Be Still

Be still and know that I am God!

I will be honored by every nation.

I will be honored throughout the world.

Psalms 46:10

Be still? I have trouble sitting, waiting and listening. My preference would be for the Lord to part the clouds and say, “Go over here and do this.” Wouldn’t that be nice? We could get right to doing. The Lord does call us to go and do, but he also calls us to be. “Be still and know that I am God”. Oh how that verse has tormented me. I have spent years trying to figure out what I need to do to be. Have you ever seen a fern when it’s first sprouting from the ground? Its leaves are rolled in and its stem is tightly curled into itself. As it grows, it begins to unfurl until the stem is stretched backwards with all its leaves extended. It’s completely open and surrendered to the sun. That is how I want to live. I want to be unfurled of being so tightly curled and focused on myself. I want to be stretched backwards with my arms extended, completely open and surrendered to the Lord, trusting him at every step. To be in His presence.

Honored God. Forgive me for not trusting you fully. You are trustworthy. You do what you say you’ll do. Unfurl me so that I can be open and surrendered to you, basking in the presence of you. 

I am a fern

In 2003 my husband and I took and amazing trip to Washington state. We had been to England & Ireland the year before. Even though we were in Ireland during the rainy season, there hadn't been much rain and it wasn't green like I expected it to be. Washington was every bit as green as I thought Ireland was going to be.







We spent a couple of days in Seattle, then headed for the Olympic Peninsula. It. was. gorgeous. Not only were the shades of green amazing, but the lichen, the plant and the flowers were amazing.








Something I kept noticing were the ferns. Have you ever really looked at a fern as it grows? I've work in Aveda salons for well over a decade and would see it all the time.









A tiny shoot comes out of the ground. All the leaves are curled in and the stem is wound like a pinwheel.

It's only when the fern grows that the pinwheel unwinds and the leaves begin to uncurl. It grows and grows until not only is it open, it's bent over backwards basking in the warmth of sun.

I am like that fern, all curled into myself. Not only do I hang on tight to the things in life, I bring it into myself and curl my grip around it.

Surrender it to me. I hear the Lord say. Instead of releasing my grip, I hold on tighter, curl in tighter.

Only in the three years since my mom lost her battle with cancer have I really seen any noticeable growth. Don't get me wrong, I'm not bent over backwards, basking in the presence of the Lord, but

I am beginning to uncurl.
          I am beginning to loosen my grip.
                    I'm am beginning to surrender.

Beauty in Death

Each year while I was growing up, we would take our annual last boat ride of the season to see all the beautiful Fall colors. Even as an adult off at college, I would try to make it back for the ceremonial last ride. The last few years we had the boat, my mom requested we camp on the river for her birthday, October 4th.

Needless to say, it was always very cold. In the morning my mom would make a big pot of oatmeal and we would add in all our favorite flavors. Since it was so cold, we often had a campfire burning most of the day. My mom loved the smell of leaves burning. She would stand in the smoke of the burning leaves so all her clothes, even down to her pores, would smell of campfire.

In the years since my family sold the boat, my Fall color boat rides have been spotty. This year, however, I was determined to go. I added it to our Google calendar (that means it's going to happen). While packing lunch, snacks, and all the gear needed to spend the day on the river, I told my boys to bring what they needed for the day. "Once we leave," I said, "we're not coming back until night and you don't want to be bored."

Those words rang in my ears as I sat on the island with nothing to do. My boys were up to their hair in sand and my husband was happy to lay in the sun. 

There I sat.

Restless.

Unable to let myself simply be.
Memories began to haunt me. Memories of all the past trips on the river. Memories of my mom.

I grabbed my camera and decided I was going to let myself have the time to take pictures. After all, I was in one of my most favorite places, at my most favorite time of year.

This was my view. 

That beautiful burst of yellow standing out against the muted burgundy, brown and green. It was so beautiful. I feverishly began taking pictures, attempting to capture the beauty all around me.

Suddenly, I became very aware of why the trees were so beautiful.

They were dying. 

As the nutrients they need to live are drained from their veins, their colors show through.

There is beauty in death.

Had someone said that to me three years ago, after my mom lost her battle with cancer, I would have  thought them insensitive, hurtful, and a little "Polyanna".

Time and allowing myself to grieve as I needed to grieve have given me a different perspective. I'm beginning to see the beauty that can come from death. I'm beginning to see beauty from the ashes of loss and grief. I better understand "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted".

It's about relationships.

Relationships?

Yes, I think so.

The loss of our three babies through miscarriage has made me more aware of the gift of relationship with my two living children. It has given me the ability to sit with women in their grief.

The loss of my mom has given me more than I could have ever imagined. 

What I have learned about the Creator of the Universe. 

What I have learned about who he is and who I am in him, has been indescribable. 

My relationship with him has grow in ways I could have never imagined.  I have grown in ways I would have never imagined.

Death is terrible. 

It's hard to witness.

It's hard to experience. 

It's hard to recover from the loss. 

But I'm learning, there is also beauty in death.

Mother's Day

How do you experience Mother's Day?


So many things come to mind when you think of Mother's Day. For some, you may think of beautiful, blooming, hanging flower pots. Bleeding hearts were my mom's favorite. 


Maybe you think of pampering and relaxation like a spa gift certificate or a gourmet brunch. 


For children, it may be that Mother's Day makes them think of fun craft projects they make for their moms at school or church. I have a few on my kitchen window sill. 


For others, you may think of running. Maybe you join with your mom or your friends and run the breast cancer run. Maybe you run to celebrate active generations.


For me, I think of all the different ways I've experienced Mother's Day.


When I was young, Mother's Day would fall on or near my grandma's birthday. We would celebrate Mother's Day and her birthday with a big prime rib dinner. Every year it was the same. Actually, every holiday was the same. same meal. same conversations. There was something comforting about knowing what to expect.


During those years, Mother's Day was about celebrating; celebrating Grandma's birthday, celebrating her as Grandma, and most of all for me, celebrating my mom.


It wasn't until Mother's Day 2003 that my experience with Mother's Day started to change. My husband and I were in the midst of trying to get pregnant. We were only a few months into trying, but that year on Mother's Day, I felt an anticipation. An anticipation that maybe next year I would celebrate Mother's Day not only for my mom and grandma's sake, but I would get to celebrate it as a mom.


The following year held month after month disappointment as we found out we were not pregnant again, and again, and again. I was numb. I wasn't even sure how I felt Mother's Day 2004. I remember sitting in church feeling empty. A friend described it best. "My arms were empty, my womb was empty, my heart felt empty." At the beginning of the service, as a way to recognize Mother's Day, they had a sketch. The sketch told the story of how three different women were experiencing Mother's Day. I remember two of them. One was of a woman who had a strained relationship with her mother. The second was a woman who desperately wanted to be a mother.


My eyes started to burn. All my pain, all the pain I was trying to stuff down found its way to my eyes and began to shower down my face. I didn't realize how much pain was there.


As Mother's Day 2005 approached, I knew it would be different. I was pregnant and due a couple of weeks after Mother's Day. Even though my arms would still be empty, my womb was not. Then it happened. Six weeks before he was due, our son was born. Nine days later he was released from the NICU. That Mother's Day brought back the celebration. We were off to my parent's house for the prime rib dinner. This year I was not only celebrating my grandma and my mom, I was able to celebrate being a mom.


It was glorious! For two years in a row, I was able to celebrate all the wonderful things I love about Mother's Day.


In the time between Mother's Day 2006 and 2007, we suffered three miscarriages. My grandma was fighting a losing battle with cancer. Mother's Day 2007 is a bit of a blur for me. I remember being thankful for getting together with everyone, but there was a hole. I should have been holding another baby or at least carrying another one, but I felt empty again. I was sad, but there was also a keen awareness the gift of our son.


Mother's Day 2008 was so different from all the Mother's Days. We had been given the gift of another son. He too was due to be born after Mother's Day, but came six weeks early. While I celebrated being a mother of two, there was heavy sadness. Grandma was gone, and my mom was fighting uterine cancer. My mom was so sick from treatment that she could hardly move out of her chair. We still tried to have our usual prime rib dinner, but it wasn't the same. The future was so uncertain.


At the time, we didn't know Mother's Day 2009 would be our last with Mom. Despite a promising diagnosis in the fall, her cancer had come back. It was on the move and it was aggressive. We gathered for our prime rib dinner, but mom didn't get out of her chair. She was too weak... She died late that summer.


I spent the next two Mother's Days navigating life without my mom. This year I feel like I'm finally coming out of the fog. 


As Mother's Day 2012 approaches, I am thankful. 

• Thankful for my two sons. Thankful that in his goodness, the Lord allowed us to keep two of our children.
• Thankful that even though my mom and grandma are gone from us, they are present with the Lord.
• Thankful that even though my heart breaks for friends who have empty arms and empty wombs, I know they are not alone. Not only that, I can acknowledge to them how hard Mother's Day must be for them.

What does Mother's Day stir in you? 

• Does it stir a thankful heart?
• Does it stir a sense of celebration?
• Does it stir the pain of loss or a strained relationship?

Whatever it is that Mother's Day stirs in you, go with it. Let yourself feel it. Let yourself experience it fully. 

• It's okay to feel happy on Mother's Day. 
• It's okay to feel sad, to feel empty on Mother's Day.
• It's okay to acknowledge to someone that Mother's Day must be hard for them.

Whatever it is that you feel, remember that you are not alone.

God is our refuge and strength, 

an ever-present help in trouble.

Psalms 46:1

Infertility, Miscarriages & the NICU (Part 1)

Infertility.

I didn't think we'd have much trouble conceiving. My sisters had gotten pregnant, quite easily actually. After a few months of trying, my doctor said we needed to try a full 12 months before we would take any additional steps. The twelve months went by and we were sent to another clinic, a OBGyn clinic.

For someone struggling to get pregnant, an OBGyn clinic is a special kind of torture. There you sit with your empty womb surrounded by a room full of swollen bellies. It makes you wonder. Will I? Will I ever be the one sitting with a swollen belly?

They ran tests and did what they could, but it wasn't a good fit. I didn't like the nurses, and the nurses are who you see. We gave it a couple of months, but unsuccessful. We decided to move to the next step; an infertility clinic.

We had to wait four months for our appointment. While we waited, I prayed. I prayed God would allow us to get pregnant. I believed a family was something he wanted for us. I didn't know what that family would look like. Would we conceive? Would we adopt? We prayed. Our friends and family prayed.

Our appointment finally came. Blood was taken. Exams were given. Tests were run. Information was gathered. The doctor believed he could help! The doctor explained each of us had issues that made conceiving on our own difficult. We prepared for our first round of Artificial Insemination (AF).

We did the shots. Well, we tried to do the shots. I told my husband he was going to need to give the shots to me. After seeing him do a test run, I decided I needed to do it myself. However, the thought of giving myself a shot seemed just wrong. I had a total temper tantrum. I was mad. I was mad that I even had to give myself a shot. Why me? Why do I have to give myself a shot to try to get pregnant? We did it right. We waited for marriage. We were stable. Why weren't we getting pregnant. Why weren't we getting pregnant when it seemed like everyday there was a fourteen year old girl getting pregnant?....I finally calmed down enough to give myself the shot. It hardly hurt. I felt like a fool. What a scene I'd made and it didn't even hurt.

I took the hormones. If an OBGyn clinic is a special kind of torture for a woman dealing with infertility, hormones are a special kind of torture for her husband. Sometimes I felt like I didn't know if I was coming or going. I would bet a large sum that there were times my husband wished it was that I was going.

Finally, the day came for the procedure. Then the wait.
Wait to see if our prayers were answered.
Wait to see if our hopes were going to be fulfilled.

When the call came, I was at work. I was helping a friend open a salon. There I was sitting at the front desk with nothing but windows in front of me. I was on display and, I felt, completely exposed.

The nurse said I was pregnant, but....but?...but my hormone levels were low and the chance of miscarriage was high. I didn't know what or how to feel. Should I feel excited that I'm finally pregnant? Should I feel sadness that I may lose my baby?

I asked the nurse how I should feel. She said cautiously optimistic. She went on to explain that if my hormone levels were to double by my next appointment, there was a significantly increased chance that I would carry the pregnancy.

How was I to tell that news? How was I to call my husband and tell him that I was pregnant, but.

After calling my husband and explaining the situation, we decided to ask a few people to pray with us. To pray that God would cause my hormone levels to double. I called two dear friends and one of my sisters to join us in prayer. I asked them to pray for my numbers to double. I asked them to ask God to allow us to keep this pregnancy.

A few days later, I went to my next blood letting appointment (that's what I came to call them) and then waited for the call. What would I hear? Would I hear that even though I was able to get pregnant, I was going to lose the baby? Would I hear that my numbers did double and chances were good I would carry the pregnancy? When the nurse called, I was trying to stay positive. At least I can get pregnant, I thought, but did my numbers double?

I braced myself.

I wasn't prepared for what the nurse had to say.

My numbers didn't double...They quadrupled. Quadrupled! I could not believe it! Quadrupled?! The Lord hadn't answered my prayer to double my hormone level. No, He took it up a notch. Oh, me of little faith. It never even occurred to me to ask for more than I needed. It's hard to find the word to describe how I felt. That is to say how I felt emotionally. Physically I was sick to my stomach and I love every minute. I told myself if I felt sick, that must mean everything is progressing as it should.

My pregnancy did continue to progress. At 20 weeks we found out we were having a boy. At about 30 weeks, I found out I had gestational diabetes. I went to the appointments to learn how to deal with gestational diabetes. I followed the diet and did everything I was supposed to do.

At 34 weeks, in the middle of the night, I was jolted awake. I was wet. It wasn't clear to me if my water broke or if I had now lost bladder control.

By this time, my husband has chosen to sleep in the guest room (he said I was I snoring). Not sure of what to do, I went and woke him up and asked what we should do. We called the hospital. By this time I had mild menstrual cramp feelings. They told us to come in.

I think I was too naive to understand the situation. I felt a sense of excitement. I was going to have a baby! After all we'd done to get pregnant, I was going to have a baby! As I walked out the backdoor, I remember seeing the ground was wet. I said to my son, "it's raining the day you're born"! We quickly made our way to the hospital. They confirmed my water did break and I was going to stay in the hospital until our son was born.

Not only did they confirm that my water broke, but I was already dilated to seven. Labor continued to progress quickly. It progressed so fast that when I felt like I wanted to push, they told be to breathe through the contractions. My doctor had not yet arrived. Not pushing wasn't an option for me. So while the nurses were on the other side of the room, our son was born on the table. My husband wasn't sure what to do. It was all so sudden. It had only been three hours since my water broke. The nurses jumped into action. They swooped up our son and started to do all the post birth things they do. Then they swaddled him and gave him to my husband to bring to me. I kissed my son and nuzzled him. He was so tiny, but the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I wanted to hold him more than anything, but I couldn't. Because I was only 34 weeks, I was hooked up to monitors and IVs. Our son needed to go to the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). I told my husband to go with him, to stay with our son. My expectation was they'd examine our son and he'd come back.

Isn't that the way it's supposed to be, isn't it? You have a baby and he stays right there in your room. You care for him. You get to hear every little sound he makes. That's what I expected to happen. No one told me it wouldn't.

My doctor arrived in time to take care of all the post labor events. Then I waited. I waited for My husband and my son to come back. Eventually, only my husband came back. My son needed to stay in the NICU.

The NICU.

Exposed

In January, I attended a women's leadership retreat with women from my church. We use the retreat as a time to look at what the Lord has done, seek to see what he has for us, and to seek him as a team. We also have some time of teaching, time for us to be filled.

The teaching was great. There were functional skills taught that are helping us grow and develop as a team. There were also times for us to study and be fed. One of the exercises she had us do was read Luke 13:10-17. First we were to read it. Then we were to read it again and again, but from different view points. Here is the passage:

10 One Sabbath day as Jesus was teaching in a synagogue, 11 he saw a woman who had been crippled by an evil spirit. She had been bent double for eighteen years and was unable to stand up straight. 12 When Jesus saw her, he called her over and said, "Woman, you are healed of your sickness!" 13 Then he touched her, and instantly she could stand straight. How she praised and thanked God! 14 But the leader in charge of the synagogue was indignant that Jesus had healed her on the Sabbath day. "There are six days of the week for working," he said to the crowd. "Come on those days to be healed, not on the Sabbath." 15 But the Lord replied, "You hypocrite! You work on the Sabbath day! Don't you untie your ox or your donkey from their stalls on the Sabbath and lead them out for water? 16 Wasn't it necessary for me, even on the Sabbath day, to free this dear woman from the bondage in which Satan has held her for eighteen years?"17 This shamed his enemies. And all the people rejoiced at the wonderful things he did.

I know I must have read this before. I mean, I took an Exposition of Luke class in college. I know I've read it before, but it never spoke to me like it did this time.


This wasn't the bleeding woman who pressed through the crowd to touch the fridge of Jesus' robe  (Luke 8:40-48). The wasn't the man whose friends lowered him through the roof (Mark 2:1-5). This woman was just at the synagogue on the Sabbath, doing her regular Sabbath activities. Maybe she didn't even see Jesus. She was "bent double". Think about it. How little could you see if you were bent double. Your view wouldn't be the world around you. It would be the ground. Considering how we see many other sick or ailed people treated, she was probably mostly ignored. If I were her, I would feel invisible to the world that, because I was bent, was practically invisible to me. BUT "Jesus saw her". She was NOT invisible to him. Not only did he see her, He went to her. He touched her. He healed her. 


When I read this passage from the view point of the woman, I realized that I felt invisible, that I was hiding. I'm generally a very open person. I'll share what's going on with me. What I realized was the reason I share so much of myself is because if I share a lot, people don't usually ask probing questions. They think it's all out there. That way, I get to control what is shared. Why was I, why do I feel the need to control what is shared? Why am I bending myself double? Am I afraid that I'll be left hung out, totally exposed?
At the end of the retreat, the teacher had us write a letter to ourselves and seal them in an envelope. She took the letter home and said she would mail them to us as she felt led. I received my letter last week.

Dear beloved of God, 

Remember how the Lord met you at this retreat. Even though you tried your best to hide, he still found you bent over in your tent [even more hidden]. He poked in His head and said, "My dear, dear daughter. I found you. I see you. You are not invisible." 

Remember my love for you is like a hurricane, you are a tree. Bending under the wave of my wind, love and mercy. Believe me when I say that I will lead you with my hand. Accept the anxiety of feeling yourself in suspense and incomplete.

It's okay to hang exposed. I already know all of who you are and I love you. Come, sit with me. Sit knee to knee, toe to toe, brow to brow. Let me look into you. More importantly, look at how you are in my eye. My wonderfully made daughter, I have very special plans for us. I will be glorified and you will be blessed.

Remember who I am
Remember who and whose you are.

Holy Week

Holy Week. There have been years when Holy Week would just go by and all the sudden it was Easter. Those were years when I didn't take the time to enter into Jesus' last week. This year has been much different. There has been so much loss around me this year. I'm not suffering the recent loss of someone close to me, but I'm watching friends navigate their way through their very personal losses. Babies not living long enough to feel the embrace of their mother's loving arms. Children watching their parents succumb to cancer. A sister watching her brother lose his wife.

This year I have the opportunity to be apart of my church's Good Friday service called Forsaken. The character I play is one of many demons hell bent on removing hope, extinguishing life. There is a scene when the character of Eve (or humanity) is bond by strips of cloth representing her sin. We demons help to entangle her. Jesus enters the scene and we (demons) cower. Jesus begins to remove the cloth of Eve's sin from her and put them on himself. We demons get into the act and joyfully bind him.

At our first rehearsal, the man portraying Jesus wasn't able to be there, so our director stood in for him. When we came to the end of the scene, after we had bound her in the strips of cloth, she commented on the experience of being bond. When I left, I couldn't get that idea out of my head. You need to understand that I am a recovering control freak. If it were up to me, I would make plans and have the Lord just sign off on them (thankfully he doesn't). If anyone has the right to control anything it's Jesus, right? He lived a perfect life, is God's son. What I realized as I had never realized before was the trust (another one of my issues) he had in the Father. He trusted that the Lord knew what he was doing. He trusted even unto the point of being forsaken.

The last thing I want to do to someone in the midst of grief is blow sunshine at them. Grief is a process. A physically, spiritually, and emotionally painful process. Praying for them in their grief has brought me back to my own grief. Two and half years ago when my mom died, 6 years ago when I was having multiple miscarriages or eight years ago when we were struggling with infertility, I was not able to release my control. I wasn't able to trust enough that the Lord had (has!) a plan. My steely grip has loosened. I'm beginning to trust.