One Job That Matters

It took me three babies and four years of motherhood to learn that on days when my baby is sick I only have one job that matters.



And as you can see it is not personal grooming.

Flowering Weeds

Two of my new friends here in South Carolina lost babies to miscarriages last week. Babies that they loved and were looking forward to meeting. Babies who would have loved the sweet mommies they were born to. These particular girls have been two of the friendliest and most welcoming people I have met in my new home. I am thankful for them and now I am deeply saddened that such a heartbreaking circumstance has befallen people who have been so kind to me. I have wept while writing this paragraph and it has taken me much longer to write it than it took for you to read it.

Five years ago we lost our first baby to a miscarriage. I didn't much feel like talking about it then and have very rarely talked about it since. When I do mention it it is always in an all business kind of way. I will state the fact that it happened and whatever details surrounding it that are pertinent to the conversation at hand. But I don't...go there. I don't open my heart to any feelings whatsoever surrounding the matter. It is a closed case. Miscarriages happen all the time and one happened to me. Done.

Or so I thought. But then when my friends started having experiences I knew too well those long ignored feelings made their presence known again. The feelings that start when you see blood where blood shouldn't be when you're pregnant. The feelings that grow when the bleeding doesn't stop even as you are trying to convince yourself that it is getting lighter. The feelings that crash down around you when some medical person tells that what you have feared and hoped against and prayed against has happened. Your baby is gone and you will not hold it until heaven. The feelings that sink in when you realize your baby will always be called it. Never him or her. Loud, ugly, painful feelings. Feelings that you don't want and don't know what to do with. Feelings you try to hide when someone asks you how you are. I hate those feelings. I hate that the commonness of miscarriages means that those awful feelings are common too. I hate that the commonness of such awful feelings doesn't make them any less awful. If anything it just makes them more infuriating. I hate all of that.

But in revisiting the emotions of losing a baby I reminded of another kind of feeling I had back then. A feeling that is beautiful and is odd in that it only accompanies the darkest and most terrible of feelings. The kind of peace and hope that only show up in the midst of real fear and despair. The supernatural assurance of God's goodness that is only relevant when everything in you wants to ask how He could be so cruel. The joy that God saves aside for only his children who are experiencing profound sorrow. It's a kind of feeling I can't explain. Supernatural is the best word I've got for it. I think it is commonly called grace.

My miscarriage took place in Italy. I spent a week in an Italian hospital. I had left my home at the end of winter. What was supposed to be a quick four day trip to welcome my brother back from Afghanistan turned into two weeks in a strange place going through the most excruciating experience of my life. While I was gone winter turned into early spring. When I stepped out of my car after the long flight and ride home my yard was covered in purple flowers. Weeds really, but they were flowering weeds, and they were where nothing but winter deadness had been when I left. They said to me in a way no human could have gotten away with "Life goes on." Not in a trite shruggy oh-well-better-luck-next-time kinda way. But in the resounding way of a trustworthy promise. LIFE - real life, the kinda life God makes - goes on and on and on even in this world so broken that an innocent baby isn't even safe in the womb of the mother who loves it. That is what those flowering weeds said to me. My yard wasn't covered in flowers my yard was covered in grace.

I was away this weekend while my friends were just beginning to grapple with their loss. In my prayers for them I kept coming back to those flowering weeds. I asked God to send them something like that. Some kind of visible, palpable grace that is louder than their pain and that is kinder than this world is cruel. I believe that He will.

When I arrived home on Monday my yard that I had left in the dead of winter just days before was full of those same purple flowers I first noticed all those years ago.

His mercy endures forever.

Does She Ever Answer The Phone?

I love my phone. It is a handy camera and source of information and two words...bubble shooter. In a pinch it makes a mighty fine shopping list. It also means a lot to me because Ronny bought it for me because he wanted to. He's a keeper I tell you.

However, I hate the phone. I hate it. I hate talking on the phone. I hate calling people on the phone. I just do. I also hate the way the phone wants to rule over me like a despot. It is a despot I overthrew years ago. Now I think of it more as a pitiful servant. Because of that I spend good portions of everyday not knowing where my phone is. Because of that I am often asked "Why didn't you answer your phone?" or by the more persistent "Why don't you answer your phone?"

These questions aren't new to me. I wrote a post answering them years ago. They have been popping up with an increased frequency lately so I thought I would throw these answers back out again for any who may be wondering, "Does she ever answer the phone?"

The answer is I do. But I wouldn't count on it. For an answer somewhat dated but in greater detail see below:

FAQ: Why didn't/don't you answer your phone?

Ever.

Today my house is full of people I love and it's the best St. Valentine's Day I have ever known.

Where I Am From

My friend Martha made me do this. I wish I saw her more often so I could still call her Marth Brooks like I used to when we were young and we could still sing country songs super loud together. I could use some fun like that in my life. She has a precious blog called 50 Sticky Fingers which is the best blog name ever in my opinion. Anyway her post today told me to do this and I decided to listen to her. I will let her explain exactly what it is I am doing here. It was a pretty fun diversion. I hope you'll try it too and if you do I hope you will leave me a comment letting me know where I can read about where you are from.

Where I Am From

I am from a round dinette table and four chairs with white metal backs, from Kool Aid and love.

I am from the dark, cool living room with Little House on the Prairie turned on.

I am from an Aloe Vera plant making boo boos better and the morning after a storm.

I am from pizza on the coffee table and stubbornness, from McCoys and Andersons and Braggs.

I am from excitement first and thinking later and fierce loyalty and shyness.

From who loves you baby and accidents happen.

I am from the church altar and going forward at the invitation..

I'm from Oklahoma, fried Chicken and Wacky cake.

From Dad bringing me chocolate milk everyday after Kindergarten, playing at Mom's office while she worked, and Master Lee's Karate center.

I am from a park in Virginia, Make A Wish day, good grades are important but not as important as love.

From family being all that mattered.

Something Other Than God

What Satan put into the heads of our remote ancestors was the idea that they could "be like gods" -- could set up on their own as if they had created themselves -- be their own masters -- invent some sort of happiness for themselves outside God, apart from God. And out of that hopeless attempt has come nearly all that we call human history -- money, poverty, ambition, war, prostitution, classes, empires, slavery -- the long terrible story of man trying to find something other than God which will make him happy.

C.S. Lewis

Mere Christianity

Like It Was Yesterday.

This is Afton yesterday:

I distinctly remember taking this picture yesterday morning. She was having her first solid foods and loving it. No surprise. She loves loving things. I know it was just yesterday. Maybe the day before.

But then this morning this happened:

That same little baby that I had been feeding yesterday, with all her characteristic zeal, and as you can see, with no lack of panache or style, fed her sister breakfast while I made breakfast for everyone else. Well, while I made breakfast for everyone else, ran upstairs to tell her daddy to come down and see, took a million pictures, and rejoiced in the fact that I had a child old enough to help me. To actually help me.

But wait. When did my baby get old enough to feed babies? How did this happen?

Those old ladies in grocery stores and cheesy country songs aren't kidding around when they say stuff like:

"Don't blink."

"The days are long but the years are short."

"Enjoy them. They grow up so fast."

Because, boy, it really does feel like it was yesterday...