Playlist of Promises

So my computer crashed a couple weeks ago and part of the collateral damage was my iTunes being wiped out. I managed to get almost all of it back on using my iPod but my playlists couldn't be recovered. I'm still mourning the loss. I had some good playlists. I love making playlists. Taking songs from different albums, artists, and genres and mixing them together for just the right feeling. Playlists for singing, for dancing, for dreaming, for writing, for cleaning (yup, I had a cleaning playlist), for quiet time, for celebrating. I had playlists I created for other people--my mom and my niece, specifically. And I had started one for my son. And they were all gone, wiped away as if they never existed. I'd like to take a moment of silence in remembrance of my beloved playlists.

*cricket, cricket*

Okay, now that the melodramatics are out of the way...

I created a new playlist last night. Not one for singing or dancing or cleaning. I went through all of my songs, which is several days worth of music, and selected about 2 hours worth of music for my son. There's plenty more I want to add. In fact, I realized I'll have to make several playlists just for him. A playlist for dreaming, a playlist for playing/singing, and a playlist for dancing. And a playlist of promises.

My music is varied, I have a wide range of taste and interests. I suppose not as wide as others. There is a definite void in the rap and R&B department, and very little country, and none of heavy metal/hard rock. My music is a little heavy in the musical theater and oldies departments, featuring a lot of American songbook, the Beatles, and the Rat Pack. I've got a strong selection of indy/acoustic/whatever genre you put Dave Matthews and Coldplay in (stoner music?? although, I have never in my life been stoned or even close to it). What this means for my son is that he'll be exposed to all kinds of music from a very young age. In fact, he's already heard quite a range. He even heard me hit my old friend the high C the other day whilst singing along with Michael Ball. Shiloh used to howl...but the baby didn't kick me so maybe he didn't mind.

Anyway...I've gotten off track. This happens when I talk about my music. It's one of my passions. Like my books. I just can't help but get all rambly and distracted. I'll try to stay focused.

Promises. Within all my days worth of music are a handful of songs that I've always imagined singing to my little one. Not lullabies (although there are plenty of those) but promises. Things I want them to know, things I intend them to feel, things I hope they believe in and trust. Kids need to have a foundation of promises from their parents, a place of stability and security to grow on. And these songs, I guess, give me a jumping off point, a place to start.

"Not While I'm Around", I assume, is from a musical. I don't know. I have it on an album by Michael Ball (the original Marius in LesMis and one of the most emotive, incredible tenors to ever exist). The song assures that 'no one's gonna harm you, not while I'm around' and that 'others may desert you, give a whistle, I'll be there'. No matter how scary the world may get, how many let-downs a child may face, they can know that I will always be there, they will never be alone, 'not while I'm around'.

"I Couldn't Love You More" is from Matt Hammit's (of Sanctus Real) solo album. The song explains that while I as a parent couldn't possibly love my son any more than I already do that Jesus does. Jesus loves him even more than me. It's one of those songs that gets me all weepy and emotional, and something I very much want my son to have confidence in throughout his entire life.

"Come What May", yes the same "Come What May" from Moulin Rouge. Except that I have a version by Alfie Boe (Jean ValJean in the 25th Anniversary LesMis, and another one of the most incredible tenors to ever exist...but a much more controlled style than Michael Ball). Admittedly, I never thought of this as a song for a baby until I was pregnant and heard it. I hadn't heard this song in years, at least five or six years, but it's on the first Alfie Boe cd that I bought. I was already about 4 months pregnant when I listened to this version and all I could think of is that it seemed to describe so well how I felt about my baby. 'Seasons may change, winter to spring'...'storm clouds may gather and storms may collide'...'but I love you, until my dying day, come what may'. My favorite line from the song is in the first verse: 'listen to my heart, can you hear it sing? Telling me to give you everything.' It reminds me of a quote I saw on Pinterest (addiction!) which reads 'Only you know how deep my love for you is because you're the only one who has heard my heartbeat from the inside.' I'm amazed when I consider all that my son is hearing as he's continue to develop inside of me, and knowing that he hears my heart beating is just incredible. So cool. 


There's a few other songs..."I'll Stand By You" (The Glee version, I have to admit...even though I don't watch it anymore)..."This Little Light Of Mine" by Addison Road..."All of Me" by Matt Hammit (which if you've read any of my other baby posts, you know that I love that song)..."Believe" by Josh Groban (our first wedding dance song, incidentally)..."When You Wish Upon A Star"..."In My Life" by the Beatles...These songs are all promises of how I feel and what I want for my son. I can't promise him a life without trouble, pain, fear or sadness. Those are all part of the human condition and things he will have to experience in order to really know happiness, security, love, friendship, and joy. But I can promise him my love, no matter what. I can promise him that God loves him, no matter what. These are hugely significant promises. 


So as I'm trying to piece back together the shattered fragments of my crashed iTunes these new playlists are emerging. It's easy to see how my priorities have changed. I'm sure I will eventually re-create a playlist just for car dancing...but only after I've taken the time to create these playlists for my son. Songs for us to sing and dance to together and songs for us to dream together, he with his eyes closed and me with my eyes opened. 

Snips & Snails & Puppy Dog Tails

We found out what we're having, despite many people who I am sure were well-intentioned telling us not to. I wanted to know. There was part of me that needed to know. And I think Curtis is the same way. We want to be able to prepare for our child. I realize that practically speaking you can prepare without knowing--a crib is a crib, a changing table is a changing table, diapers are diapers. But we want to do more than that.

So yesterday at my 20 week ultrasound we found out that we're having a boy. A son. I've written before about the song 'All of Me' by Matt Hammitt. The ultrasound technician always plays K-LOVE, which I find comforting. There were many times during the infertility when I'd be so nervous to look at the screen and see only tiny eggs, ones that would never release, and the comforting words of God would be surrounding me in music. Yesterday when I laid back on the table and she started the ultrasound 'All of Me' came on. It was playing as she told us we are right--we were in fact having a boy. And the profundity of the moment was so over-whelming. A boy, this long hoped for child is a son to carry on my husband's name and his legacy. And it was the perfect song to be playing as the soundtrack for this moment. This child does have all of me, I promised him that months ago. I promised him that I wouldn't hold back my heart, even in moments of fear when I am tempted to. And this little boy, still growing and getting strong, already has me in his grips. His daddy, too. He's such a miracle.

Our doctor's office has the 4D technology which gave us a real life view of what he's up to in there. With the new imagery we could see our son not only in flat black & white but in 3D moving around and waving his arms. He already has his father's nose and as he stubbornly refused to turn his head for a profile shot we know he has the Berry stubborness (his father's words, not mine, I promise you...although Halseys have been known to be stubborn, too.).  He has sturdy limbs and big feet, again like his daddy. His heartbeats perfectly. It's too early to tell if he will have HCM like his dad, but right now his heart is brand new and perfect. And if it turns out he does have HCM, I think that stubborness will become tenacity to deal with it like his dad. I don't know yet what he has from me...maybe my eyes. Curtis wants our children to have green eyes like me and not brown like him. I hope that he will love music and books like me.

But more than anything, I want him to be himself. I know we'll be able to pick out the bits and pieces from each of us. But a child isn't just a composite of his parents. A child is his own being, created by God to be his own self. I pray I give him the space to find out who that is, even with all the dreams I have for him already forming in my heart. I hope that we teach him to be kind, honorable, and generous. I hope that we teach him to be ambitious and competitive, but in healthy measures. A boy will be a boy, and I hope I'm prepared to deal with that. I know what to do with sugar and spice and everything nice but snips and snails and puppy dog tails are a mystery to me. I want to help instruct my little boy in becoming a man of God--a man the way God designed him to be, not a man the way the world wants him to be.

But for now he's still growing inside of me, getting bigger and stronger and ready for life outside. I think he's amazing. He takes my breath away before he's had his first breath. How can people see such miracles and not believe in a divine creator? I don't understand. All I can see when I look at my son, when I feel my belly expanding to give him room to grow, is God's fingerprints all over us. All over me, all over Curtis, and all over this son we share. He's a miracle and I love him so much already.

Those Two Little Pink Lines

September 2nd...it was a Friday morning...I was just about a week overdue, if you know what I mean. And I'd thought about taking one of those dastardly pregnancy tests but frankly I'd seen too many negative results to really stomach another one. I had considered asking God for a sign, like a dream, but then I decided that every time in my life I'd tried to rely on signs that it never worked. I'm far too good at tricking signs into appearing where God never intended them to be.

But I had a dream. It was exactly what I'd almost asked for. God has a sense of humor.

So a couple days later I decided to just take the stupid test and get all the disappointment over with for the month. The sooner I had an answer the sooner I could move on. I dipped the stick and set the timer for 3 minutes and walked away. When I came back, holding my breath...I couldn't believe my eyes. Two lines.

So I asked Curtis, who was busy making me breakfast, how many lines he thought their were. He told me two, and we just looked at each other stunned.

Now...don't get me wrong...I was excited. I was thankful, I was praising God in my heart somewhere. But mostly I suddenly and thoroughly felt gripped with fear. I don't think I've ever experienced fear quite like that before in my life. As we told our closest friends and family members and they all celebrated, I felt a little numb. Grateful but numb.

This lasted several days until I finally gave way to my emotions. In the shower (I seem to do a lot of emoting in the shower, actually) I broke down and I sobbed. It's been years since I cried like that. And I told God, don't get me wrong, I'm amazed at what you've done here, and I so want to glorify you but there's this huge BUT in my way. BUT what if you take the baby back? BUT what if something happens? BUT what if this breaks my heart and I'm worse off than before?

I've had two fears all my life. 1) That I wouldn't be able to have children and 2) That even if I could get pregnant that I wouldn't be able to stay pregnant. There's plenty of familial evidence to support both fears; these are not ungrounded. Clearly fear number one was well-founded, but once that was shoved out of the way it was time for fear number two to take over.

God heard the cries of my heart and instead of taking them as a sign of disbelief in His power, He took them as an opportunity to love on me so much and restore my trust in His goodness. I can only imagine the tenderness in His eyes as He looked on His daughter so afraid and uncertain. God is so good.

The following Sunday was September 11th which proved to be highly emotional for a lot of people. There was a big altar call and I felt the tug to come forward. I knew what it was that I had to lay there on the altar of the Lord.  I knelt at our altar, face to face with the Almighty, and I knew that the only way to conquer the fear of losing my baby was to give my baby to God willingly. So I did. I figuratively but very truly placed this little life that I've wanted for so long on the altar, much like Abraham putting his beloved son Isaac on the altar all those thousands of years ago. I told God, and meant it, that no matter what He chose to do with that little life that I would praise Him anyway. That I would still insist in His goodness, even in my pain. I didn't promise that I wouldn't be angry or devastated, but that I would still see His goodness and mercy.

We came home from church, planning on a lazy afternoon with the dogs before youth group started. But we found Shiloh, sick, actually dying we would later find out. As Shiloh's situation went from bad to worse to hopeless in just a few short hours I remember thinking, crying out, that I'd just given God my baby, why was He taking my dog, my best friend, my ruff? I don't know. Maybe Shiloh was that sacrificial lamb that God provided Abraham with so he wouldn't have to give up Isaac. Maybe I had to give up something. Or maybe it was just Shiloh's time to leave us. I'll never know for sure.

A few days later I was driving from my office where I work in the morning to the library to grab a few books before heading out to the school where I work in the afternoon. I'd wanted to hear Gungor's song 'Beautiful Things' ever since I saw those two pink lines (more on that in this post ). But I hadn't. Until that day. And as I drove to the library the song came on KLOVE and I praised God, both in song and for the song. But God never does a little when He could do a lot. I came out of the library, started driving toward the school and Matt Hammit's new song 'All of Me' came on the radio.

He's the lead singer of Sanctus Real and we'd seen them in concert about a month before. Matt performed this song that he'd written about his baby boy Bowen who was born with only half a heart. The song is about the moment when Matt realized that giving his baby only half his heart, half his love, in an attempt to save himself from loss and pain wouldn't help anything. The only choice was to recklessly love him, no matter the ultimate pain or cost.

So here I am, driving down the road with tears just streaming down my cheeks. Confronted face to face with myself in music. Which is truly more important--guarding myself from potential pain or falling completely in love with this little miracle? Which would God have me do? One meant living in that horrible grip of fear, going back and forth from the altar, giving up my baby and then snatching 'him' back. The other meant living in a joyful celebration, not ignorant of the danger, but not crippled by its threat. That song has become my anthem, my chorus, my motto. I want to embrace every moment of this journey because I can't have it back or do it over. And if it all comes crashing down on me...God is still good. He will still give me air to breathe and command my lungs to suck it in, even if that's all I can do.

It's been about a month now since all this has taken place. We've had our first appointment and ultrasound. We got to see 'his' little hands and feet, complete with ten toes! We think we're having a boy, that's the general consensus among family and friends, too. There's just something about those pictures that says 'boy'. But we'll be thrilled and overjoyed no matter what. We are already thrilled. The morning sickness (which is really all-day sickness...what a ridiculous misnomer) and fatigue have been a struggle. I'm already in maternity pants...I don't quite have a belly but I'm getting bigger all the time. But I refuse to complain about weight gain or outgrowing my clothes. Or any of it really. I've wanted this for far too long to spend nine months whining about how awful it is. I can't do much for my baby yet, take vitamins, rest and eat, but I can endure the symptoms with a joyful heart..perhaps a merry heart...and in that way already love, nurture, and cherish my little one.

God is good. He is the God of impossibilities. He takes what cannot be done and makes it do-able. He took my broken body and barren womb and filled it with life. He took my fearful, fretful heart and filled it with love and joy. Only God can do these things.

If you haven't heard 'All of Me' I've provided a music video here on this post. It is such a beautiful song for any parent. I'm learning more every day how being a parent will change everything...require me to love far more than I ever have and give more than I ever knew I could. And its worth it all. Just like the song so beautifully says.

A Million Little Stories

I feel over-whelmed by the number of people that read my post about Shiloh. Or at least how many times it was looked at, I have no way of knowing how many individual people it is. I guess the premise presented in 'Marley & Me' is true--there's just something about animals that brings out the best in us and that brings us together. Although...I can guarantee you, I won't be watching 'Marley & Me' for a long time...or 'Where the Red Fern Grows'....or 'Homeward Bound'....or anything with a dog in it.

Some of you may know that I've been toying with the idea of writing a children's series of books about Shiloh for a few years now. I had to create a picture book for a class I took in college, and the obvious choice for me was to make Shiloh the main character. It was a big hit--100% for a grade and enthusiasm from the class. I've come up with a few ideas and fiddled around with plots, but I could never get anything the way I wanted it. And I never did find an illustrator...I can't draw worth beans.

The original idea was to have Shiloh and Piper be main characters, as they were in the original story. But Piper died from lymphoma this spring, and now Shiloh is gone due to cancer (we think of the spleen...stupid spleen). For those of you that don't know, Piper is my brother's beagle. Adam and Melanie adopted Piper just a few months after we adopted Shiloh, she was about 4 months younger than him. For a short while Adam lived with Curtis so we had two dogs and two guys smushed in a tiny apartment in Bowling Green. But Shiloh and Piper loved playing together. Their first Christmas was a hilarity. We were all at my mom's house and watched them run back and forth across the house over and over and over again. They were running so hard on their little puppy legs that they actually shifted the rug my mom's dining room table was on. They were so small then that they both fit into a little green doggy bed.

Anyway...I digress...the original story was illustrated with photos cut out and glued onto fabric or paper backgrounds. Like I said, I can't draw worth beans...so I used felt and fabric scraps to make the backgrounds, and cut out pictures of Piper and Shiloh to go into the scenes. The children in the story were pictures of my brother and I when we were little. I always liked the idea of having their world be animated but the dogs be photos. Now...even with probably close to 1,000 pictures of Shiloh...I know I'd never have enough shots to tell the stories.

But for some reason I really want to get back to writing the Shiloh stories. I think I want to pay tribute to him somehow. There's a million little stories to tell...like the Christmas one above, or how he always tried to jump out of the bathtub, or how when he was a puppy he wiggled up to sit behind my head, perched on my shoulders. I always wanted to write a story about his accident and his bad leg, and how although it slowed him down he wasn't really all that different from other dogs. He did so many funny little things that I think I want to capture more permanently than in my memory which will eventually go fuzzy.

I don't know that anyone would ever publish it but even if its just for me and my family, its enough to remember him. I look at the little grave we made for him and I think to myself, its just not enough. I realize it makes no difference to him, it never would have, he was a dog that never thought much of books. But he gave me so much in his short life. I didn't know that he was sick, dying really, so I didn't get to spoil him in his last few weeks. I regret that so much, even though I know there's no way I could've known. The symptoms didn't present until it was way past too late. But I can do this now. I can do this for him, for me, for Curtis. I can remember and I can write.

I'm going to try to not be overly depressing and dwell on him in the next few days and weeks. But it's hard. I didn't sleep well last night. I think night two and day two are proving harder than the first. It's sinking in and Bode's starting to figure things out. If by nothing else than watching me cry all the time, bless his furry heart. I started crying this morning when I didn't have to put food in two bowls and Bode came up to me. His ears were down which is normal for a dog that is worried/scared, but then he popped them straight up and looked right in my eyes like he was ready to listen. So I do what we all do with dogs and poured my heart out to him, and what did he do? He put his paw on my leg and leaned up to lick my face. Just what Shiloh used to do. And Bode has never acted this way before. He never reacted to my being upset until now. I guess Shiloh had time to teach Bode a thing or two about taking care of his people before he had to leave us.

Okay,  not being very successful at not being depressing...sorry about that. I'll have more to write as I process through things. I've learned a lot about God through this, in a way. I'm not quite ready to share that story but I will soon. I'm still working it all out with Him and there's more to it than Shiloh.

Anyway...for each of you that read my post about Shiloh and have reached out to comfort me from across the web...thank you. I've treasured each word and felt it as a warm hug. I know some of you aren't even dog lovers but you know how much I adored him, so thank you.

   

When we adopted Shiloh we were very young and hadn't been dating long. He became the glue for our lives. I used to say that we were like macaroni & cheese...I was the macaroni, Curtis was the cheese, and Shiloh was the milk...the thing that made it all work and come together. Shiloh hated fighting and loud voices, so he stopped several arguments by hiding behind the couch. Whatever we were upset about wasn't worth upsetting the dog. He made us laugh all the time, and not a day went by that we didn't get a smile because of him.

Everywhere we took Shiloh people told us he looked like Lassie, and then asked about his leg. The kids at my program fell in love with him through the stories I told. One year for Halloween I dressed up as Shiloh, which the kids absolutely loved. Shiloh seemed to think it was a little strange.

I know that he had a good life, but his life was hard in its own way. We spoiled him rotten, he probably had over a hundred toys. Shiloh got lots of treats, and was allowed on all the furniture (he even had his own chair or two...or three), and we both encouraged him to get on the bed with us in the morning. But his leg made life hard, and his food allergies exacerbated the pain. He had a sensitive stomach so we cleaned up a lot of messed and he felt lousy often. But he was loved.

Everyone that met Shiloh loved him. Little kids, old people, he was just gentle and loving. He loved to play, even with his bad leg. There was nothing he loved more than chasing his basketball around the yard or following Curtis on the lawnmower, barking at it at full volume. Unless it was riding in cars.

He did perk up on the car ride today to the vet. He tried to look out windows and climb up front like his normal self. I wish now that I had taken him on a lot more car rides and given him a lot more treats, and spent more time scratching his belly. But the fact is, we loved him to bits and pieces, and he knew it. What else could we have done? Nothing.

We acted as soon as we knew he was sick. It was just too late, and there's nothing more we could've done or should've done. There will always be a void in my heart, a little furry spot just for him. It won't be the same not hearing his skipping step across our floor to great me, or to get his stinky breath kisses in the morning. I'll miss his ruffing at everything that drove by our house.

I know that some people think its silly or even sacrilegious to say that dogs go to heaven, but I think they do. God made Shiloh. God saved his leg. God took him home today. I don't know why we didn't have more time with him, why we didn't know about the cancer sooner and could've done something, but we didn't. But he's in heaven now, on four good legs, chasing Piper around and around.

I learned a lot from that furry little guy. About myself, about life, about caring for another creature. I am a better person for having raised Shiloh. He taught me about forgiveness and adventure and enjoying the small things. He could take a boring car ride into town and make it into a major event. I don't know how many times I would feel alone and unworthy of God' love when Shiloh would come in and lay his head on my lap, or nudge my hand. He had an uncanny way of knowing when I needed a good cry and some thick fur.

Dogs do this to us. They come scampering into our lives and steal our hearts. They look at us with those loving, loyal brown eyes and sucker us in. But dogs can't live forever, not even the ones that survive getting hit by cars. In this fallen world of broken hearts we lose everything we love eventually. It's a depressing fact but one that turns us to eternity. The only thing that never fades and never changes. In his own furry way, Shiloh pointed me to God's goodness, mercy, and love over and over. Maybe some people think I'm crazy, but I believe God isn't limited and doesn't think using a dog to communicate His meanings to us is beneath Him.

Shiloh Aslan Berry was a good boy who loved riding in cars, taking naps on Sunday afternoons, drinking cereal milk, and barking at the lawn mower. His favorite toys were stuffed animals, most notably a teddy bear named Opus he'd had since the day we brought him home. Shiloh was known to sit at the table like a person from time to time, and saw no reason why he shouldn't drink from a glass or eat from a plate. His favorite milkshake flavor was strawberry and frosty paws flavor was peanut butter. There was only one other dog he really liked playing with, and a few others he tolerated. Shiloh thought he was the boss and that the world started with his birth and would end with his death. I'll miss him forever but I believe someday, when I get to go home, he'll be there waiting for me. Wait for me, Ruff.

Diving Into Fearlessness

Lucy Van Pelt: Are you afraid of responsibility? If you are, then you have hypengyophobia.
Charlie Brown: I don't think that's quite it.
Lucy Van Pelt: How about cats? If you're afraid of cats, you have ailurophasia.
Charlie Brown: Well, sort of, but I'm not sure.
Lucy Van Pelt: Are you afraid of staircases? If you are, then you have climacaphobia. Maybe you have thalassophobia. This is fear of the ocean, or gephyrobia, which is the fear of crossing bridges. Or maybe you have pantophobia. Do you think you have pantophobia?
Charlie Brown: What's pantophobia?
Lucy Van Pelt: The fear of everything.
Charlie Brown: THAT'S IT!

It's interesting to me how fears become phobias and then they become debilitating. I'm not one of those Howard Hughes reclusive types completely crippled by fears but I find that my phobias get in the way. Or at least provide a handy excuse for trying new things and getting out of my comfort zone.

I have a pretty strong fear of heights but it materializes in strange ways. Put me on the observation deck at the Empire State Building or Sears Tower, and I'm completely fine. I enjoy it, even. Put me on the top row of bleachers at a football game or basketball game and I'm a basket case. I somehow developed this pathological fear of tripping on the bleachers (because I'm clumsy) and somehow falling through the gap to my death, or at least paralyization. (Side note: Is paraylization a word??) Roller coasters are evil--I get all pale, clammy, and shaky when I ride even the smallest ones. And diving boards just seem completely insane. I think this is because the Natatorium had a high dive and it seemed sooooo high when I was a kid. In fact, while most kids loved the Nat I eventually started not liking it so much. I got too over-whelmed by all the kids and noise and not being able to keep up.

Maybe that's the root of it all. Not being quite adequate, not being as brave, as fearless, as capable. I'm a klutz so falling down bleachers is a complete possibility, and as a child that would be scary. I wasn't (and still am not) a very strong swimmer, I can swim but I'm not very good at it, so diving boards would be very scary, the water is so deep. Roller coasters look scary, and people are always screaming, and what if my seat belt came off?

What ifs and perceived (or even real) inadequacies. The perfect equation for fears to become phobias and then debilitating. I have fears of conflict, fears of success, fears of failure, fears of imperfection, fears of being noticed, and fears of being unimportant. I think if we all admit it, we're all a little prone to fear. Sometimes fear is healthy, it keeps us safe. It is good to fear the hungry, angry bear we meet in the woods. It is bad to fear standing up for yourself, or taking a chance, or trying something new.

Lately I've been feeling trapped. Trapped by my circumstances and trapped by the fear of changing them. Better the devil you do know than the one you don't. And I just keep thinking about these words the Apostle John wrote, the Apostle of Love: There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. (1 John 4:18) Or the way The Message puts it: There is no room in love for fear. Well-formed love banishes fear. Since fear is crippling, a fearful life—fear of death, fear of judgment—is one not yet fully formed in love.

There is no fear in love, love banishes fear. Time for another Biblical theorem: If God is Love, and there is no fear in Love, and if God/Love is for us, nothing can stand against us. Thus, there is nothing to fear. 

Because all of the things I listed, and anything you can think of, any of your personal phobias, are meaningless in the face of Love. The greatest thing to fear is Judgment Day and eternal separation from God/Love. That fear has already been banished. Jesus paid the price, He stands in my place, even when I still have fear and still do wrong. His Love has eliminated the power and reality of that fear. So what else is worth fearing?

Today I faced one of my fears. A little diddly one but still a fear. We take my students swimming every Friday in the summer time. I normally avoid getting in the pool, unless it's about a hundred degrees. Today the water was cold from the rain last night and I was trying my darnedest to not get in. My students were splashing me (ah-hem, irritating me) and then another supervisor (and friend) decided to join them by doing an enormous cannonball right in front of me. I was drenched. And shivering. So the only logical thing to do was to get in the stupid pool. Then I started thinking...this is the last swim day, and that diving board doesn't look so high, and the kids would be so excited. And no joke, I thought back to this episode of The Biggest Loser when all the contestants had to jump off the highest building in Australia. And I envied their chance to face their fears. Well, here I had one. A little fear but something that had kept me from trying  it all my life. So I got in line with three of my students and they gave me pep talks the whole way. One said he'd jump in the shallower part at the same time I jumped off the board. So with all their little faces cheering me on, I held my breath and took the plunge. It was cold and deep, and I'm sure I didn't have good form swimming back to the rope, but it felt good to do it. They were so proud of me and while it seems silly, and maybe even is, I was proud of myself.

Sometimes we have to start small. Throw off the little things holding us back before we can take on the big ones. Thankfully, graciously the greatest one has been conquered. Eternity is now on our side, for those who Believe. So, with that in mind, what shall I fear? Nothing.

I'm divin' in, I'm goin' deep
In over my head I wanna be
Caught in the rush, lost in the flow
In over my head I want to go
The river's deep, the river's wide
The river's water is alive
So sink or swim, I'm divin' in
("Dive" by Steven Curtis Chapman)

The Future Hopes of a Silk Ribbon Quilt

I love my new background. I chose it on the Fourth of July, when I wrote my last post, because it looked fresh, summery, and inviting. There's just something about old, careworn quilts that I love, especially quilts with stories. My family doesn't seem to be too big into quilting, but someday I will inherit a very old quilt made from silk ribbons. I hope I have this story right...(Mom, let me know if it's not!)

My great-grandmother lived next to a cemetery and in those days the ribbons were made from real silk, instead of the plastic stuff they're made of now. After a time the cemetery caretaker would take down the wreaths, and offer the ribbons to her. Mamie would take them and hand-stitch them into beautiful, soft silky blankets. One particular quilt she pinned a note to explaining that it was for her first great-grandchild. She died when my mother was just a child so this blanket was made with hopes for the future in the belief that the family tree would keep on going. My great-grandmother probably figured it would be a child of my aunt's, being the oldest, but it was my brother Adam in 1980 that was the fulfillment of her future hope.

It seems that families and quilts go hand-in-hand. Patches of clothes and bits of fabric, silk ribbons saved from the cemetery, stories in every piece, love in every stitch, plans and intentions for warmth and love to continue on.

And I think of my family as a patchwork quilt, sometimes a crazy quilt. I have a hard time defining my family. If you asked me about them I'd have to ask you 'which one?' With Mom and Dad being divorced I've got step-parents, step-siblings, even step-nephews in the mix now. Of course I have my brother, his wonderful wife, and his precious baby girl to count. I've got family on my mom's side, and family on my dad's side. I consider my in-laws to be my family giving me two more brothers, another sister-in-law, a niece, and a nephew, as well as many aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents. And of course, there's my very own nuclear family: Curtis, Shiloh, Bode, and even Simon the Cat. We're a small family, and very furry, but we're a family all the same.

If I could turn my family into a quilt it would be colorful, vibrant, with many patterns and styles. My mom would be represented by soft pastel flowers, her sister by bright bold colors, my baby niece with little pink teddy bears, my 4 year old nephew with John Deere, my PapPap with corduroy sturdy and warm, my Grandpa with something red, white, and blue for his time in the Navy.

The pieces of a quilt don't all have to match or go together. By arranging them just right a mish-mash of fabrics can turn into a beautiful piece of art and love. The pieces of my family quilt don't all match or go together, but they're arranged just right, by God, in my life. When I finally abandoned the idea that a family is defined by only one certain set of criteria and simply let God shape and mold my family, or families, I was given a beautiful gift. A crazy quilt hand-stitched by the Ultimate Creator. He choose each person with care and placed them just right in my life, and I was placed just right in theirs.  Some of the edges are frayed and the pieces might not be quite square, but it's a masterpiece all the same.

Some people think that divorce means broken homes and broken families. And sometimes it does. I see a lot of that with students at my school. But in my case...God took all of us torn fragments, added some fresh new pieces (the next generation of my nieces and nephews) and made something whole out of it. My family might not look like the ones on TV, or like the people in the next pew at church. But my family is mine, patches and all. And like a warm cozy quilt stitched up with love, I appreciate it and value it very much.

Someday I will be able to pass on one of Mamie's silk ribbon quilts to the next generation, and my intention and my prayer is that something far greater goes along with it. I want the fibers of a family to be sewn up into my future little ones and my nieces and nephews--faith, love, acceptance, forgiveness, graciousness. These core values, the fibers of a family, is what brought all the pieces of my 'family quilt' together and what keeps us together. And its that family quilt, the one that isn't tangible, that is the real legacy.

In The Story of Our Lives Together

In the Story of Our Lives Together I want the theme to be love expressed through friendship, grace, and forgiveness. I want the next generation, our own someday children and our nieces and nephews, to read in us not a story of pride but a story of humility.

It's hard when differences and disagreements arise. I'm not surprised by their presence in our marriage. Every married couple has differences which lead to disagreements. And what story doesn't have a conflict? Especially a story unfolding across a lifetime together? There will be conflicts, hurt feelings, and frustration. What matters is how we handle it, and in this I can only take my part. I can't decide for Curtis what he needs to do any more than I could make him do it. I can only be responsible for the wife's part. My part.

I'm learning that what God wants me to do is to humble myself, submit to my husband, to not let things get blown out of proportion. I have an obsessive compulsive streak that makes it very hard for me to forfeit control. I want to dictate the best way to do things, instead of simply allowing my husband to do things his way. I find myself getting absurdly frustrated over small things just because it isn't the way I thought it would be or should be done.

The easy thing to do is to make a snarky comment, or a 'simple' suggestion, or to fly off the handle. That takes no effort at all. The harder thing, the right thing, is to remind myself that in the entire story of our lives this moment will be a single line unless I make it something more. It's up to me. I can decided if three chapters get dedicated to the way dishes should be done, or if its simply omitted all together.

If I want our story to be about graciousness and submitting ourselves to one another, then it must start with me. I must learn to pull back, to smother my pride, to laugh at the small things, to choose my words carefully, to let very few disagreements become battles, and let nothing become a war. I must align myself with God, listening carefully to the Spirit, obeying His commands, even if I don't want to or if it's hard.

Then and only then will the story being written be about love.

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.

My Furry Little Ones

Bode woke me up relatively early this morning when all I wanted, perhaps needed, was to sleep in. He must think this motherhood thing is gonna happen soon because he is all kinds of enthusiastic about getting me ready. So this got me thinking about raising my little furry guys, everything I've learned, everything they've learned, everything Curtis and I have learned together...

Curtis and I adopted Shiloh while we were still dating just because we both are crazy about dogs. We learned a lot about what it means to care for and be responsible for another living thing. We had to teach him right from wrong, his name, words, potty train him. Shiloh is a high maintenance dog. As a puppy he'd chew his paws until they were swollen and bleeding. We discovered it was a mixture of anxiety and allergies. He has to eat hypoallergenic dog food (lamb & rice only!) and we try to make sure he's not over-stimulated in stressful situations.

When he was hit by a pick-up truck, only a year and a half old, I moved back from Cuyahoga Falls (where I was living before the wedding) to Bowling Green to take care of him. I slept on the floor for several months so he wouldn't be alone and in case he needed anything in the night. Shiloh can't talk, obviously, and even the ways dogs normally communicate were taken away from him. Because he couldn't walk and was heavily medicated, he had no way of telling me if he was in pain, hungry, thirsty, or needed to go out. I had to spoon feed him oatmeal and other warm people food, per the doctor's instructions. I learned to change his bandages so we could stop going to the vet literally every other day. Our vet would stock us up with wraps so we'd only have to come in once a week. Curtis and I had to decide when he was ready to start walking around the house, going up stairs, going down stairs (we carried him up & down stairs and outside for months), jumping into cars, jumping out of cars (we still pick him up and set him down in tall cars like our SUV), playing with us, playing with other dogs, going for walks. We have to watch him carefully to see that he's not over-using his paw, especially when his allergies flare up like they did this spring. Almost every month we have to get out his 'first aid kit' and doctor up at least one of his feet due to his allergies, or his 'bad paw' due to over-use.

Bode is just a puppy still and he has so much to learn. We adopted him from a rescue group that had him in a foster home. In his foster home there were several dogs but he wasn't allowed to play with them and he wasn't taught anything other than sit. He didn't even know his original name (Fritz). The people were very, very kind and loving--don't get me wrong--but he learned nothing with them. They found him wandering around, alone, at about four weeks old. He should've still been with his mother, learning how to be a dog from her. Bode needs to be socialized because he doesn't know how to be around dogs. He can't read their signals and that's not something we can teach him, being human. He should've learned it from his mama, but no one knows what happened to her or if he had brothers or sisters.

We're trying to teach him things, and he has come along way. Bode is extremely sensitive. We always thought Shiloh was because he'd get mad at us when he was punished. Literally. We'd put Shiloh outside after an accident and he would refuse to look at us because he was mad. Bode, on the other paw, is terrified when he gets in trouble. We learned quickly not to raise our voices or react with lots of emotions/gestures after an accident because it would only cause another accident. We've had to go about training him in an entirely different way than we did Shiloh. In many ways, we're still learning just like he is.

Bode is extremely affectionate and loving. He likes it when I hold him like a baby--either cradled in my arms or resting on my hip with his paws around my neck. He's content to just be cuddled. In many ways, Bode and I needed each other. He needed a home and a mama, and I needed something to nurture, love, and mother. When I hold him on my hips I often laugh and tell people, "well, we prayed for a baby, I guess we need to be more specific next time!"

I realize my dogs are nothing really like babies, and that parenting a dog is nothing like parenting a child. But they are my babies and they always will be. Babies grow up, go through new phases, become children, become teenagers, become adults. My dogs will always be dogs. Bode will mature some, but I don't expect him to ever be like Shiloh. The getting up early, cleaning up messes, breaking up doggy arguments, picking up toys, giving them baths will only stop when they're gone from this world. And then I will miss it terribly.

And I do believe that Curtis and I will be better parents someday because we've raised not one but two little furry guys. We learned how to divide our attention, when to separate them, when to let them play, who's story to believe (I'm not even kidding on that one), and more than anything how to nurture and care for another living thing completely dependent upon us for everything from food to affection. We've had to learn how to come to an agreement on what to do and how to do it with the dogs. Bode has been especially trying in that sense because he is so different from Shiloh. We've had to learn how to work as a team, using his strengths and my strengths, and learn to do new things together. This is all practice for parenthood. Or else opening some kind of dog orphanage. In which case, the new carpet was a total waste...

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.

It was a warm spring day three years ago. Nothing like the cold dreary day we had today. It was windy, all my relatives from the mountains of Pennsylvania had no idea how to handle the wind. Bu the sun was shining and the temperature was pretty warm for mid-May in northern Ohio.

We were married in an old-fashioned country church by Curtis' childhood minister. Curtis prepared the aisle for me, paving the way for his bride, by unrolling the aisle runner. Softly playing in the background was the love theme from Baz Luhrman's Romeo + Juliet, a song called 'Kissing You'. Within the song Romeo whispers, "did my heart love til now? For swear it sight, I never saw true beauty til this night."

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.   :)

My bridesmaids, each in a different color of the same dress, followed after. Pam and Alisha scattered flowers in place of a flower girl;  Rachel carried the rings on a hand-made cross-stitched pillow my mom had made;  and Melanie carried a vintage tussey-mussey bouquet. The song chosen for my bridesmaids was 'Anne's Theme' from the movie Anne of Green Gables, one of my very most favorite movies from childhood.

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.

We rented an antique Excalibur limousine to get from the church to our reception at Snook's Dream Cars, an antique car museum in Bowling Green. There we switched to a 1936 Auburn to make our entrance. It was really fun being driven into our reception and taking everyone by surprise. I remember sitting out in the car with Curtis and just giggling together in anticipation for our big entrance.

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."



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)

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.

Do You Hear the People Sing? I will!

My husband is amazing. He's not a big fan of musicals or live theatre. All that singing and dancing...not so much. He's more of a combine derby/tractor pull entertainment enthusiast. But he loves me and he knows just how much I love the theatre. So for the second year in a row I get to go see a show as late birthday/Christmas gift. Last year we saw 'Wicked' at the Stranahan in Toledo. And this weekend we're going to Cleveland to see 'LesMiserables' at Playhouse Square. I've been listening the soundtrack on my iPod to get me all pumped up and ready to see it...as if I really need any pumping up....(((read on)))

I've been trying to figure out how to explain it to Curtis, in about 10 minutes or less. Which is impossible. The show is nearly 3 hours long and covers a time span of at least 20 years. I've decided to boil it down to the central themes and give him a few names to get through the first act. Intermission will be spent trying to prep for the second act. Which thankfully isn't nearly as complicated. But honestly, if you're not familiar with the book or show the specifics of this post may not make sense to you. But I ask you to keep reading anyway...ignore the names and song titles. Read my heart instead, because my heart sings with music.

This is a show I've seen twice before--once on Broadway and once at Playhouse Square. My dad first took me to see it when I was 9 or 10 years old. We were vacationing in Ocean City, New Jersey which is about a two hour drive from NYC. On the way there he wanted to get me ready for the show...so he gave me some basic information about the plot, and then he had to tell me about prostitutes (one of the characters is one very briefly)...which is odd...because he hadn't told me about sex yet. And then he told me about flashers, which has nothing to do with LesMis but everything to do with NYC apparently. I've never looked at raincoats the same.

So there I was 10 years old, totally confused, and a little freaked out about the prostitutes and flashers...but I fell in love with it anyway. It takes place during the French Revolution (as if you couldn't tell from the name) and with all the French names I had no idea who was who but that didn't matter. It was the humanity, the music, the ambiance that had me completely spellbound. I didn't grasp it then, but it's a memorizing show about love, grace, redemption, sacrifice, war, liberty.

I can remember going back to Ocean City and talking to my older brother about it. To this day I have absolutely no idea why my dad took me and not my brother, but to be honest, I'm glad that he did (sorry, Adam...if you read this!). I tried to explain a show I barely understood, which has resulted in what will be a lifelong inside joke about John is John (the main character is Jean Val Jean) and 24601 (he has spent 20 years in jail and that is his prison number). Thankfully, my brother got introduced to the show in some other way and came to enjoy it almost as much as his little sister. If my niece had been a nephew, he would've gotten a homemade '24601' onesie. Sorry, Marissa...maybe I'll make you a 'Castle On A Cloud' onesie.

Anyway....my dad bought the 3-CD complete symphonic recording, which I listened to religiously. I fell in love with the character of Eponine, who suffers from unrequited love. This is why 'On My Own' was my first real solo in 7th grade. I cannot tell you how many thousands of times I sang that song alone in my room, feeling the pangs of being unnoticed and unloved by someone I 'loved' very much. *sigh* The angst of youth.

Thanks to that CD set, I memorized the entire show. To this day you could pick a spot anywhere in the show and I could probably recite the rest of it to you. Which is probably why when I went through my first real heart-crushing, devastating break up at age seventeen I remember singing 'I Dreamed a Dream'...because it felt like my life was over and that music was all I had to express the agony.

Recently I've fallen in love with different aspects of the show. I'm older now and finally understand the deeper themes of this complex epic. I see the issues of grace and justice, the real struggle between Val Jean and Javert (the 'antogonist' always trying to get Val Jean back in jail). Themes of sacrificial love and redemption unfold throughout the show. Some characters give up all they have, including their lives, out of love for another, giving that character a chance at redemption--a new better life. It's complicated and painful, but beautiful...just like life.

I have many favorite moments, but my hands-down favorite line in the entire show is :

 to love another person is to see the face of God.

This line was printed on our wedding programs, and I quote it often. I've even scribbled it on the pages of my Bible...1 John 4:12 (No one has ever seen God. But if we love each other, God lives in us, and his love is brought to full expression in us.)
This line, like the entire show, inspires me. I want to be changed by that idea. I want to love my husband with grace-filled, sacrificial love so that he can see God through me. And someday, when I'm a mama, that is my deepest hope. To love them in such a way that they see God. Because it is true; when we truly love a person--a love that requires Grace and Sacrifice--we see the face of God.

'Les Mis' has been translated into 21 languages, been performed in 42 countries and 291 cities. In October 'Les Mis' celebrated its' 25th year with a concert and two productions in London. (Incidentally, Nick Jonas played one of the main characters in the 25th anniversary show, so that was a double geek-out for me. Yes, I shamefully admit to liking a Jonas brother...but really just Nick.) Approximately 55 million people have seen the show. Clearly, I'm not the only one who gets inspired and all wound up about this show, as complicated and messy as it may be. Perhaps its the messiness that draws us. Or maybe it's just the really phenomenally crafted music. Either way.
I'm ridiculously excited about getting away this weekend--the past couple of weeks have been especially draining. It will be great to just relax in a fluffy hotel bed, swim in the pool, and reconnect with the man I love very much. The man who loves me enough to buy tickets to a show that he knows nothing about and probably anticipates not liking. But I hope he does like it. I don't expect him to love it, especially not like I do (I'm a little nutty over it, if you couldn't tell) but I do hope he likes it. Or else...I might not get to see another show next year! Hmm...I wonder what's playing next year?? Is it too early to plan?

The Same But Different

Looking at the porch from inside the garage

When I enter their house it is always the same and always different. The paradoxical world of a grown up grandchild. The bathroom hasn't been remodelled since sometime in the 1970s. I amused myself wondering who would argue over inheriting the brown and orange seahorse that has been on the wall for four decades. The carpet is the same my whole life, the linoleum upstairs the same for my mom's whole life. Some things never change, and I think I'd be heart broken if they did. I love this old-fashioned house where it's always been simpler to just be.

This photo was taken over 10 years ago
but the house looks just the same.

They are the same as always and of course different. Time has marched on. Their beings more boiled down to the essence. I heard once that our personalities are like a big pot of soup and old people seem more themselves because all the broth as evaporated out. Maybe that's why some old ladies wait their whole lives to be feisty and outspoken. Maybe that's why some old men are said to have mellowed with age. But my old people (who are the youngest old people I'll ever know)...she's simply more sweet and he's simply more devoted. That twinkle in his eye is much twinklier, and the grace in her smile is even more graceful.

Sometimes I feel that the worst thing I ever did was grow up. I stopped being small and compulsive and creative and charming. I did that ghastly thing of settling down, and learning to measure words and affection in small doses. Somewhere along the timeline I started believing that now it was what I could do for them, rather than still seeing all they still do for me.

On Saturday she taught me how to make a pie crust, and my absolute assurance that I would screw it up, made her laugh and say

"You know that thing above your shoulders is your head,
it's okay to use it."

And she's the only dear soul on Earth who could get away with saying such a thing to me. Because she was speaking the root of my problem. I don't believe I can do it so I can't do it. She sees the intelligent, capable young woman I've become but I still hide in the helplessness of childhood. She wants me to be the young woman she contributed to raising.

I know they miss when I was little, but growing up wasn't, in fact, the worst thing I ever did. It was a gift. My grandparents are very old--they were 72 and 64 when I was born. Most people I know, their grandparents are only know reaching into their mid-70s. I don't know if they expected to see me graduate high school... graduate college...get married...and this autumn they got the news their first great-grandchild was born. This winter they got to hold her, and the best photos are of his 97 year old hands and her almost 90 year old hands holding her little month old hands. And if we hadn't grown up, my brother and I, they wouldn't have had these joys, these blessings from a gracious God.

I still wish every now and then I could be the small creative bookish pixie that used to flit around their house and yard seeing magic, making magic every where. But even though I'm big now, there's still room for my head on her shoulder as we watch TV and talk about our favorite person--my niece, her great-granddaughter, and what a miracle she is. This next generation, this breath of life in our old family. She laughs and says,

"We needed some new blood in the family."

One of my favorite things in the attic-
an old pump organ.

The house is the same but different. Same furniture (mostly), the surfaces a bit more cluttered with gifts and knick knacks and other notions. The attic, always my favorite treasure trove, stuffed full. We wonder what we'll do with everything when they're gone. There's just so much stuff, we all say over and over. But I don't want to think about when they're gone. We've been planning for that my entire life. Truly. And here they are, able to give us far more 'stuff' from their hearts than we'll ever take from their house--if we pay attention to the gifts.

I love them differently that I love anyone else on earth, and it will always be that way. My heart has a special room, an attic room perhaps--which for most folks would be insulting but for them seems just right as a favorite place--that no one else will ever abide in. A room furnished with the gifts I'll take from them--devotion to God, devotion to family, laughter, grace, whimsy, ingenuity, smarts, and always and everywhere love.

My Grammy and PapPap. Such childish names, I can tell some people think, when I call them that. But they've never been Grandma and Grandpa, they were entirely different people in my life. I get indignant when people call her my Grandma...she's my Grammy. Always and forever my Grammy and PapPap. In the novel I've been writing for nearly a decade now, a character is raised by his grandparents and although he is a thirty-year old man he still calls them Grammy and PapPap. Like my brother, like me. Not childish names, affectionate names...their only names as far as I'm concerned.

They are the same but different. Still in love with each other but their love is different--it's somehow more pure having been refined by 72 years of marriage and sickness and trials. They love me the same but different--they love me as they always have, unconditionally and deeply--but with a love that has learned to let go and let the pixie-child become a woman. And they love God as they always have, steadily, faithfully, but I think they are closer to Heaven now more than ever. He's drawn near to them in these twilight years, as we call them. But God sees them not as twilight but as a the pre-dawn to the Life that awaits. He sees them the same but different. He's been with them for a lifetime of miracles and blessings. He loves them even more than I do, if I can imagine such a love.

Going home, it's what we call it. Even though my address has never been theirs (which has changed several times despite the fact they haven't moved houses in over 65 years), their house is my home. And every time I go home it hits me, the house is the same as it always was, but it feels a little smaller, a little fuller, a little different but maybe I'm just bigger. And when I lean in to kiss their soft weathered cheeks, I realize they are the same as always and maybe I'm the one who is different.