Sometimes I forget to spit out the seeds…

Posts tagged ‘God’

The Last First Loose Tooth

My husband thinks I’m a little crazy.  Maybe I am, but I’m fairly certain it’s the standard sort of crazy that comes with being a mom, or maybe just being a woman in general.  He thinks I’m crazy because I get emotional over things like giving away baby clothes, switching from a car seat to a booster, and long “baby” legs hanging off my lap.

My daughter’s loose tooth stirred up emotions in me that, surely, a tiny tooth is unworthy of.  That husband of mine looks at me with a cocked eyebrow and amused smirk whenever these things come up, but I can’t help it.  You see, this daughter….this 4-and-a-half-year-old daughter….she’s our baby.  She’s THE baby.

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It happens in every family.  It isn’t always the same story, but it’s the same ending.  Because childbearing comes to an end.  No one goes on having babies forever.  (Damn, you, menopause!)  Those babies grow, and they grow fast.  Mothers all over the world urge younger mothers to savor it, because it goes by so fast.

Some couples make a decision to be done with adding to their family, and so they know when the last is the last.  They savor every milestone, knowing they won’t observe it ever again.  Maybe that makes it easier, or maybe it makes everything bittersweet.

Some couples think they know when the last is the last, and then are surprised with a second (or third!) round of lasts.  I imagine that’s all kinds of emotional ups and downs.

Some couples don’t realize they are in the “last days” until they are well into them.  Perhaps secondary infertility comes upon them, or they had planned to have more but changed their mind.

I fall into this last camp, of being caught unaware.  My babies arrived at fairly regular intervals – every 18 months to two years – for twelve years.  My family grew steadily, and we rejoiced and thanked God for every blessing.  We knew He would plan our family perfectly!  And while I knew there would be an end, I didn’t know when it would be for us.

I still don’t know that it is the end, but as I mentioned before, my “baby” is going on five years old.  When that tiny tooth came out, in the middle of dinner, and I exclaimed and teared up and declared her to be “so old” yet “still my baby,” my family chimed in.

We listed all the things that are no longer part of our lives….nursing, diaper bags, pacifiers, sippy cups, strollers, and car seats.  And then my kids melted my heart when they expressed their desire for more siblings.

“I want a baby brother!”  My youngest boy is my number three child, with five sisters following him.  Since he was able to talk, he’s been wishing for a little brother, and as a teenager, he still feels that way.

“I want TWIN baby brothers!”  The idea of a baby boy is a novelty after the string of girls, so that sentiment is shared.  And of course…twins!  So much more exciting.

“Hey, maybe Baby Sawyer is already on the way.”  My oldest son, who is practically a man (sob!) chimed in with this comment, accompanied by a big grin.  We had the name Sawyer picked out for the last three pregnancies, and yes, it was due to our obsession with LOST.

I smiled through my mixed emotions and thought, “Wow.  God is so good!”

In January, I wrote about the sense of failure I struggle with, never feeling I am doing a good enough job with my family.  This night, though….the night of the Last First Loose Tooth….filled me with relief that something had gone right.  It was just a few minutes out of what might have been a difficult day, but to God be the glory!

There was no, and never is any, expression of, “Ugh, no!  No more babies!” from any of my children.  Sometimes you hear of kids from large families who grow up to renounce and detest the idea of many children.  My heart aches at that possibility, but so far, so good.

My children know family is important.

My children know babies are blessings.

My children know siblings are valuable.

Mama might be crazy, but she sure is blessed!

 

 

 

 

New Year, Same Me

I admit it.  A brand new year gives me all kinds of glorious visions of a better me.  Technically, I don’t partake of the whole “New Year’s resolutions” thing.  I don’t write it down or make dramatic declarations, but if I’m completely honest, it’s there – almost as intoxicating as those rows of empty spiral notebooks, pretty binders, and new pens that make back-to-school time my absolute favorite.

As 2015 came to a close, I thought about how long it had been since I had blogged.  When I finally checked in here, I was surprised to find it had been seven months since I published anything.  My heart panged with guilt as I recalled the stone on a shelf above my desk, with the words “write every day” on it.

I didn’t keep that commitment, and I missed a lot of writing potential in the second half of the year.  Mundane summer “adventures.” A new doctor who offered hope and ultimately had some success in treating my whacked-out self. Home school struggles.  My grandma passing away.  A busy soccer season with three of my kids playing for a local Christian school.  The kitten who showed up at my house, wouldn’t leave, and adopted himself into my family.  My baby sister’s  whirlwind engagement, bridal shower, and wedding.

Opportunities missed, though  not lost, since there are no rules about blog posts having to be current events.  I mentally added my dry spell to the running list of failures I had going in my head.

Like a flashing neon sign, the word “failure” was plaguing my subconsciousness, and I had been vaguely aware of it for months.  It was clouding my days and giving me sleepless nights. I’m not normally a sarcastic person, but my brain was giving me a very bitter lashing on a daily basis.

Every mommy blog and meme on the internet:  “I know it feels like you’re not appreciated and that you’re not doing life well, but you’re doing great, Mama!  Go motherhood!  You are succeeding!”

My bitter brain:  “Uh, yeah.  No. You don’t just feel like you’re failing.  You actually ARE.  You suck at everything.”

My middle and high school students are behind in their school work, and they don’t seem to care.  FAIL.

I haven’t worked on painting the interior of our home in over a year.  FAIL.

I frequently lack in patience with my little ones, and probably don’t read to them enough.  FAIL.

My teenager doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life.  FAIL.

According to a spiritual gifts test, mine is hospitality, and I never invite anyone over.  FAIL.

My bathrooms are never quite clean; my laundry is never caught up; our sheets don’t get washed nearly often enough.  FAIL.

I’ve lost count of how many years behind I am on scrapbooking.  Ok, no I haven’t – it’s 10.  Ten years behind.  TRIPLE FAIL.

Now I’ve cataloged a portion of my transgressions, and I’ve sat on it for a few days.  Stuck.  Unable to tie this thing up as something other than a keeping-it-real, honest motherhood kind of post.  God knows, I could write a truck load of those.  Having eight kids has given me plenty of material for that kind of thing.

I went to church yesterday asking God for direction.  Not just in my writing, but it was definitely on the list.  We sang the song, “Boldly I Approach (The Art of Celebration)” by Rend Collective.

When condemnation grips my heart
And Satan tempts me to despair
I hear the voice that scatters fear
The Great I Am the Lord is here
Oh praise the One who fights for me
And shields my soul eternally

I know that most of the “sins” listed above aren’t really sins.  Laziness or procrastination may have played a minor role in some of them, but mostly they are simply life happening.  But does that matter to Satan?  He will tempt me to despair over anything he can get his hands on.

The truth is I am NOT enough.  But my God always is.  Sometimes that means  He equips me to do things better, and beyond my natural ability.  But sometimes that means that His grace covers my deficiencies.  And I am grateful; for even when I suck at everything, God is somehow glorified.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday Musings on my Porch

I woke up this morning, after eight hours of sleep, feeling like I’d just finished a full day of hard physical labor.  My energy level picked up, but not much.  I managed to get a load of dishes washed, help my little girls straighten their rooms, sort and file six months worth of paperwork, and turn dozens of frozen bread ends into bread crumbs.  The last was an effort to make room in my freezer while we were trying to determine if our full-sized freezer had died.  Turns out it had just been left open, and we didn’t lose any of the contents.  Praise God for mundane victories, right?

I paused between projects to get a bit of fresh air.  I moved to our huge screened-in porch, which is one of the focal points of our new home.  New, still, in my mind, sixteen months after moving in.  I’m sitting in a wicker chair I inherited when my grandma moved from her large home in the woods of western Massachusetts, to a tiny apartment here in upstate New York. Outside, I can see the bright blue sky, visible through the greenery of a tall, sprawling tree next to the driveway.  The wind whips through the branches, and also makes the loose sheets of plastic that covered the porch screens for the winter flap around wildly, with a sound that is actually quite lovely and peaceful.

Gazing across our driveway to the side yard, I glimpse a sea of green grass with an abundance of yellow dandelions. I never can understand why people spray chemicals to kill those lovely flowers.  Our “neighbors,” row after row of headstones, decorated with flags and flowers, receive many visitors today.

Looking down the expanse of the porch, I see towels and bathing suits, hanging on hooks and draped over benches; evidence of a pre-lunch swim in the creek.  A path of small mismatched rugs extends from where I am to the door, covering the tile that isn’t really meant for outdoor conditions, and gets dangerously slippery when wet.  The stacked up bins of shoes and boots sit near the door.  A crate we found in the barn attic, filled with century-old encyclopedias, acts as a table for the spigot-ed jar of bubbles and basket of sidewalk chalk.

The house paint is chipped, the ceiling fans are ugly, and the metal nameplate by the door bears the previous owners’ names.  (Why in the world haven’t we taken that down yet?)  The pieces of wicker furniture would look so much cuter if they were painted to match and had new cushions.  But despite these flaws – and perhaps even because of them, because I know there will never be an end to maintaining and improving this home – I am filled with thankfulness for what God has blessed us with.  The exhaustion that threatened to overtake me a few minutes ago has receded a bit, and I feel refreshed.  The refreshment is mostly mental and spiritual, and my body is still weary.  But it’s enough to get me through the day.

Embrace Your Place

I got a call from my husband at about 11:00pm.  “We’re at a gas station now, but I think Jr.’s going to need an x-ray tonight.”  Ugh.  Seriously?  I was in my pajamas, settled in bed with my laptop, thinking about actually going to sleep soon.  But my husband had to get up and out the door for work in the morning, and I did not, so it was logical for me to take the kid to the ER if he did indeed need to go that night.

My 15-yr-old son walked through the door, shivering because it was freezing outside and he was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, in too much pain to change after playing basketball at our church’s open gym night.  He also was holding a paper towel full of ice on his wrist, and it was dripping coldly all over him.

As soon as I saw the pain in his face, and how gingerly he shuffled down the hall, my annoyance at being disturbed vanished. “Can we get a coat on you?”  He winced.  Nope.  I threw a sweatshirt over his shoulders and grabbed a blanket and my purse.

In the next 18 hours (after three hours in the emergency room, an inconclusive set of x-rays, a visit to the orthopedist, a temporary cast on his possibly-broken wrist, and a padded and wrapped possibly-broken elbow on the OPPOSITE arm) I began to do something I had not done in quite a while.  I took care of my son.

I held doors open for him.  I buckled his seat belt.  I held the ice pack on his wrist when his hand went numb.  I put pills in his mouth and held a cup to his lips so he could drink water.  I untied his shoes and pulled them off.  I prepared him food and drink when we got home, and tucked a blanket around him on the recliner before I passed out on the couch.

In the days that followed, I continued to serve him.  There was so much he couldn’t do.  Put his sweatshirt on and off.  Put his socks on.  Wash his hair.  Open a pill bottle.  Pour himself a drink.

This first-born child of mine is independent with a capital I and has been since he was very young.  Yes, he’s still needed me.  To talk to him.  To teach him.  To guide his decisions.  To drive him where he wants to go.  To grant permission for the things he wants to do.  To embarrass him by dancing in the kitchen.  But he hasn’t NEEDED me.

There’s something different about serving him now than there was before.  Babies and toddlers need parents to provide for their every need.  To do everything for them.  The willingness to do those things springs from our love and adoration of them.  But then they learn how to do things for themselves, in leaps and bounds, needing us a little less every day.  We rejoice with pride at their new accomplishments.  But there’s also a pang, with each step toward independence, at the unprecedented separation.  It’s as it should be…..and yet….

I have served this boy-man of mine through this time of healing, and it has been my pleasure.  I’m reading my own words here, and I know it seems like I’m romanticizing something small and mundane.  Of course my child, who is closer to being grown than being born, doesn’t need me to care for his physical needs anymore.  Of course, when the need arose I took up that care again, willingly.  So why all the emotional blather?

This past weekend I attended a women’s conference called IF:Gathering.  My church hosted an IF:Local simulcast, and I was there for over 15 hours over two days, worshiping God, enjoying time with some amazing friends, and being fed spiritually.  What I gleaned from the women who shared from God’s Word and their hearts is worthy of a dozen blog posts.

From my notes:  Embrace your place….when God is ready to use you, He will find you!  and Service is preparation for battle, not performance.

In our small group discussion time, we addressed a question about how to focus on the eternal a midst the practical.  A wise woman in my group (a.k.a. my mom) reminded us that during the years when our lives are consumed with the 24/7 acts of service associated with raising children, we are also ministering to their souls.  We are attending to their eternal souls with our practical, mundane, sometimes thankless service to their physical needs.

Whether they are just hours old and completely vulnerable, or approaching adulthood and quite capable….

Whether the ones you are serving are your children, parents, and siblings….or your neighbors, friends, and strangers….

Serving practical needs IS eternal, because those you are ministering to have eternal souls. 

Mothers, your mothering makes you great.  Your service to your children is service to your King, and it’s preparing you for whatever He has for you in the future.  Never, ever, believe the lie that what you do is only valuable in the moment.

Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Everybody can be great…because anybody can serve. You don’t have to have a college degree to serve. You don’t have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love.”

Rotten Day

During my lunch “break” yesterday (in other words, while I picked the meat off a leftover chicken carcass, dipped it in buffalo sauce before eating it, then worked on school corrections) I watched an episode of the show “Revolution,” which I love, and has also just been cancelled (not sure if I have any friends to commiserate with me on the injustice of that decision).  The show takes place 15 years after a worldwide apocalyptic blackout.  Life is primitive, and brutal.

In one scene of this episode, our hero, Miles Matheson, is racing in his horse-drawn wagon to evade a band of bad  guys trying to kill him, as usual.  The wagon overturns.  He is a sharp-shooter, so as soon as the bad guys catch up to him, he has no trouble doing away with most of them.  With one guy left standing, Miles is out of bullets, darn it!  They reach for their swords, and Miles eventually kills his opponent, but only after sustaining a severe stab wound to the gut.  Ouch!  He wanders off in search of his friends.

Coming to the ruins of a house, Miles stops to look around, and falls through the rotten floor boards into the basement. Obviously injured further, and wincing in pain, he looks over to see a First Aid kit on the floor next to him.  He can barely reach it, but when he does, he finds that it is empty.  “This is a really bad day,” he says.  Just then, a teetering brick wall of the ruins falls over, crashing over the opening to the basement, where he is now trapped.

I’m not sure if the writers of this intense sci-fi drama intended for that scene to have a touch of humor, but I laughed out loud.  One life-threatening situation after another, and he says it’s a “really bad day”?  It was the ultimate understatement, and it was also a statement I could relate to.  I was having a really, really bad day.  Here’s why:

1) The health issues I have blogged about have impacted my sleep pattern in a big way.  I used to wake up early enough to work out, eat breakfast alone, shower and dress, and do some light yard work before my kids woke up.  It was glorious!  I felt relaxed, put-together, and ready to face a day of parenting and home school.

Now I can barely drag myself out of bed, usually after a few of my kiddos are already up.  After 7 or 8 hours of sleep, I still feel like I could sleep for hours, and each step of getting up takes a concerted effort (open eyes, remove covers, swing legs to floor, sit up, etc.). I have no alone time, and I’m rushing to get ready for the day when my kids are already asking for help with their school work.  I have neither the energy nor the time for working out.  As a result, I’m grumpy.  A lot.

2)  Also due to the changes in my health, I have a negative, self-depreciating narrative on a loop in my brain, which I fight against constantly.  I pray it away, but it just comes back.  I feel like crap most of the time, both mentally and physically.

3)  On this particular morning, my three younger daughters, who are required to amuse themselves while the big kids do school (that’s why God gave you siblings!), could not seem to get along.  First the middle one came crying that the other two won’t be her “best buddies” anymore.  Then the older one complained that the little girls won’t play with her, or that what they’re playing is stupid, or that they’re stupid, or that I’m stupid because I look unimpressed with her tragic dilemma.

4)  We were having a rough school day.  Warm, breezy weather distracted us.  A dead mouse on the porch was uber fascinating.  The work was too hard.  The teacher was unfair.  The teacher hates the students.  By lunch time, I had spent all my time breaking up arguments and fielding complaints, while the correction pile had grown to a leaning tower of workbooks (how they actually got any work done is still a mystery).

So my lunch “break” arrived and I endured a few interruptions (no, you may not have Pepsi.  yes, please eat the leftovers.  do whatever you want, but for the love of God, please let me eat!).  I chuckled at Miles Matheson’s “really bad day.”  I smiled.  Ok, so maybe my morning wasn’t so bad.  Deep breath and move on.

Only…..my day didn’t get the memo that we were moving on from rotten.  Ready for act two?  (If you are still reading, I promise there’s a point to all this…..I hope…..still waiting for that part to download.)

5)  Bad school attitude continued until it was time for chores to begin.  Most of the children complied, but two little ones laid on their bedroom floor and refused to clean up the ankle-deep dress-ups and dolls.  Stern discipline was employed, followed by wailing.  I had a hard time drumming up tenderness for the follow-up hug.

6)  After a relatively smooth preparation for a family outing to my husband and son’s church league softball game, I realized on the way there that I forgot to take my vitamin D supplement, which affects both my energy level and my mood stability.  Great.

7)  We arrived at the ball field to find gusting winds.  It cut the humidity, which was nice, but posed a problem for our dinner plans.  We rarely try to eat at ball games, but this night we had take out Haitian food from a fundraiser.  Strong winds do not mix well with serving rice, beans, and chicken on paper plates to small children.  Food went flying, and my church friends got to hear the opposite of my “super-patient-in-public-you’d-never-guess-I-have-a-temper” voice.  I was so irritated that I was only slightly embarrassed at my tone.

8)  Haitian food got mixed reviews.  Some children started asking for snacks.  I had brought none, of course, because we were having dinner.  Here’s a Dum Dum, kid.

9)  It was dry.  Like, desert dry.  And you remember I said it was windy, right?  It was an action-packed game.  With every mad dash to steal a base, or slide, or really, even a batter getting walked to first base, an immense cloud of dirt wooshed over us.  Only on our side of the field.  The wind never changed direction, the whole time.  I could taste it, gritty on my teeth.  My hair went stiff with a coating of dirt on it.  It’s in my eyes.  I had to close them for 5 minutes when dirt got stuck under my contacts.  I almost ripped them out of my eyes to throw them away, but my tears finally did their job.

10) When we left the game, it was almost 8pm on a school night, and every one of us needed a bath or shower when we got home.  It started to rain, and then we were driving in a torrential downpour while I clenched my armrests and prayed.  We made it home alive.

And that’s it.  The rest was cake.  I filed the kids and adults through the shower, one after the other.  Here, eat a banana.  Night-night.  As I walked through the final, and peaceful by comparison, hours of my day, I began writing this post in my head. It seemed too ridiculously frustrating and real not to share.   But I kept coming to a dead end.  What was the point?  Where is the lesson?  What grand conclusion will I wrap up with a pretty bow to give this rather long-winded list of bad-day events some meaning?

Well, folks, it’s nothing profound or new or insightful.  This is real life.  Whether you have 2 kids or 20, there are bound to be days when everything goes wrong.  Some people assume that because I have a large family, life must be chaotic.  (On a side note, be careful what you say in front of your kids.  I once had a young child say to me, “You must be SO stressed out with SO many kids.”  Gee, I wonder where she heard that?)  The truth is that my life is no more chaotic than it was when I had a smaller family.  Really.  On most days, there may be a squabble or two, or one kid is a little grumpy.  Days like yesterday, when everyone seems to be in a foul mood, and things go wrong the entire day, and my body and brain can’t keep up with it all…..those are few and far between.

At the end of every day, including the rotten ones, I can rest in the arms of my Savior and know beyond a shadow of a doubt that He has my back.  When I fail, He covers my mistakes with grace and love.  He shows me how to love my children when the you’re-so-mean’s make it so, so hard.  It’s in His power that I mother, on good days and bad days.   Period.  On my own, I’m weak.  The inevitable failures destroy me and leave me without hope.  But with HIM, there is always hope.  Sweet, life-saving hope.

Second Verse, Same as the First; A Song of Thanksgiving

After weeks of brooding over my “normal” diagnosis regarding my thyroid function, I called my endocrinologist.  I asked for more tests.  I braved the hospital lab early on a cold Saturday morning.  I met an angel phlebotomist who, when I started to cry, asked me, “Have you been tortured?  I can always tell the ones who’ve been tortured.”  She promised me that she would only stick me if she was 110% sure, and she kept that promise.  I smiled when she assured me that I was, in fact, bleeding freely.

Four pages of tests.  Ten vials of blood.  I don’t even remember all that was on the list.  Celiac, rheumatoid something, hormones galore, adrenal function, vitamin levels.  A week and a half later, I heard from my doctor’s nurse, Frankie.  She went through the list, saying, “That’s good,” every time she said that the result was normal.  My heart sank with each item, and my brain screamed, “This is the opposite of good!”  Being unwell with no explanation is not GOOD.

Finally, she let me know that my vitamin D was low, and that I should supplement.  And also, did I want to come back to see the doctor in a year?  I nearly threw the phone on the floor at that suggestion.  I was supposed to just live with my growing list of symptoms for twelve months, go back, and what?  Have her tell me that there still was “nothing wrong with me”?  Vitamin D was not going to fix all that ails me.  I insisted that I need to see her soon, and got an appointment for next month.

I won’t give the details of my physical reaction in the aftermath of this conversation, or the plummeting of my hope for healing, or the desperation that was skillfully calmed by the wisest woman I know (a.k.a. Mom, of course).  Instead, I want to share with you the joyful prayer of thanksgiving that escaped my lips, when I decided to focus on all that my body has done and can do, instead of the ways it is deficient now.

1.  My body has grown 8 healthy children within it, through normal, uncomplicated pregnancies.  Though not without their discomforts, I did not spend all those months vomiting, or bed-ridden, or in fear for my or my child’s life

2.  My body has given birth 8 times; again, normally, and without complications.  I was blessed to give birth 6 times in the comfort of my own home, with amazing support and care all around me.  I experienced the beauty of God’s design; although fraught with the pain that came when sin entered the world, I am in awe of what He made my body to do.

3.  My body has nourished 8 children with the milk it produced, on average for about 16 months each.  They all thrived on that perfect food, and the joy that came with warmth and overwhelming love was more than enough to counter the few “issues” I had with breastfeeding.

4.  My body shed the copious pounds put on during pregnancy seven times.  Seven times I gained and lost an average of 50 lbs.   Beginning with my third pregnancy, I had to work for it, but my body always responded to me treating it right.

5.  My body rarely gets sick.  I don’t often get colds, and I’ve never had an illness worse than strep throat.  I get a stomach bug maybe every other year.

6.  My body has never had a broken bone or needed stitches.  That may be more a testimony to my lifestyle and choice of activities, but I’m thankful for it nonetheless.

7.  My body has never needed surgery, aside from dental surgery.  I have never had to be admitted to a hospital, for any reason.

8.  My body is fairly well coordinated, and I have a good sense of rhythm.  I’m pretty sure I would rock at Zumba, if I ever had the chance to try it

As I tearfully thanked God for all of these things, my mind kept trying to interject, “but what about…”  But I shut it down, again and again, and returned to the things that I am thankful for.  As my mom reminded me, I am fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14).  Whatever else may come, that will always be true.

Not Normal

Normal.

Most people want to be it.  A few crazy souls do everything they can NOT to be it.  I never expected it to be a word that brought tears to my eyes and a lump to my throat.

My long-awaited endocrinologist appointment had come and gone.  She was caring and attentive, and I got through my blood work with nary a tear.  (Just go for the back of my hand….see those nice veins?)  Then I waited for the results to see if I had Hashimoto’s disease: a thyroid condition that runs in my family, and that I was sure was the reason for my myriad of annoying symptoms.

Weight gain despite healthy habits.  Increasing fatigue.  Shortened monthly cycles.  Depression.  Brain fog.  Feeling cold all the time.  A couple of “episodes” that I’m pretty sure were hot flashes.  (At 35, hello!!!)  Etc.

I almost forgot about the results coming from the lab.  We were getting close to moving….dangerously close.  It was two days before our proposed closing date, and we still didn’t have 100% confirmation.  The owner of the home we were buying wouldn’t grant us early entry to start preparing the home for us, and it was stressing me out, big time.

Then I opened that piece of mail, and the word “normal,” highlighted on the first page, caught in my throat as I almost read it out loud.  I walked around in a bit of a daze, choking back sobs and blinking away tears.  I felt my body had betrayed me yet again.  If you’re going to have all these issues, can’t you at least have a corresponding illness that can be rectified with a pill?  Does it have to always be a big, infuriating, lousy, stupid question mark?

I didn’t know what to do with myself, or my non-diagnosis.  After a couple of hours, I got a phone call.  Closing confirmed for day after tomorrow!  We were moving, and the next few days were an exhausting whirlwind.  That’s a post all it’s own, and maybe I’ll get to it someday.

So here we are, in our new home.  Christmas was just five days after the move.  Cleaning, unpacking, painting.  New Year’s.  More painting, ripping up carpet.  In the moments between, that word “normal” haunts my thoughts.  What now?

I said months ago that “my God’s got this.”  He still does, I remind myself wearily.  I have to believe that, because His love for me is evident in every other area of my life.  There’s not a chance that He would so lovingly care for my home, my children, my spouse, his job, my extended family, and not care for my health, both mental and physical.  He cares.  So.  much.

No New Year’s resolutions for me.  The one big thing I would like to change, I have no control over.  I have faith in my Healer, whether it comes miraculously and instantly, or through my doctor, more testing, and medication.  It’s all good.   (Please tell me it is!)

Facebook, You Don’t Even Want to Know

“What’s on your mind?” asks facebook.  Every day.  Or, if I’m being honest, several times a day.  I don’t know, facebook, I’m pretty sure you couldn’t handle the deluge.  I’ve got enough going on in my brain for a dozen blog posts, but it’s all dammed up.  Severe writer’s block.  That dam is built of fear and sealed tight with procrastination.

Fear of writing poorly, of not doing my subject matter justice.

Fear of judgement (a word I hate, and think is so overused and wrongly defined, yet I’m using it anyway).

Fear of not being taken seriously.

But I know that “God has not given me a spirit of fear.”  My passions….the things I care about…..the causes I fight for…..the stands I take…..   they are all from Him.  Sometimes I’m not sure that they’re from Him, when those passions bring on the aforementioned judgement.  So I pray.  I ask God to take it away, to please not ask me to stand for that.  It’s too hard.  People will get angry.  They will say nasty things to me, and call me names, and accuse ME of judgement.  If the passion remains, I press on, placing my trust in Christ alone.

So that’s the deep, profound side of my brain cloud.  Also on tap:

Selling our house – where is my faith?  One day I’m sure it’s all going to fall to pieces, and the next, God pulls everything back into alignment.

Buying our “forever” home – same thing as above, only add in some mold, mice, and dangerous chemicals.  (The inspector called it “Mr. Wizard’s Workshop.”)

Homeschooling – my children can sense my restlessness at wanting to just pack up and get out of here, but not knowing when that will happen, and they are just as unfocused as I am.

Teenager in the house, and 3 tweens – yeah.

Still in a foreign body – working on a new method of eating, and waiting for my appointment with the endocrinologist.  Avoiding mirrors.  Going to invest in some very baggy shirts.

In all of this, one thing is true.  My God is faithful.  When everything seems to be crumbling, and out of my control, He is faithful.  Tonight an old worship song rescued my weary soul.

“In Christ alone, I place my trust
And find my glory in the power of the Cross
In every victory, let it be said of me
My source of strength, my source of hope is Christ alone”