strong. Perfect. I am humbled. I breathe a deep sigh.

For You formed my inward parts;
You knitted me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are Your works;
my soul knows it very well.
Psalm 139:13-14

Pictures print off the ultrasound machine printer, and we are given black and white and grey blobs that are evidence of what the Lord is doing in secret, proof of life, confirmation of this crazy roller coaster we have been riding in recent weeks. I wipe the jelly off of my skin, button my jeans, say thank you repeatedly and emphatically—and thrust my things into Steven’s arms so I can hit the bathroom one last time for the full and final relief that only an empty bladder paired with a calm heart can give.

We walk out through the waiting room—holding hands & gripping ultrasound pictures with grins on our faces—like so many others who have innocently made that walk, climbed these steps, left this building. It feels unbelievably surreal to leave with hope renewed and joy strengthened—now that it’s over, I am willing to admit it—I expected to see death in my womb rather than life. To be surprised with the gift of life and hope leaves me speechless, but I have a dozen people waiting on pins and needs to hear the news.

As usual, I call my father first—I can hear the nerves in his voice, and I tell him quickly and plainly, everything looks good—and He praises God, he asks for details about his youngest grandchild, and he tells me repeatedly of his love for me.
Then I call my children. My mother answers the phone and I ask for my oldest son. Hi Mommy, we’re playing checkers! How’s the baby? Heart of my heart, I am so glad to hear your voice and so desperately thankful that I get to tell you that this time God said yes! Well sweetie, I have a picture here to bring you of our healthy little baby, who looks really good and everything is okay—and we get to thank God for this kindness! He says something about being glad and how he can’t wait to see me but he has to get back to his game of checkers.
I speak to my younger son—Hi Mommy, I miss you! Are you coming home? I smile to myself, not even actually sure which of my younger children it is for a moment—yes, sweetie, we will be home soon. And the baby is alive and healthy, so I will bring you a picture, okay?
I ask to talk to my mother, the one who didn’t want to be called. I figure they told me hormone numbers and lab results when I had specifically told them I didn’t want to know so it’s payback time—and I speak to her, telling her that her seventeenth grandchild is alive, healthy, perfect. I hear the relief in her voice, she almost doesn’t know what to say. Perhaps she is as surprised as I am that we have good news today.

That’s enough phone calls for now. There will be more phone calls and emails to compose later. For right now, though, I just want to be driven around by my husband, hold his hand, smile at one another surreptitiously, stare at these pictures of my little child—the one I will dream of and long for in ways that only I can—as I snuggle my Sweet Teen in my womb and head off for a celebratory lettuce-wrapped cheeseburger.

And so for this moment, suddenly and surprisingly, all feels right and beautiful with the world. 

How precious to me are Your thoughts, O God!
How vast is the sum of them!
If I would count them, they are more than the sand.
I awake, and I am still with You.
Psalm 139:17-18

~…~…~…~

Thank you for entering this part of my world with me. Thank you for letting me share my perspective, as I lend you my lenses to see the world as I see it through my own experiences and frame. God is good. And there is more yet to come.

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