Last night I was sitting on the bed with Bode, he had just finished drinking the milk from my cereal bowl and was staring at me with his big brown goo-goo eyes. Bode has this way of looking at you with this expression that just says, "you're so pretty." There's a reason every girl that comes into our home falls in love with this furry rascal. But anyway, I was petting him and talking to him and I realized--in a few brief weeks I won't be doing that. In a few weeks Bode will be wondering what the heck in the world (a favorite phrase borrowed from one of my favorite five year olds) is going on. In eight weeks or less everything will change.
I have to admit I'm scared. Excited. But scared. I've never even held a brand new newborn, let alone diapered one or fed one. I know that no matter what happens--a natural birth or a c-section--I will not have experienced pain, adrenaline, and anxiety like that. It's all so new. We didn't end up taking birthing classes as our schedules conflicted with the only session our hospital offered. Part of me wishes that we could have and part of me thinks that maybe it's a good thing. There's enough for me to get wound up about and I tend to take information and run with it, rather than simply being informed.
As I'm writing this I'm getting ready to go see a hematologist because my blood work looked 'unusual'. On one level, I'm not worried and on a whole other level, I am. I don't really have enough information about what was unusual to be worried, but anytime a doctor is sending you to a specialist because they don't understand the results seems like an okay time to be at least a smidge concerned. I bring this up because it's these experiences and others that make me join the club of third trimester women who just want to have the baby and move on with life!
But there is this other part of me, a larger part of me, that wants to hold on to this for as long as possible. Not only because I feel and fear that I'm not ready, but because I love knowing that he's so safe and secure in there. There's no doubt about it that my son is strong and healthy, all of the tests and double-checking is to make sure that I'm okay. And I feel okay most of the time, so I'm pretty sure I'm fine. So I like having him all safe and contained. And where my body just does what it's supposed to do to take care of him. Maybe that's the most incredible part of being pregnant. I don't have to think about it. Sure, I have to make some safe and smart choices, but it's not up to me to think about growing his spleen, or transporting food through the umbilical cord. I don't have to feed him, change him, or rock him to sleep--it just happens inside of me. And when this is over...when he's born and joins the human race...I will have to meet his every need.
Thank God (literally, not figuratively or flippantly) I have Curtis. I have no idea how single moms or military moms do this alone. Curtis has been and will continue to be this wonderful rock. Sure, he's made his fair share of dumb remarks, as all husbands do, but for the most part, he's kept his yap shut when I've been crazy and supported me when I've been scared. He's helped me get the nursery ready and gone to as many appointments with me as he could so far. That bit is getting harder because of his new job--in fact, I'm going to the specialist alone today--but I know if he could, he would go with me. And I know he's going to be an incredible father. New, like me, and probably unsure, like me, but he'll be hands-on and excited and exactly what our son needs. I just know it.
So maybe I have to give myself the same credit. Curtis has no more experience with babies than I do really but I know he'll be great. Because he loves him, he'll figure it out. Because we both love him, and we love each other, we'll figure it out together.
And poor Bode...I know that eventually he'll be crazy about his little baby brother. I figure when our son starts eating cheerios and throwing food everywhere. But until then, I might need to find some little doggy ear plugs...and write myself a few reminders to throw him an extra treat every now and then. He's such a good boy and I'll miss our cuddles, even if I am upgrading to baby cuddles.
Showing posts with label husband. Show all posts
Showing posts with label husband. Show all posts
Friday, March 9, 2012
Friday, June 10, 2011
Before It's Too Late (the love edition)
Our Sunday School class is currently doing a series on the Song of Solomon. This seems to be one of those books that people skip but it's one of my favorites. I started reading it a few years ago...must've been around 2004. It's my go-to book when I don't know what else to read. It's a bit of a puzzle trying to sort out all those ancient Israelite metaphors. When I read it to find out how passionately God loves me I am always comforted. When I read it to find out how it is I am to love my husband I always find direction.
This is a great series about dating, relationships, and marriage. One comment the speaker/teacher, Tommy Nelson, made sparked some conversation between myself and my married friends. Tommy Nelson encourages husbands to keep their wives emotionally well nourished by giving compliments, listening, etc. The comment was made that a person can't do that everyday because it gets taken for granted or loses its meaning. Initially I agreed. Then I did some dishes. I always start thinking when I do dishes, especially if I haven't turned any loud music on.
So whilst I was washing my dishes I wondered what a person who had just lost their spouse would say to that? Would they agree? Or would they wish that they had told their spouse more often how much they loved them, what they loved about them?
Which led me to this thought: what if today was the last day I had with my husband and today I didn't tell him I loved him, or that he was a good husband, or that I appreciate his hard work? And while some might say that it is extreme or dramatic to live your life that way...I have to listen to my friends and relatives that have experienced devestating loss.
When I was in high school a dear friend of mine lost his father to a sudden heart attack. They'd had an argument that morning about something, and then his father had a massive heart attack and died before the ambulance even arrived. He never could take back the words he said, he never had the chance to communicate love one more time. And while we're all certain that his father knew that he loved him, no one wants angry words to be the last things said to a loved one.
This is why I won't leave the house without telling Curtis that I love him. I won't leave the house angry, no matter how infuriated I feel. I know that whatever is going on in that moment is less important than the love I have for my husband, and his knowledge of that love. I refuse to get to the end of my life, or his, and have to admit that I should've said it more.
Along similar lines, this is why I tell my friends and my family what they mean to me. It makes me the sentimental cheesy one but I just can't help it. I think it is important to tell people they are loved and why they are loved, what difference they have made in your life, while they're still here on Earth to hear it. Eulogies at funerals make no sense to me. Shouldn't all that stuff have been said before death? While it is good to remember and to reflect, isn't it better to share that love before it's too late??
So, true, it may get old, it may 'lose it's meaning', it may be taken for granted, but I believe it is important to communicate love, appreciation, tenderness, respect for the ones I love as often as possible. I'd rather be a little cheesy, or a little compulsive, than to leave someone wondering if they were loved.
This is a great series about dating, relationships, and marriage. One comment the speaker/teacher, Tommy Nelson, made sparked some conversation between myself and my married friends. Tommy Nelson encourages husbands to keep their wives emotionally well nourished by giving compliments, listening, etc. The comment was made that a person can't do that everyday because it gets taken for granted or loses its meaning. Initially I agreed. Then I did some dishes. I always start thinking when I do dishes, especially if I haven't turned any loud music on.
So whilst I was washing my dishes I wondered what a person who had just lost their spouse would say to that? Would they agree? Or would they wish that they had told their spouse more often how much they loved them, what they loved about them?
Which led me to this thought: what if today was the last day I had with my husband and today I didn't tell him I loved him, or that he was a good husband, or that I appreciate his hard work? And while some might say that it is extreme or dramatic to live your life that way...I have to listen to my friends and relatives that have experienced devestating loss.
When I was in high school a dear friend of mine lost his father to a sudden heart attack. They'd had an argument that morning about something, and then his father had a massive heart attack and died before the ambulance even arrived. He never could take back the words he said, he never had the chance to communicate love one more time. And while we're all certain that his father knew that he loved him, no one wants angry words to be the last things said to a loved one.
This is why I won't leave the house without telling Curtis that I love him. I won't leave the house angry, no matter how infuriated I feel. I know that whatever is going on in that moment is less important than the love I have for my husband, and his knowledge of that love. I refuse to get to the end of my life, or his, and have to admit that I should've said it more.
Along similar lines, this is why I tell my friends and my family what they mean to me. It makes me the sentimental cheesy one but I just can't help it. I think it is important to tell people they are loved and why they are loved, what difference they have made in your life, while they're still here on Earth to hear it. Eulogies at funerals make no sense to me. Shouldn't all that stuff have been said before death? While it is good to remember and to reflect, isn't it better to share that love before it's too late??
So, true, it may get old, it may 'lose it's meaning', it may be taken for granted, but I believe it is important to communicate love, appreciation, tenderness, respect for the ones I love as often as possible. I'd rather be a little cheesy, or a little compulsive, than to leave someone wondering if they were loved.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Never My Love/Believe
"How can you think love will end,
when I've asked you to spend
your whole life with me?
Never my love"
('Never My Love' by The Association)
Three years ago I married my best friend. I realize this is a rather common occurrence for people and as such has become a cliche thing to say. But it is true. As most cliches tend to be. My husband is my best friend.
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| Left to Right: Alisha in blue, Rachel in green (our favorite color) Melanie in pink (the color for her wedding the yr. before), and Pam in purple. And of course, me in white. :) |
I wore my mom's veil, and the lace from her dress was used on my ballet shoes. I had my grandmother's first engagement ring from 1939 made into a necklace for the occasion. My bouquet was fashioned after some photos my great-aunt had taken at a wedding she went to in the 1950s. I debated between several different songs for coming down the aisle, everything from 'Moon River' to the love theme from 'Shakespeare in Love', but the clear choice soon became a gorgeous version of 'Amazing Grace' that I'd fallen in love with as a kid.
Our recessional after the wedding was 'I Do Believe in Fairies' from the live-action version of Peter Pan. It's such an exuberant and joyful song, and hello, I do believe in fairies. It was followed by Glenn Miller's 'In the Mood' which set the tone for the vintage reception our guests were about to enjoy.
One of my favorite moments from the entire day came when we had to cut our cake. I'd arranged to have 'So This Is Love' from Disney's Cinderella play while we cut the cake. Our cake topper fit our vintage theme perfectly--a vintage bride and groom in an open-top limo. Actually cutting cake proved to be an adventure. We realized that we had no idea how to cut a cake that large together. For whatever reason, instead of melting down, I dissolved into laughter at the absurdity of the situation. The pictures of us holding this giant knife and just laughing our heads off really capture that moment. It turns out that those unplanned moments are sometimes the best.
Our first dance was to Josh Groban's song 'Believe' from the movie Polar Express. Several songs were in the running, songs by Mercy Me, Delirious, a couple oldies tunes, a Big Daddy Weave song. I just happened to mention this song once to Curtis in one of the many conversations I forced him to have about this topic (I tend to talk things to death and he tends to like to make quick decisions), and he was adamant that was the song he wanted. We both like Josh Groban, trains, and Christmas...but it was the chorus of the song that won me over---"believe in what your heart is saying, feel the melody that's playing. there's no time to waste, there's so much to celebrate. Believe in what you feel inside and give your dreams the wings to fly. You have everything you need, if you just believe."
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| It somehow seems appropriate that there is a giant Ford sign over our heads in this shot of one of my favorite moments. |
The other song I remember dancing to (clearly the music was a huge element to me) was The Association's 'Never My Love'. This is one of my favorite songs for so many reason. First, I'm a big oldies fan in general so I love the actual sound of this song. And second, the lyrics are amazing. I won't share all of them, but the first verse pretty much sums up the entire song, "you ask me if there'll come a time when I grow tired of you, never my love, never my love." For many reasons, none of them really related to Curtis, I felt insecure in our relationship for a long time. I'd always ask him if he loved me, sometimes multiple times a day. I always knew he would say yes, but I liked getting the reassurance. This song speaks to that very idea. I remember dancing with him, and several other couples being out on the floor as well....my brother and his wife, my brother-in-law and his wife, my mom and her boyfriend, my brother's in-laws, my dad and my step-mom. I remember thinking that it was cool to share this song and this dance with people that I love.
For me, the wedding was really made in the details. We personalized as much as we possibly could. I had friends read poems that I absolutely love, one by Lucy Maud Montgomery and the other by Christopher Marlowe. We had family members read selections from the Bible. Every song choice was full of meaning, even the ones just for dancing and having fun, like 'Hang on Sloopy'. Our guests tossed that special wedding rice that isn't really rice mixed with lavender, which was actually an old wedding tradition. And while many things didn't go according to 'plan', my biggest regret was not training Shiloh to be the ring bearer, or at least arranging for some pictures to be taken with him that day. After all, he is our 'first born ruff'.
I've written about my wedding before, but always in the context of my being a compulsive planner and a bit of a control freak. I've always presented the glass half-empty version of our wedding, even if it was intending to show some self-criticism/realizations. But the fact of the matter is, we had a beautiful wedding. And the even bigger fact of the matter is, it wouldn't really matter if we'd had an absolutely awful wedding or an absolutely perfect one. It's our marriage that counts. The last three years have been filled with good things. We've grown as a couple, we've bought our first house, got a family car, and another dog. We're trying for kids and learning so much about ourselves and our relationship through that process. In just three years it feels like we've grown up and changed so much. But one thing is the same as it was three years ago, and the same as it was five years ago when we met...Curtis is my best friend.
"We'll always be friends forever."--Tod the Fox
"Yead, Tod."--Copper the Hound Dog
(The Fox & The Hound...the movie we watched on our first date)
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Empty Arms But A Full Heart
A note from my heart: I wrote this post over a week ago. It's honest, it's personal, it's sincere...all things I believe this blog needs to be in order to be worth writing and worth reading. And I felt that I needed to write this, not only for myself, but because there may be someone who needs to know they're not alone. I am so thankful for the brave women who write, women I will never meet this side of heaven, because their honesty lets me know that I am okay and I am not alone. I would be remiss to not pass it on and share my story so someone else can know that they are okay and they are not alone.
There was a certain man... whose name was Elkanah... He had two wives; one was called Hannah and the other Peninnah. Peninnah had children, but Hannah had none.
... Because the LORD had closed Hannah’s womb, her rival kept provoking her...till she wept and would not eat. Her husband Elkanah would say to her, “Hannah, why are you weeping? Why don’t you eat? Why are you downhearted? Don’t I mean more to you than ten sons?”
Once when they had finished eating and drinking in Shiloh, Hannah stood up. Now Eli the priest was sitting on his chair by the doorpost of the LORD’s house. In her deep anguish Hannah prayed to the LORD, weeping bitterly. And she made a vow, saying, “LORD Almighty, if you will only look on your servant’s misery and remember me, and not forget your servant but give her a son, then I will give him to the LORD for all the days of his life, and no razor will ever be used on his head.”
As she kept on praying to the LORD, Eli observed her mouth. Hannah was praying in her heart, and her lips were moving but her voice was not heard. Eli thought she was drunk and said to her, “How long are you going to stay drunk? Put away your wine.”
“Not so, my lord,” Hannah replied, “I am a woman who is deeply troubled. I have not been drinking wine or beer; I was pouring out my soul to the LORD. Do not take your servant for a wicked woman; I have been praying here out of my great anguish and grief.”
Eli answered, “Go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant you what you have asked of him.”
She said, “May your servant find favor in your eyes.” Then she went her way and ate something, and her face was no longer downcast.
Early the next morning they arose and worshiped before the LORD and then went back to their home at Ramah. Elkanah made love to his wife Hannah, and the LORD remembered her. So in the course of time Hannah became pregnant and gave birth to a son. She named him Samuel,saying, “Because I asked the LORD for him.” (1 Samuel 1: 1-20)
I love this story because, you see, I am Hannah. I've been tested, blood drawn, womb checked, one test left me crippled in pain and throwing up for hours. The tests have yielded some answers but no results. Month after month I force a smile and say to my dear husband, vacant! As if it is a room for rent. Which maybe it is. A temporary home for someone--someone who may never come to hang the 'occupied' sign on the door.
My husband is Elkanah. He loves me. He sees the pain, the agony in my face. He knows he can't fix it. He tries to say the right thing, never knowing for sure what the right thing is. The poor man never knows if this month I'll shrug it off and really be okay with it, or if I'm going to sit quietly in the bathroom and cry. Why do women always hide in the bathroom to cry?
I can only imagine how much deeper Hannah's grief was at having to share a husband and know that his other wife could do what she could not. How much more broken did she feel? Because that is exactly how I feel. All broken. What good is a vase that can't hold water? Like the Island of Misfit Toys--a caboose with square wheels. Broken. Useless. There is a reason the text uses words like 'anguish', 'deeply troubled', 'grief'.
These are the words we associate with mourning, with loss. Isn't that what Hannah is doing? Mourning her loss? Mourning the closed womb that cannot bear life? Mourning the reality that she may never feel the kick in her belly, the pain of contractions, behold the cry at birth? She has every reason to mourn. Every month is an egg unfertilized, an egg dying, an egg that might've been a child.
I wonder if women talked about it in those days. Kind women, not just 'her rival'. I wonder if Hannah had a mother, a sister, a friend who tried to comfort her. With good intentions they tell her that she still has time, they give her remedies and tell her what worked for another friend. They tell her to pray to God. They tell her to stay strong. Oh, isn't that what Hannah wants more than anything? The strength to bear the anguish of a barren womb. It's so hard to be strong sometimes.
We see what desperate women will do for a child in Sarai, before she became Abraham's princess and the mother of Israel. So desperate for a child to raise, she pushes another woman into her husband's bed. Never thinking of what her feelings afterward would be, she can only picture the perfect ten fingers and ten toes, the cooing and crying, diapers hanging on the line with her husband's cloaks. The things women do in despair.
Her granddaughter-in-law, Rachel, would follow suit. Trying to compete with her homely sister who bore their shared husband child after child, Rachel pushed her servant into Jacob's bed. She claimed her servant's child as a victory for her, and yet, still felt empty, broken, anguish. This is how we got the Twelve Tribes of Israel. Rivalry between sisters, one loved but infertile, one unloved but fertile, and two servant girls dragged into the baby drama. Rachel died birthing Benjamin as Joseph proved to not be enough for this desperate mother, and the poor child is saddled with the name 'son of my trouble' until daddy renamed him 'son of my right hand'.
The Bible doesn't tell us much about Elizabeth's infertility journey. We see more of Zecheriah's unbelief at what Gabriel is trying to tell him. There is doubt because perhaps they've finally come to terms with the vacant womb. Maybe they've found a way to laugh like I try to do. Maybe they've embraced other people's little ones, doing for other people's children what they would've done for their own. Maybe they've just finally come to grips with it all and then this angel appears and throws it all into chaos again. I can hardly blame Zecheriah's doubts anymore than I blame Sarai's laughter in Genesis. It's hard to keep believing when hope seems to dwindle away every month. Hard to believe even when God Himself is telling you to hang on.
“The Lord has done this for me,” she said. “In these days he has shown his favor and taken away my disgrace among the people.” --Luke 1:25
We want this verse to be outdated. We want to believe that in the 21st century with the women's lib movement and our enlightened minds that a woman is not disgraced when she can't have children. Let me tell you...that's not so. Every time someone looks at you and wonders just what you're waiting for when the reality is you've been trying for a long time. Every time someone asks you when you're going to have kids, and you hesitate before answering. Sometimes I smile and say, when the good Lord wills it. And sometimes I just smile and shrug, and hope that my eyes don't betray the pain.
I vacillate between peace and agony. Sometimes I can hold on tightly to God and His ways and find peace there. We've been trying for a little over two years, I know people who tried for over ten before getting pregnant. I think about adoption, I have a cousin who adopted a son. There are so many little ones already who need to have a family, to be loved. Sometimes I can even find peace in knowing that I may not be a mother, but I am already an aunt and a friend. There are plenty of small ones in my life that I can love on and teach them what I know. Other times I pour out my sadness. It aches, it's awful, it's heartbreaking to wonder if I'll ever have that joy that I've always, always expected.
But I don't want to become a woman desperate for a child. First, what kind of life is that for me? I am more than a womb, vacant or full. I am more than a would-be mother. I am a child of God, an intentionally designed creation, a much loved princess of the Most High King. Second, what kind of life will that make for a child, should I have one? If I've become desperate for a little one, I won't be able to let him go, to raise him as I should. My life will revolve around the little one, neglecting myself, my husband, my God. This isn't healthy for a child. Parents that give up their own lives, figuratively speaking, for their children are really doing them a disservice.
I love this story of Hannah. She is in agony, but not despair. Her husband is sensitive to her breaking heart and does what he can to alleviate her pain. Eli comforts her but doesn't try to give her a bunch of answers. He simply prays over her, blesses her. And when Hannah receives this blessing she gets the elusive peace she's been seeking. She worships God, she eats food. She takes care of herself, and then, she gets pregnant. And she gives the child to God. This child who will become the anointer and advisor of kings.
I've written about Hannah before, but I didn't tell you why. I've wrestled with this for a long time. Wondering if I should be honest about my journey, if I could be. But I've been feeling God leading me from the darkness and into the light. There isn't shame in my journey as I am sometimes tricked into feeling. And God has been whispering into my heart that my husband and I don't need to shoulder this pain alone. Until now we've kept this 'news' in close family circles. In fact, many members of our families don't know. I don't want to be smothered by pitying looks and cliches. I just want to be loved and valued for what I already am. And, more than anything, I want people to come alongside in prayer. Praying that we will have wisdom to know what God wants, that we will hear His voice prompting us in this journey, that we will have strength to take the steps required. Praying for a miracle. And praying that if that miracle never comes that we'll see the blessing hidden in that.
There was a certain man... whose name was Elkanah... He had two wives; one was called Hannah and the other Peninnah. Peninnah had children, but Hannah had none.
... Because the LORD had closed Hannah’s womb, her rival kept provoking her...till she wept and would not eat. Her husband Elkanah would say to her, “Hannah, why are you weeping? Why don’t you eat? Why are you downhearted? Don’t I mean more to you than ten sons?”
Once when they had finished eating and drinking in Shiloh, Hannah stood up. Now Eli the priest was sitting on his chair by the doorpost of the LORD’s house. In her deep anguish Hannah prayed to the LORD, weeping bitterly. And she made a vow, saying, “LORD Almighty, if you will only look on your servant’s misery and remember me, and not forget your servant but give her a son, then I will give him to the LORD for all the days of his life, and no razor will ever be used on his head.”
As she kept on praying to the LORD, Eli observed her mouth. Hannah was praying in her heart, and her lips were moving but her voice was not heard. Eli thought she was drunk and said to her, “How long are you going to stay drunk? Put away your wine.”
“Not so, my lord,” Hannah replied, “I am a woman who is deeply troubled. I have not been drinking wine or beer; I was pouring out my soul to the LORD. Do not take your servant for a wicked woman; I have been praying here out of my great anguish and grief.”
Eli answered, “Go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant you what you have asked of him.”
She said, “May your servant find favor in your eyes.” Then she went her way and ate something, and her face was no longer downcast.
Early the next morning they arose and worshiped before the LORD and then went back to their home at Ramah. Elkanah made love to his wife Hannah, and the LORD remembered her. So in the course of time Hannah became pregnant and gave birth to a son. She named him Samuel,saying, “Because I asked the LORD for him.” (1 Samuel 1: 1-20)
I love this story because, you see, I am Hannah. I've been tested, blood drawn, womb checked, one test left me crippled in pain and throwing up for hours. The tests have yielded some answers but no results. Month after month I force a smile and say to my dear husband, vacant! As if it is a room for rent. Which maybe it is. A temporary home for someone--someone who may never come to hang the 'occupied' sign on the door.
My husband is Elkanah. He loves me. He sees the pain, the agony in my face. He knows he can't fix it. He tries to say the right thing, never knowing for sure what the right thing is. The poor man never knows if this month I'll shrug it off and really be okay with it, or if I'm going to sit quietly in the bathroom and cry. Why do women always hide in the bathroom to cry?
I can only imagine how much deeper Hannah's grief was at having to share a husband and know that his other wife could do what she could not. How much more broken did she feel? Because that is exactly how I feel. All broken. What good is a vase that can't hold water? Like the Island of Misfit Toys--a caboose with square wheels. Broken. Useless. There is a reason the text uses words like 'anguish', 'deeply troubled', 'grief'.
These are the words we associate with mourning, with loss. Isn't that what Hannah is doing? Mourning her loss? Mourning the closed womb that cannot bear life? Mourning the reality that she may never feel the kick in her belly, the pain of contractions, behold the cry at birth? She has every reason to mourn. Every month is an egg unfertilized, an egg dying, an egg that might've been a child.
I wonder if women talked about it in those days. Kind women, not just 'her rival'. I wonder if Hannah had a mother, a sister, a friend who tried to comfort her. With good intentions they tell her that she still has time, they give her remedies and tell her what worked for another friend. They tell her to pray to God. They tell her to stay strong. Oh, isn't that what Hannah wants more than anything? The strength to bear the anguish of a barren womb. It's so hard to be strong sometimes.
We see what desperate women will do for a child in Sarai, before she became Abraham's princess and the mother of Israel. So desperate for a child to raise, she pushes another woman into her husband's bed. Never thinking of what her feelings afterward would be, she can only picture the perfect ten fingers and ten toes, the cooing and crying, diapers hanging on the line with her husband's cloaks. The things women do in despair.
Her granddaughter-in-law, Rachel, would follow suit. Trying to compete with her homely sister who bore their shared husband child after child, Rachel pushed her servant into Jacob's bed. She claimed her servant's child as a victory for her, and yet, still felt empty, broken, anguish. This is how we got the Twelve Tribes of Israel. Rivalry between sisters, one loved but infertile, one unloved but fertile, and two servant girls dragged into the baby drama. Rachel died birthing Benjamin as Joseph proved to not be enough for this desperate mother, and the poor child is saddled with the name 'son of my trouble' until daddy renamed him 'son of my right hand'.
The Bible doesn't tell us much about Elizabeth's infertility journey. We see more of Zecheriah's unbelief at what Gabriel is trying to tell him. There is doubt because perhaps they've finally come to terms with the vacant womb. Maybe they've found a way to laugh like I try to do. Maybe they've embraced other people's little ones, doing for other people's children what they would've done for their own. Maybe they've just finally come to grips with it all and then this angel appears and throws it all into chaos again. I can hardly blame Zecheriah's doubts anymore than I blame Sarai's laughter in Genesis. It's hard to keep believing when hope seems to dwindle away every month. Hard to believe even when God Himself is telling you to hang on.
“The Lord has done this for me,” she said. “In these days he has shown his favor and taken away my disgrace among the people.” --Luke 1:25
We want this verse to be outdated. We want to believe that in the 21st century with the women's lib movement and our enlightened minds that a woman is not disgraced when she can't have children. Let me tell you...that's not so. Every time someone looks at you and wonders just what you're waiting for when the reality is you've been trying for a long time. Every time someone asks you when you're going to have kids, and you hesitate before answering. Sometimes I smile and say, when the good Lord wills it. And sometimes I just smile and shrug, and hope that my eyes don't betray the pain.
I vacillate between peace and agony. Sometimes I can hold on tightly to God and His ways and find peace there. We've been trying for a little over two years, I know people who tried for over ten before getting pregnant. I think about adoption, I have a cousin who adopted a son. There are so many little ones already who need to have a family, to be loved. Sometimes I can even find peace in knowing that I may not be a mother, but I am already an aunt and a friend. There are plenty of small ones in my life that I can love on and teach them what I know. Other times I pour out my sadness. It aches, it's awful, it's heartbreaking to wonder if I'll ever have that joy that I've always, always expected.
But I don't want to become a woman desperate for a child. First, what kind of life is that for me? I am more than a womb, vacant or full. I am more than a would-be mother. I am a child of God, an intentionally designed creation, a much loved princess of the Most High King. Second, what kind of life will that make for a child, should I have one? If I've become desperate for a little one, I won't be able to let him go, to raise him as I should. My life will revolve around the little one, neglecting myself, my husband, my God. This isn't healthy for a child. Parents that give up their own lives, figuratively speaking, for their children are really doing them a disservice.
I love this story of Hannah. She is in agony, but not despair. Her husband is sensitive to her breaking heart and does what he can to alleviate her pain. Eli comforts her but doesn't try to give her a bunch of answers. He simply prays over her, blesses her. And when Hannah receives this blessing she gets the elusive peace she's been seeking. She worships God, she eats food. She takes care of herself, and then, she gets pregnant. And she gives the child to God. This child who will become the anointer and advisor of kings.
I've written about Hannah before, but I didn't tell you why. I've wrestled with this for a long time. Wondering if I should be honest about my journey, if I could be. But I've been feeling God leading me from the darkness and into the light. There isn't shame in my journey as I am sometimes tricked into feeling. And God has been whispering into my heart that my husband and I don't need to shoulder this pain alone. Until now we've kept this 'news' in close family circles. In fact, many members of our families don't know. I don't want to be smothered by pitying looks and cliches. I just want to be loved and valued for what I already am. And, more than anything, I want people to come alongside in prayer. Praying that we will have wisdom to know what God wants, that we will hear His voice prompting us in this journey, that we will have strength to take the steps required. Praying for a miracle. And praying that if that miracle never comes that we'll see the blessing hidden in that.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Dressed Up and Geeked Out
So Les Mis was everything I wanted it to be. I'm sure you were all wondering after my previous post of geeking out. There were several changes to the show, most of them so minuscule the average fan wouldn't probably notice. But I found myself noting several alterations--Fantine bites her attacker instead of scratching him, Marius would like to close Eponine's wounds instead of heal them, there are no chairs or tables on the stage when Marius singes 'Empty Chairs at Empty Tables'. For serious. But...I knew all this coming in. I knew that they had changed it. Which is why I originally was passionately against such a thing, declaring I would never go to see anything different. I tend to be a bit dramatic.
But I am glad that I saw it. The digitized backdrops--mostly illustrations lifted from the book--were good to see. The pace of the show was much quicker which I have mixed feelings about. I felt that the emotional build was diminished because of the shorter orchestrations. And an entire verse of Gavroche's 'Little People' was cut!
Though despite my small complaints and observations, I have to admit, I was in heaven. There is something about the theatre that gets me completely spellbound. I've been this way since I was a child. Arguably I am this way because I had these experiences as a child.
I first saw 'The Phantom of the Opera' around age 8 or 9. I was so scared at after the chandelier dropped that I sat on my dad's lap for the entire first act. He took me to see 'West Side Story' around the same time, and as we left the theatre, my dad asked me if I cried. I admitted quietly that I hadn't but that I had wanted to. It was soon after these experiences that I saw 'Les Mis' for the first time (as my other post details), and on the same trip 'Guys and Dolls'. My parents took us to as many cultural things as they could--mostly museums. But my dad often took me to see musicals; it didn't matter if it was at the high school or one of the nearby universities or up to Playhouse square--if there was a good show playing, we went to see it.
This tapered off in middle school. The last time I saw 'Les Mis' was in 8th or 9th grade. Which was the last time I went to the theatre until I college, I think. At any rate...there is something about the entire thing that I absolutely love. I was bitten by the bug as a little girl and I've had it ever since. I hope to pass it on to my children. An adoration of the stage.
There's just something magical about a solid cast and an iconic show. I appreciate the continuity with the past that only a live performance can bring. Theatre has been passed down across the ages. I relish the experience of a live performance--their energy and mine and those around me creating the ambiance, adding to the performance, shaping the experience. And this particular show for me is an old friend. Expecting every twist and turn, I soaked in the artistry and passion. I devoured every detail. I was spellbound, as I've always been with the magic of the stage.
But I am glad that I saw it. The digitized backdrops--mostly illustrations lifted from the book--were good to see. The pace of the show was much quicker which I have mixed feelings about. I felt that the emotional build was diminished because of the shorter orchestrations. And an entire verse of Gavroche's 'Little People' was cut!
Though despite my small complaints and observations, I have to admit, I was in heaven. There is something about the theatre that gets me completely spellbound. I've been this way since I was a child. Arguably I am this way because I had these experiences as a child.
I first saw 'The Phantom of the Opera' around age 8 or 9. I was so scared at after the chandelier dropped that I sat on my dad's lap for the entire first act. He took me to see 'West Side Story' around the same time, and as we left the theatre, my dad asked me if I cried. I admitted quietly that I hadn't but that I had wanted to. It was soon after these experiences that I saw 'Les Mis' for the first time (as my other post details), and on the same trip 'Guys and Dolls'. My parents took us to as many cultural things as they could--mostly museums. But my dad often took me to see musicals; it didn't matter if it was at the high school or one of the nearby universities or up to Playhouse square--if there was a good show playing, we went to see it.
This tapered off in middle school. The last time I saw 'Les Mis' was in 8th or 9th grade. Which was the last time I went to the theatre until I college, I think. At any rate...there is something about the entire thing that I absolutely love. I was bitten by the bug as a little girl and I've had it ever since. I hope to pass it on to my children. An adoration of the stage.
There's just something magical about a solid cast and an iconic show. I appreciate the continuity with the past that only a live performance can bring. Theatre has been passed down across the ages. I relish the experience of a live performance--their energy and mine and those around me creating the ambiance, adding to the performance, shaping the experience. And this particular show for me is an old friend. Expecting every twist and turn, I soaked in the artistry and passion. I devoured every detail. I was spellbound, as I've always been with the magic of the stage.
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| After the show I got my picture taken with Mme Thenardier as part of a fundraiser for Broadway Cares. |
Curtis has agreed to take me to another show next year. I think he realizes there's no getting out of this now--two years in a row is enough to start a tradition. And while he didn't really like Les Mis (other than the part when they shot the guns), I think he appreciates the experience. Or at least that's how much he loves me. He'll endure even Les Mis for me because he knows just how much I love it. And he'll go to another show because he knows I will get all dressed up and geeked out over it. And I love that part of it just about as much as the show itself. I'm a theatre geek, that's all there is to it!
Friday, March 18, 2011
Surrounded by love, who can worry?
I'm a chronic compulsive worrier. I can't help it, so I've always claimed. It runs in my family. Like a love for peanuts and games and music and big Christmases...worrying is a family tradition. And worriers tend to wear it as a badge of honor. It's a form of martyrdom. It's a way of life we defend with passion.
Concern and worry are different. Planning and worrying are different. Being prepared and worrying are different. But the line between them is so blurry for us worriers. Most of the time I have no idea that I've crossed that line until my finger nails have all been chewed off, my shoulders are immovable with tension, and I can't sleep for the thoughts racing in my mind. Then I realize....that line I can't see, I crossed it.
I married a man who is most definitely not a worrier. Generally he doesn't know what to do with my fretting and fussing. It's a language he doesn't speak, it's a lifestyle beyond his experience. But we've talked about my worrying. Always have. Even when we were dating, he'd offer up some Bible verses, crack a joke, and with his adorable crooked smile, I'd find a breath of air to suck in. Worrying feels like suffocating. Sometimes I wonder if I've been breathing at all.
This is where I was last night. Fretting. Anxious. Turning over and over and over again my fears for the coming day. So quietly with tears stinging my eyes, wanting peace desperate, I confessed to Curtis,
This is a huge step forward for me. Usually I'll admit that I'm worried but then rattle off all the reasons why I should be. How dare someone tell me that I shouldn't be worried! But it's been sinking in and coming at me from all sides that worrying is not healthy, constructive, or godly. Ouch. Worrying is a sin. I kept thinking about that last night in the darkness. I wanted to give it over to God but I didn't know how. Honestly, how do you take your worries to Jesus without getting all the more wound up by telling Him what your worries are?
Answer...let someone else do it. I confessed to Curtis my worrying and he knew instantly what was on my mind. Rather than sighing and telling me to not worry, it's pointless so on and so forth. He told me it would all be okay and then he asked,
Hallelujah! A break through for both of us. A humble confession, a simple reply. Exactly what I needed. So he held me and prayed over me and I felt peace and deliverance. As Curtis prayed specifically for my concerns, I just kept asking Jesus to break this stronghold in my heart and mind. It's one of Satan's best guarded defenses. He's built a castle wall with archers at the ready and then dug a moat around this stronghold of worry within me. It's impenetrable for me...but not for Jesus.
I fear that Philippians 4:13 has become a bit of a cliche for me. And the problem with cliches is that we all know they're true but they've ceased to bring real meaning to our lives. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" is a true statement, packed with power and promises. But it can be all too easy to just rattle it off without letting it actually rebuke the Enemy and give me what I need--an actual lifeline to that strength. Today I learned not to just mutter the verse like a over-used mantra but to actually await the strength, to expect the help. And I got it. I was strengthened by an outpouring of His love, and when that is overflowing into my life, how can I worry? How can I let the lies and distractions get the best of me when I see the evidence of His presence in my life?
My absolute favorite scene in 'The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe' movie is when Peter and Edmund are losing the battle. It looks hopeless but then in the 11th hour, to everyone's astonishment, Aslan appears at the top of the mountain. He roars and His army of the redeemed stands in boldness and determination around Him. Having conquered death, the White Witch is nothing to Him. I cried in the theater as His roar filled the dark space...not only the theater but also in my heart. God is ready, able, and wanting to come to my defense, to roar and fill up the darkness with His power and might. (Incidently, an entirely different scene is my favorite in the book...but more on that closer to Easter).
So here I am, asking Jesus, my Aslan, to come in and defeat my White Witch of Worry. No more winter in my mind--bleak, hopeless. I've been freed from death, how much more so have I been freed from worry, depression, and anxiety?? Just as Spring spreads across Narnia with the presence of Aslan, Spring will spread across my heart and mind with the presence of Jesus.
I can't claim to be cured. Not yet. Not by a long shot. But last night and certain signs from my Deliverer this morning reassure me that I can be. This stronghold can be broken down and defeated. I can learn to plan and not fret. I can learn the difference between cares and concerns, and the downward spiral of worry. And praise the Lord for a husband that will pray for me, that will listen but not encourage the worrying, that knows just how to make me laugh, and with laughter start breathing again. God shows His love to me in a thousand ways, my husband's tenderness is one of the best. And last night, as I drifted to sleep, I felt my puppy's warm tongue on my hand and soft fur on my fingers as I drifted to sleep. Love defined in a puppy's perfectly timed kiss. Oh, how He loves me. And surrounded by love, who can worry?
Concern and worry are different. Planning and worrying are different. Being prepared and worrying are different. But the line between them is so blurry for us worriers. Most of the time I have no idea that I've crossed that line until my finger nails have all been chewed off, my shoulders are immovable with tension, and I can't sleep for the thoughts racing in my mind. Then I realize....that line I can't see, I crossed it.
I married a man who is most definitely not a worrier. Generally he doesn't know what to do with my fretting and fussing. It's a language he doesn't speak, it's a lifestyle beyond his experience. But we've talked about my worrying. Always have. Even when we were dating, he'd offer up some Bible verses, crack a joke, and with his adorable crooked smile, I'd find a breath of air to suck in. Worrying feels like suffocating. Sometimes I wonder if I've been breathing at all.
This is where I was last night. Fretting. Anxious. Turning over and over and over again my fears for the coming day. So quietly with tears stinging my eyes, wanting peace desperate, I confessed to Curtis,
"I'm worried...but I don't want to be."
This is a huge step forward for me. Usually I'll admit that I'm worried but then rattle off all the reasons why I should be. How dare someone tell me that I shouldn't be worried! But it's been sinking in and coming at me from all sides that worrying is not healthy, constructive, or godly. Ouch. Worrying is a sin. I kept thinking about that last night in the darkness. I wanted to give it over to God but I didn't know how. Honestly, how do you take your worries to Jesus without getting all the more wound up by telling Him what your worries are?
Answer...let someone else do it. I confessed to Curtis my worrying and he knew instantly what was on my mind. Rather than sighing and telling me to not worry, it's pointless so on and so forth. He told me it would all be okay and then he asked,
"Do you want me to pray for you?"
Hallelujah! A break through for both of us. A humble confession, a simple reply. Exactly what I needed. So he held me and prayed over me and I felt peace and deliverance. As Curtis prayed specifically for my concerns, I just kept asking Jesus to break this stronghold in my heart and mind. It's one of Satan's best guarded defenses. He's built a castle wall with archers at the ready and then dug a moat around this stronghold of worry within me. It's impenetrable for me...but not for Jesus.
I fear that Philippians 4:13 has become a bit of a cliche for me. And the problem with cliches is that we all know they're true but they've ceased to bring real meaning to our lives. "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" is a true statement, packed with power and promises. But it can be all too easy to just rattle it off without letting it actually rebuke the Enemy and give me what I need--an actual lifeline to that strength. Today I learned not to just mutter the verse like a over-used mantra but to actually await the strength, to expect the help. And I got it. I was strengthened by an outpouring of His love, and when that is overflowing into my life, how can I worry? How can I let the lies and distractions get the best of me when I see the evidence of His presence in my life?
My absolute favorite scene in 'The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe' movie is when Peter and Edmund are losing the battle. It looks hopeless but then in the 11th hour, to everyone's astonishment, Aslan appears at the top of the mountain. He roars and His army of the redeemed stands in boldness and determination around Him. Having conquered death, the White Witch is nothing to Him. I cried in the theater as His roar filled the dark space...not only the theater but also in my heart. God is ready, able, and wanting to come to my defense, to roar and fill up the darkness with His power and might. (Incidently, an entirely different scene is my favorite in the book...but more on that closer to Easter).
So here I am, asking Jesus, my Aslan, to come in and defeat my White Witch of Worry. No more winter in my mind--bleak, hopeless. I've been freed from death, how much more so have I been freed from worry, depression, and anxiety?? Just as Spring spreads across Narnia with the presence of Aslan, Spring will spread across my heart and mind with the presence of Jesus.
I can't claim to be cured. Not yet. Not by a long shot. But last night and certain signs from my Deliverer this morning reassure me that I can be. This stronghold can be broken down and defeated. I can learn to plan and not fret. I can learn the difference between cares and concerns, and the downward spiral of worry. And praise the Lord for a husband that will pray for me, that will listen but not encourage the worrying, that knows just how to make me laugh, and with laughter start breathing again. God shows His love to me in a thousand ways, my husband's tenderness is one of the best. And last night, as I drifted to sleep, I felt my puppy's warm tongue on my hand and soft fur on my fingers as I drifted to sleep. Love defined in a puppy's perfectly timed kiss. Oh, how He loves me. And surrounded by love, who can worry?
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