Do you have a TV? We do. If I can be honest, I think it remains turned on more than it should, but it is this mama's cheap babysitter for a portion of the day. We are also a football-watching family. Boomer Sooner. Our chosen programs mostly focus on matters of real estate and home renovations, children's programming, and the good ol', trusty Wheel of Fortune. Eleven years ago, my husband and I predicted what it would be like to be cool at thirty, and dinnertime Wheel of Fortune was involved. It is nice to know we are embracing our younger selves' idea of total coolness.
After our girls' bedtime, the hubby and I rummage through our Netflix library of investigative shows or lighthearted comedies. One of our favorite series follows a group of misfit employees through years of workplace shenanigans and personal, tumultuous relationships. Let The Office fans unite! And if full disclosure is in order, I can also waste countless hours lost in sappy Hallmark movies or a few network dramas sure to leave me a sobbing mess. I should have covertly slipped "through corny and overly-sentimental television programs" into my husband's wedding vows to me as he still refuses to oblige.
Now that I have divulged my family's ever-so-entertaining TV agenda, you might be pondering the purpose of this soon-to-come tirade. You see, a few weeks ago, I saw a commercial for another weeknight network show, and it was disheartening. Repulsive, really. I chuckled with disbelief before gasping with utter disappointment. This show boasted of attention-gripping entertainment for its viewers while contestants sought to find their spouse within the one-hour television block. Yep, the proposals were real, and the rings were real. Supposedly.
I am not doubting that proposal and engagement customs have changed over the years, and I will even admit that my husband's and my story is less than traditional. We met and married in about five months. Eek. Our journey has not been perfect or easy either, but the both of us have learned something very important: a marriage worth having takes grit. Commitment, selflessness, and solidarity are just a few essential components to a prosperous relationship. From the little I saw, the show failed to explore substantial content, and so wrongly conveyed marriage in a negative manner. How can those couples expect to withstand life's storms together when they take marriage so lightly? There is little real-life to a reality show engagement.
The need for instant gratification is a distinctive trait of this generation. Two-day shipping. Sign me up! Grocery pickup. Yesss, please! Subscription shopping. Take my money! By no means am I faulting these practices. As a mama-of-many, I heavily rely on these services to lessen my stress-inducing workload. But we should be careful that our reliance on convenient services does not plant seeds of expectations in other areas of life. My marriage is not always gratifying, nor is it always convenient or stress-free. Sometimes, laundering my husband's pile of dirty work clothes at 9pm is dissatisfying. Can he not wash his own clothes on the weekends? Sometimes, cooking a hearty dinner for him is inconvenient. I would rather throw a couple extra corn dogs into the oven. Sometimes, offering a listening ear to his professional challenges is stressful. I can have exhausting days, too. It is easy to be a selfish woman, but God calls me to be a selfless wife.
Not one year of our marriage has been or will be the same; some seasons bring bliss and others bring storms. The commitment my husband and I made to one another helps us navigate through the choppy waters and makes the sunshine that much warmer. We have learned that jumping ship betrays our promise--to ourselves and our children. (Just last week, our oldest daughter asked me to make a promise to her like the vow I made her daddy. She was convinced that kind of promise was sure to hold me accountable.) There are days we do not mesh well. Some conflicts are petty, and some issues are more substantial, but neither of us have expectations of quick fixes. We both desire and strive for less friction, so compassion and collaboration are a long-lasting approach to a better version of us. We enjoy a lot of victories, conquering this marriage thing "like a boss." Never does our real-life marriage mirror the inauthentic dynamics of a reality show relationship, and I am okay with that.
I think now is an appropriate opportunity to acknowledge that failed marriages exist. Some of my favorite people walked from previous marriages or had spouses who were not true to their vows. For whatever the circumstances, those relationships dissolved, but God has blessed those people still. I firmly believe that God can redeem any situation and bring back to life a lifeless love. And because our Father is one of grace, He also blesses second marriages, and third marriages, and beyond. When a husband and wife are fixed on the One who designed marriage, in all its sanctity, there will be healing, intimacy, and growth.
Attempting to identify the TV show's worst offense, I hone in on the bloated idea of self. A selfish wife cannot prioritize her husband when too consumed with her own emptiness. Equally, a selfish husband cannot prioritize his wife when too consumed with his own emptiness. Much of today's entertainment and advertisement industries prompt emotional decision making. We are told to do what makes us happy and say what helps express our every-changing emotions, no matter the effect on those around us. A selfish world is a hurtful one, an unkind one, and an inconsiderate one. A dear friend planted such a precious seed of kindness and generosity into her young son, a few weeks back: "God first, then others, then yourself." I recant those same words to our daughters on the regular, and I am proud of my friend for raising my future son-in-law so well.
I would be lying if I said that I successfully tackle my marriage every day, but I am granted the opportunity for a reset with every waking moment and extra cup of coffee I get. Being kind and helpful and loving to my husband today ensures I can be kind and helpful and loving to my husband tomorrow. Do not let the show fool you. Marriage is hard! There are no quick fixes, and it takes a heaping amount of selfless love to prioritize my husband before myself. So, what happens after the show ends? Does the network provide marriage counseling to help couples survive the storms, or does its interest cease with the rolling of the credits? Weddings can be beautiful and the talk of the tabloids, but the extravagance and publicity does not dictate a successful marriage. My marriage may not be a Hollywood hot topic, but my husband and I would rather it be a success story shared with our children, our grandchildren, and beyond.
Monday, July 23, 2018
Saturday, June 16, 2018
A Little Place Called Home
Foundation, walls, and a roof--a lot of life can be lived in such confines. That place offered security, familiarity, and comfort; no other feels quite like it. The brick may look aged, the walls slathered in decades' worth of paint, and the roof beaten by unforgiving springtime storms, but that dwelling was home. Our short-lived possession is only a fraction of its existence, but it was the place of so much life for my sweet family.
I can remember driving back from the title company as brand-new homeowners, holding our new keys in one hand and my husband's hand in another. I asked him to remind me of our new zip code, then repeated it in my head until memorized. Although proud of ourselves for the accomplishment, we were nervous to abandon the lesser obligation of renting. We discussed interior paint colors and furniture arrangement, while cruising through the city we would grow to love. The next few days were a tired-eye blur of emptying boxes and overeating fast food, but, almost immediately, our life was shaken.
Within the first week of living in our new home, our little family experienced one of the most frightening days we can recall; a deadly tornado barreled through our state, leveling miles of civilization in its track. With only one-half a mile of protection, our lives and our new home were spared, but our town was forever scarred. The following months of cleaning and rebuilding did little to hide the storm's damage, but that town, our new home, proved resilient. Over the five years of our life in that house, we encountered beauty and ugliness, good health and sickness, joy and sorrow. It feels as if parts of our hearts are now tattooed onto the beams of its framework. The memories created there are at the core of our beings. Our marriage grew there. We welcomed precious babies there; endured military deployments there; and shed tears for lost family members there. We will not always own that home, but it will always feel like home.
Moving day came, at the end of March, and I was ill-prepared for the flooding of emotions I encountered. I awoke on my thirtieth birthday grateful for our family's willingness to conquer the day's feat, but the day's events proved difficult for my heart to process. The removal of furniture exposed hidden clumps of dust and dog fur and left random, nonessential toys and decor cast aside. Our once-quaint and well-kept home so sweetly adorned with keepsakes and our babies' pictures was entirely disheveled. Unfamiliar. The rental truck and every available vehicle was loaded, our children were buckled into car seats, our dogs on their leashes, and my husband and I walked out of the first home we ever owned together. I was holding our old keys in one hand and my husband's hand in another.
There are a couple of things I learned about myself, throughout the transition. Firstly, I am a hoarder of replacement clothing buttons--the ones in teeny, Ziploc-like bags attached to clothing tags. Secondly, big makes me feel small, and new makes me crave the old. There is nothing cozy or familiar about a home that is void of sentimental value, no matter the bedroom count or the size of its closets. In fact, most of my emotional moments (read: ugly-crying moments) occur because I can so easily close my eyes and imagine my babies dancing with each other in the old living room. I see them running down the old hallway to welcome their daddy home, or their quick skip across to our old bedroom for weekend morning snuggles. Similar memories will be established here, and probably a lot of them, but, for the unforeseen future, this home will be the "new" home, and we all know how I feel about new things.
It has been a couple months since our move. There was little opportunity for writing and my heart certainly needed time to embrace the changes. My husband tirelessly worked at the old house to remove most evidence of our residency, in hopes of meeting a new family's expectations of the lived-in space. Along the way, drawings were removed from the girls' bedroom door and sticky, little fingerprints were painted over in the hallway. More and more, it reflected less and less of us and will soon belong to another family.
Just as with clothing buttons, I am a hoarder of sentiment. I keep our girls' birthday cards and deflated birthday balloons. I have their hospital bracelets, first pacifiers, and adorable locks of wavy, baby hair preserved between tape. Are you wondering if I have one of their first used bandages? You are not wondering that? Well, I do, much to my husband's disgust (and yours, too, I am sure). I want to collect all the evidence of their childhood I can so that, one day, I can offer them and me a glimpse into their past. If our memories begin to blur, we can bring back to life some of our most enjoyed moments. Except for some dozen pictures and a front door key, there is nothing tangible from our first home I can store away for later reminiscing. That house is merely an old chapter. A closed door... literally.
One of my greatest struggles in life is embracing change. I oftentimes find myself being dragged by life, digging my heels into the ground contesting its ever-changing phases. The logical approach, of course. I remember spending days as a teenager wishing my life could advance a good ten years to marriage and motherhood. Wish granted, and I now understand the importance of savoring my todays before they become yesterdays. What if I find myself turned around, though, staring through my tears at a pile of yesterdays, neglecting to welcome today's offering of adventure and blessing? It is a pendulum needing balance that can so easily swing out of control.
Last week, my husband and girls were outside cleaning up our front landscaping. It was a productive day with plenty of sweat and adventure for all, and, if just a little, this new house became a tad more ours. This phase still feels unfamiliar, and it will take a while before our memories here exceed those created at the old house, but I am grateful for Who ordained this life for me and His unyielding guidance. His design for our family's future will always exceed my expectations and what I think is best for us. He is constant; yesterday, today, and tomorrow, His comfort and guidance are steadfast. I can wake all my tomorrows knowing He had purpose in bringing our family to this new place--this little place called home.
"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens..."
Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NIV)
I can remember driving back from the title company as brand-new homeowners, holding our new keys in one hand and my husband's hand in another. I asked him to remind me of our new zip code, then repeated it in my head until memorized. Although proud of ourselves for the accomplishment, we were nervous to abandon the lesser obligation of renting. We discussed interior paint colors and furniture arrangement, while cruising through the city we would grow to love. The next few days were a tired-eye blur of emptying boxes and overeating fast food, but, almost immediately, our life was shaken.
Within the first week of living in our new home, our little family experienced one of the most frightening days we can recall; a deadly tornado barreled through our state, leveling miles of civilization in its track. With only one-half a mile of protection, our lives and our new home were spared, but our town was forever scarred. The following months of cleaning and rebuilding did little to hide the storm's damage, but that town, our new home, proved resilient. Over the five years of our life in that house, we encountered beauty and ugliness, good health and sickness, joy and sorrow. It feels as if parts of our hearts are now tattooed onto the beams of its framework. The memories created there are at the core of our beings. Our marriage grew there. We welcomed precious babies there; endured military deployments there; and shed tears for lost family members there. We will not always own that home, but it will always feel like home.
Moving day came, at the end of March, and I was ill-prepared for the flooding of emotions I encountered. I awoke on my thirtieth birthday grateful for our family's willingness to conquer the day's feat, but the day's events proved difficult for my heart to process. The removal of furniture exposed hidden clumps of dust and dog fur and left random, nonessential toys and decor cast aside. Our once-quaint and well-kept home so sweetly adorned with keepsakes and our babies' pictures was entirely disheveled. Unfamiliar. The rental truck and every available vehicle was loaded, our children were buckled into car seats, our dogs on their leashes, and my husband and I walked out of the first home we ever owned together. I was holding our old keys in one hand and my husband's hand in another.
There are a couple of things I learned about myself, throughout the transition. Firstly, I am a hoarder of replacement clothing buttons--the ones in teeny, Ziploc-like bags attached to clothing tags. Secondly, big makes me feel small, and new makes me crave the old. There is nothing cozy or familiar about a home that is void of sentimental value, no matter the bedroom count or the size of its closets. In fact, most of my emotional moments (read: ugly-crying moments) occur because I can so easily close my eyes and imagine my babies dancing with each other in the old living room. I see them running down the old hallway to welcome their daddy home, or their quick skip across to our old bedroom for weekend morning snuggles. Similar memories will be established here, and probably a lot of them, but, for the unforeseen future, this home will be the "new" home, and we all know how I feel about new things.
It has been a couple months since our move. There was little opportunity for writing and my heart certainly needed time to embrace the changes. My husband tirelessly worked at the old house to remove most evidence of our residency, in hopes of meeting a new family's expectations of the lived-in space. Along the way, drawings were removed from the girls' bedroom door and sticky, little fingerprints were painted over in the hallway. More and more, it reflected less and less of us and will soon belong to another family.
Just as with clothing buttons, I am a hoarder of sentiment. I keep our girls' birthday cards and deflated birthday balloons. I have their hospital bracelets, first pacifiers, and adorable locks of wavy, baby hair preserved between tape. Are you wondering if I have one of their first used bandages? You are not wondering that? Well, I do, much to my husband's disgust (and yours, too, I am sure). I want to collect all the evidence of their childhood I can so that, one day, I can offer them and me a glimpse into their past. If our memories begin to blur, we can bring back to life some of our most enjoyed moments. Except for some dozen pictures and a front door key, there is nothing tangible from our first home I can store away for later reminiscing. That house is merely an old chapter. A closed door... literally.
One of my greatest struggles in life is embracing change. I oftentimes find myself being dragged by life, digging my heels into the ground contesting its ever-changing phases. The logical approach, of course. I remember spending days as a teenager wishing my life could advance a good ten years to marriage and motherhood. Wish granted, and I now understand the importance of savoring my todays before they become yesterdays. What if I find myself turned around, though, staring through my tears at a pile of yesterdays, neglecting to welcome today's offering of adventure and blessing? It is a pendulum needing balance that can so easily swing out of control.
Last week, my husband and girls were outside cleaning up our front landscaping. It was a productive day with plenty of sweat and adventure for all, and, if just a little, this new house became a tad more ours. This phase still feels unfamiliar, and it will take a while before our memories here exceed those created at the old house, but I am grateful for Who ordained this life for me and His unyielding guidance. His design for our family's future will always exceed my expectations and what I think is best for us. He is constant; yesterday, today, and tomorrow, His comfort and guidance are steadfast. I can wake all my tomorrows knowing He had purpose in bringing our family to this new place--this little place called home.
"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens..."
Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NIV)
Monday, October 23, 2017
Lonely in a Crowded Room
Postpartum.
This is my fourth encounter of you, and I have succumbed to your oppressive and depressing grasp, once more. I loathe you, joy-stealer. You take my sleep, you fog my logic, and your tears blur my beautiful, new reality. Your grip punctures my delicate heart like barbed wire, and days of new-baby bliss are oftentimes distorted into exhaustive and emotional confusion, in the mere blink of my tear-stained eyes. My thoughts are unbridled and contradicting; I question all that I know about motherhood and my ability to love my children... and myself again.
I knew you were coming--you wreaked havoc here before--but I am always caught by surprise. You allow me only a few days of uninterrupted joy with God's precious new creation, before you barge into my heart and head with your tumultuous, wrecking ball of a presence. In a room filled by the warmth and love of family and dear friends, you make me feel alone. They ask if I am okay, but you and I know my answer is dishonest. There really are no words to help explain my state of... whatever you are. I fail at expressing how you change me; the best description I can muster is weird. Abnormal. Lonely. Ugly.
You take advantage of the fatigue, of the achy and recovering body, of the mama who no longer feels pretty. The previous months of "glowing" are swiftly overshadowed by untoned and stretch mark-ridden skin, bulky feminine products, and soggy nursing pads. In the middle of the night, your imbalanced hormones leave me drenched in cold sweats; I find no comfort in my damp, chilly sheets. Soon, your physical toll will be evident in the clumps of hair clogging our shower drain. Though I return to wearing pre-maternity clothing, you prevent me from feeling like my old self. I am unfamiliar with this new me. I stare into the mirror and see your damage; my reflection looks forlorn.
My children still find comfort in my embrace, while I feel awkward in my own skin. The youngest ones beg to "hold you," manipulating me into testing the integrity of my stitches. I am determined to prove you wrong--that I am a good mother, capable of fulfilling each child's unique needs. But you unapologetically remind me that I leave them needing more of me; their tears and sticky grips are evidence of that. You even bombard into my marriage, convincing me that my husband's tender words of endearment are bore out of insincere obligation.
Who knows how long you will stick around and when I will begin to resemble my old self. Sooner or later, these smothering waves of emotion will allow me to feel unforced happiness again and recognize the weary reflection staring back at me. Eventually, I will break loose from your suffocating grasp and bask in the glory of my chaotic, sleep-deprived, baby love-filled reality. You cannot steal this life from me. Tomorrow may be better, but, today, I loathe you, joy-stealer.
"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit."
Romans 15:13 (NIV)
This is my fourth encounter of you, and I have succumbed to your oppressive and depressing grasp, once more. I loathe you, joy-stealer. You take my sleep, you fog my logic, and your tears blur my beautiful, new reality. Your grip punctures my delicate heart like barbed wire, and days of new-baby bliss are oftentimes distorted into exhaustive and emotional confusion, in the mere blink of my tear-stained eyes. My thoughts are unbridled and contradicting; I question all that I know about motherhood and my ability to love my children... and myself again.
I knew you were coming--you wreaked havoc here before--but I am always caught by surprise. You allow me only a few days of uninterrupted joy with God's precious new creation, before you barge into my heart and head with your tumultuous, wrecking ball of a presence. In a room filled by the warmth and love of family and dear friends, you make me feel alone. They ask if I am okay, but you and I know my answer is dishonest. There really are no words to help explain my state of... whatever you are. I fail at expressing how you change me; the best description I can muster is weird. Abnormal. Lonely. Ugly.
You take advantage of the fatigue, of the achy and recovering body, of the mama who no longer feels pretty. The previous months of "glowing" are swiftly overshadowed by untoned and stretch mark-ridden skin, bulky feminine products, and soggy nursing pads. In the middle of the night, your imbalanced hormones leave me drenched in cold sweats; I find no comfort in my damp, chilly sheets. Soon, your physical toll will be evident in the clumps of hair clogging our shower drain. Though I return to wearing pre-maternity clothing, you prevent me from feeling like my old self. I am unfamiliar with this new me. I stare into the mirror and see your damage; my reflection looks forlorn.
My children still find comfort in my embrace, while I feel awkward in my own skin. The youngest ones beg to "hold you," manipulating me into testing the integrity of my stitches. I am determined to prove you wrong--that I am a good mother, capable of fulfilling each child's unique needs. But you unapologetically remind me that I leave them needing more of me; their tears and sticky grips are evidence of that. You even bombard into my marriage, convincing me that my husband's tender words of endearment are bore out of insincere obligation.
Who knows how long you will stick around and when I will begin to resemble my old self. Sooner or later, these smothering waves of emotion will allow me to feel unforced happiness again and recognize the weary reflection staring back at me. Eventually, I will break loose from your suffocating grasp and bask in the glory of my chaotic, sleep-deprived, baby love-filled reality. You cannot steal this life from me. Tomorrow may be better, but, today, I loathe you, joy-stealer.
"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit."
Romans 15:13 (NIV)
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Poor Daddy
If you have read any of my articles before, it is likely you know that I attract quite a fair amount of unwarranted commentary and criticism from brazen passersby. You see a pregnant mama with three little girlies in tow and cannot resist the urge to inquire about our reality. Surely, I must look so disappointed with life; sadness must ooze from my eyeballs and silent screams must echo from my inner being. How on earth can we possibly be happy with these children? Apparently, our two-parents-plus-four-kids equation is missing something crucial: a boy.
Clearly adorned with an "ask me questions" sign on my back, I am no stranger to strangers' barrage of head-scratching inquiries. Even inappropriate insinuations have been hurled my way, with our innocent and unsuspecting young daughters as witnesses: "You must not know how to make boys." Cringe-worthy. Intrusive. Other statements and questions are less grotesque, but they are just as ridiculous. For the sake of information, here is a brief review...
"All girls?! Poor Daddy."
"That fourth baby is a boy, right?"
"Y'all going to keep trying for your boy?"
I am usually so astonished by the audacity that I tend to awkwardly smile and keep quiet. It is not until the drive home that I become perplexed and overwhelmed with sadness. Are you so desperate for "small talk" that you think the topic of our family is fair game? I would like to think the best of people and assume your approach is flawed, rather than your intention. Even still, these questions have implications; they are loaded with suggestion and splattered with opinion...or maybe judgment. Do you know your questions might cause harm? Inflict pain?
The cover photo of our family does not wholly depict the history its walked. That seven years ago, while expecting our first child, we heeded the sonographer's report and prepared for our son. After many shopping trips, sweet gatherings at baby showers, and safari-themed nursery preparation, we were anxiously awaiting the arrival of our sweet boy. But, because God's design for our family differed from what we anticipated, we received a Christmas surprise: our precious daughter. The sonogram images were deceiving, and our lives quickly changed gears from blue and green to purple and pink. We have never wished away our daughter, or her little sisters, but there is still a portion of our hearts reserved for a son. Each question, as illustrated above, not only intrudes into a very personal part of our family, but it also resurfaces our feelings of longing. We love a son I never carried in my womb. Not only is it difficult to process, but it is more difficult to explain.
Our story is unique, but other families have different, more painful journeys; sometimes shattered by the loss of a child or the challenges of infertility, a seemingly lighthearted question may, in fact, bring about profound sorrow. What if a mama of all girls miscarried her only son? What if a mama of all boys can no longer safely carry babies and will never have a daughter? What if my daughters hear questions that make them feel inferior? Not good enough? My daughters--these beautifully-crafted creations of the Father--might so wrongly assume they do not bring their daddy and me abundant joy, all because you had an opinion or a "funny" joke to share. Because you considered my husband a poor, helpless prisoner in a life of all girls.
I get it. Not everyone wants a family this big and not everyone can imagine a family of four daughters. All the drama, you say. Hormonal teenage years and messy bathrooms, you say. "You" neglect to consider how full Daddy's arms are at the end of the workday. The snuggles and the dances. The trips to the soccer field and golf course. The beatboxing lessons. The victory cheers celebrating his favorite sports teams. The decorative football pumpkin birthday present because, even at the craft store, his girls still think of their daddy.
Our life is rich and full of so much joy. Our little tribe is ours. It is irreplaceable. These girls are chosen--by God and by us. Do not feel sorry for our boy-less family; life is no less rewarding with daughters. Our hearts swell with love for them. Do not feel sorry for my husband; he is one spoiled daddy. Do refrain from comparing my family to some bogus, personal or social standard; we are living a life designed by God and are blessed beyond measure. And, lastly, do consider the internal implications of your commentary and questioning; you will never be able to see the scars on a mama's heart.
"I have not stopped giving thanks for you, remembering you in my prayers."
Ephesians 1:16 (NIV)
Clearly adorned with an "ask me questions" sign on my back, I am no stranger to strangers' barrage of head-scratching inquiries. Even inappropriate insinuations have been hurled my way, with our innocent and unsuspecting young daughters as witnesses: "You must not know how to make boys." Cringe-worthy. Intrusive. Other statements and questions are less grotesque, but they are just as ridiculous. For the sake of information, here is a brief review...
"All girls?! Poor Daddy."
"That fourth baby is a boy, right?"
"Y'all going to keep trying for your boy?"
I am usually so astonished by the audacity that I tend to awkwardly smile and keep quiet. It is not until the drive home that I become perplexed and overwhelmed with sadness. Are you so desperate for "small talk" that you think the topic of our family is fair game? I would like to think the best of people and assume your approach is flawed, rather than your intention. Even still, these questions have implications; they are loaded with suggestion and splattered with opinion...or maybe judgment. Do you know your questions might cause harm? Inflict pain?
The cover photo of our family does not wholly depict the history its walked. That seven years ago, while expecting our first child, we heeded the sonographer's report and prepared for our son. After many shopping trips, sweet gatherings at baby showers, and safari-themed nursery preparation, we were anxiously awaiting the arrival of our sweet boy. But, because God's design for our family differed from what we anticipated, we received a Christmas surprise: our precious daughter. The sonogram images were deceiving, and our lives quickly changed gears from blue and green to purple and pink. We have never wished away our daughter, or her little sisters, but there is still a portion of our hearts reserved for a son. Each question, as illustrated above, not only intrudes into a very personal part of our family, but it also resurfaces our feelings of longing. We love a son I never carried in my womb. Not only is it difficult to process, but it is more difficult to explain.
Our story is unique, but other families have different, more painful journeys; sometimes shattered by the loss of a child or the challenges of infertility, a seemingly lighthearted question may, in fact, bring about profound sorrow. What if a mama of all girls miscarried her only son? What if a mama of all boys can no longer safely carry babies and will never have a daughter? What if my daughters hear questions that make them feel inferior? Not good enough? My daughters--these beautifully-crafted creations of the Father--might so wrongly assume they do not bring their daddy and me abundant joy, all because you had an opinion or a "funny" joke to share. Because you considered my husband a poor, helpless prisoner in a life of all girls.
I get it. Not everyone wants a family this big and not everyone can imagine a family of four daughters. All the drama, you say. Hormonal teenage years and messy bathrooms, you say. "You" neglect to consider how full Daddy's arms are at the end of the workday. The snuggles and the dances. The trips to the soccer field and golf course. The beatboxing lessons. The victory cheers celebrating his favorite sports teams. The decorative football pumpkin birthday present because, even at the craft store, his girls still think of their daddy.
Our life is rich and full of so much joy. Our little tribe is ours. It is irreplaceable. These girls are chosen--by God and by us. Do not feel sorry for our boy-less family; life is no less rewarding with daughters. Our hearts swell with love for them. Do not feel sorry for my husband; he is one spoiled daddy. Do refrain from comparing my family to some bogus, personal or social standard; we are living a life designed by God and are blessed beyond measure. And, lastly, do consider the internal implications of your commentary and questioning; you will never be able to see the scars on a mama's heart.
"I have not stopped giving thanks for you, remembering you in my prayers."
Ephesians 1:16 (NIV)
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
The Discourager
I have been absent from the keyboard for quite some time, primarily because our little family encountered yet another detour in this overly-blessed life of ours: a fourth baby! There are few words to describe our array of emotions, but shocked and bewildered still carry some weight. After my last pregnancy, just last year, feelings of contentment unexpectedly sneaked their way into my mama heart. I could hold our third bundle and feel complete, abundantly fulfilled in my calling of motherhood.
February's positive pregnancy text shook me, rattled my confidence in my mothering capabilities, and challenged my understanding of God's work in my life and our family. I was overcome with fear and doubt, and cried for our already-here baby girl...who was only ten months old. I was convinced she would feel replaced and hate me. I was doubtful I could stretch my heart, my arms, and patience to cover another child. I was even terrified of telling my husband, bypassing all the cutesy announcement ideas; he got a phone call...at work: "Sooo, I need you to go outside." I felt completely out of control, completely blindsided, and completely unprepared for the emotion, the physical changes, and the attention that would come with this fourth pregnancy.
At five months along, we have all adjusted well to the idea of our new reality. Baby #4 is our fourth daughter, and her three big sisters will be sure she never spends a moment of her life alone. Our network of family and friends has embraced and encouraged us along this unexpected journey and helped us rebuild our confidence in ourselves and God's direction. The stares and not-so-occasional comments from strangers have been brutal, though. Apparently, it is a phenomenon to have four children and more bizarre for a family to have (or even want) four children of the same sex.
Sometimes, people can be so disappointing. In moments of their unwelcome, unfiltered gushing of nonsense, I want to run and hide. Without ever asking for it, I instantly become a public spectacle, attracting attention that makes me uneasy and defensive, for no good reason. I have become overly-aware and hyper-sensitive to the reactions I see unfold around me. People will hurl disapproving glances my way and utter rubbish under their breath because they simply do not understand. Thankfully, I know this baby was miraculously created into life by our Father's loving hands; the approval or acceptance of others is unnecessary when I know the One who breathed life into our precious daughter.
Bystanders are unaware of others' internal processing and only worsen their feelings of doubt or guilt, without taking into consideration the differences in life circumstances or God's calling for them. I was a shocked and useless onlooker of a heartbreaking incident in a breastfeeding support group on social media, a couple of months ago. This first-time mama had exclusively breastfed her daughter for six whole months (she deserves a standing ovation, y'all), but had not endured the easiest of journeys. Her many dietary sacrifices did little to help remedy her baby girl's tummy and skin issues; six months of unsavory food substitutions and eliminations proved useless. The disrespect of this hurting, reached-her-last-straw mama was gut-wrenching. The disregard of her achievements and struggles was astonishing. Mere strangers shamed her, belittling all efforts, instead of meeting her in the valley with grace and spirit-redeeming reassurance. Even the so-called encouragement was more often discouraging; respondents offered the best (ahem, good...ish) advice they could muster for the disheartened mama, but their words were splattered by remnants of their own expectations or standards on the subject. They failed to see this mama's journey for what it was for her: hard and long. Instead, argumentative, condescending, and judgmental comments scared her away; not once did she reply to anyone.
This mama wholly undeserved the lashing she suffered. At the very minimum, she deserved neutral support, advice void of self-praising, and grace-filled understanding of her personal journey and all the differences that accompanied it. She received none of that and probably gave up on her endeavors, guilt-ridden and with her head held low. After losing her post in the busyness of my feed, I posted one of my own to the group, praising this mama and her success and praying for a rejuvenation of her spirit. I am not confident she saw my post, though, for two reasons: 1) in a group of thousands of posting mamas, much goes unnoticed, and 2) the group administrator blocked further commenting on my post (reason: "to prevent further confrontation"). Evidently, my content of life-breathing truth and support was too controversial, but the ruthless attacks of this mama's character and priorities were of the acceptable nature. They persisted for hours.
Why must we have so little regard for others? Why must we prioritize our self-importance over the needs and struggles of those around us, especially those who reach out for a lifeline? A broken spirit should be treated carefully and with abundant compassion. Full disclosure of a person's life is not required for us to extend unconditional grace. We do not need understanding of a person's circumstances before we consider her or him worthy of our grace and alliance. Our words should be meticulously chosen in every situation, to ensure our mouths speak truth and are void of judgment.
"An unfriendly person pursues selfish ends and against all sound judgment starts quarrels. Fools find no pleasure in understanding but delight in airing their own opinions... The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit."
Proverbs 18:1-2; 21 (NIV)
February's positive pregnancy text shook me, rattled my confidence in my mothering capabilities, and challenged my understanding of God's work in my life and our family. I was overcome with fear and doubt, and cried for our already-here baby girl...who was only ten months old. I was convinced she would feel replaced and hate me. I was doubtful I could stretch my heart, my arms, and patience to cover another child. I was even terrified of telling my husband, bypassing all the cutesy announcement ideas; he got a phone call...at work: "Sooo, I need you to go outside." I felt completely out of control, completely blindsided, and completely unprepared for the emotion, the physical changes, and the attention that would come with this fourth pregnancy.
At five months along, we have all adjusted well to the idea of our new reality. Baby #4 is our fourth daughter, and her three big sisters will be sure she never spends a moment of her life alone. Our network of family and friends has embraced and encouraged us along this unexpected journey and helped us rebuild our confidence in ourselves and God's direction. The stares and not-so-occasional comments from strangers have been brutal, though. Apparently, it is a phenomenon to have four children and more bizarre for a family to have (or even want) four children of the same sex.
Sometimes, people can be so disappointing. In moments of their unwelcome, unfiltered gushing of nonsense, I want to run and hide. Without ever asking for it, I instantly become a public spectacle, attracting attention that makes me uneasy and defensive, for no good reason. I have become overly-aware and hyper-sensitive to the reactions I see unfold around me. People will hurl disapproving glances my way and utter rubbish under their breath because they simply do not understand. Thankfully, I know this baby was miraculously created into life by our Father's loving hands; the approval or acceptance of others is unnecessary when I know the One who breathed life into our precious daughter.
Bystanders are unaware of others' internal processing and only worsen their feelings of doubt or guilt, without taking into consideration the differences in life circumstances or God's calling for them. I was a shocked and useless onlooker of a heartbreaking incident in a breastfeeding support group on social media, a couple of months ago. This first-time mama had exclusively breastfed her daughter for six whole months (she deserves a standing ovation, y'all), but had not endured the easiest of journeys. Her many dietary sacrifices did little to help remedy her baby girl's tummy and skin issues; six months of unsavory food substitutions and eliminations proved useless. The disrespect of this hurting, reached-her-last-straw mama was gut-wrenching. The disregard of her achievements and struggles was astonishing. Mere strangers shamed her, belittling all efforts, instead of meeting her in the valley with grace and spirit-redeeming reassurance. Even the so-called encouragement was more often discouraging; respondents offered the best (ahem, good...ish) advice they could muster for the disheartened mama, but their words were splattered by remnants of their own expectations or standards on the subject. They failed to see this mama's journey for what it was for her: hard and long. Instead, argumentative, condescending, and judgmental comments scared her away; not once did she reply to anyone.
This mama wholly undeserved the lashing she suffered. At the very minimum, she deserved neutral support, advice void of self-praising, and grace-filled understanding of her personal journey and all the differences that accompanied it. She received none of that and probably gave up on her endeavors, guilt-ridden and with her head held low. After losing her post in the busyness of my feed, I posted one of my own to the group, praising this mama and her success and praying for a rejuvenation of her spirit. I am not confident she saw my post, though, for two reasons: 1) in a group of thousands of posting mamas, much goes unnoticed, and 2) the group administrator blocked further commenting on my post (reason: "to prevent further confrontation"). Evidently, my content of life-breathing truth and support was too controversial, but the ruthless attacks of this mama's character and priorities were of the acceptable nature. They persisted for hours.
Why must we have so little regard for others? Why must we prioritize our self-importance over the needs and struggles of those around us, especially those who reach out for a lifeline? A broken spirit should be treated carefully and with abundant compassion. Full disclosure of a person's life is not required for us to extend unconditional grace. We do not need understanding of a person's circumstances before we consider her or him worthy of our grace and alliance. Our words should be meticulously chosen in every situation, to ensure our mouths speak truth and are void of judgment.
"An unfriendly person pursues selfish ends and against all sound judgment starts quarrels. Fools find no pleasure in understanding but delight in airing their own opinions... The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit."
Proverbs 18:1-2; 21 (NIV)
Friday, November 11, 2016
#GirlMom
Three.
Three giggly, snuggly, little daughters who love all things girly. Each is different, exhibiting her own unique characteristics from birth. All have engraved their precious selves into my mama heart for eternity. Each was flawlessly crafted by our Father's hands for me (and their daddy) to love for all my days. To love them when they do not love themselves. To see their beauty when they only see imperfections. To pray for them, relentlessly, that they know their value in Him. That they know His plans for them are good. That they know they are His.
I sometimes question my purpose in this current phase of life. Did I really follow the Lord's guidance? Maybe I took a detour along the way, taking the scenic route before realigning myself with His path. However I arrived here, I wonder if I am allowing Him to use me -- selflessly and wholly used for His glory. His clear and unmistakable answer comes every Wednesday night.
A few years back, I began volunteering with the youth at our church. As a small group leader to junior high girls, I see loneliness, confusion, deception, and heartache. I hear stories of broken families, imprisoned parents, and emotional neglect. Young girls, just barely teenagers, are tackling issues too complex for their understanding. Sexual impurity, substance abuse, depression -- it is all there.
Whatever reasoning urged me to begin volunteering a few years ago has changed. I no longer serve just to be fulfilled, though my heart has never been fuller. I no longer serve just to congregate with fellow sisters in Christ, though I am building invaluable relationships. I serve because I see girls with incomprehensible value, angelic beauty, and limitless opportunities. I see daughters of the King lost in the muck of this world. I see daughters who believe their critics, before considering the truth of our Father. I cannot help seeing my daughters.
My daughters have changed me. They are a reflection of my own childhood and offer me a glimpse of the Lord's promises in my future. They grant me overflowing grace in this journey, though I stumble every day. I never fathomed feeling as much love in this lifetime as my heart carries for them. They are persistent reminders of my Father's favor. They embody flawlessness and innocence, and I pray these things remain, even after society sinks in its grips on them.
Too many people and things will try convincing my daughters they are unworthy or unwanted. Surface beauty somehow outweighs the truth in a person's heart. My girls are outwardly beautiful and talented, and we have confidence in their future successes in life. Above all, though, they are His. Before I dreamt of them and felt their first fluttering kicks, they belonged to our Father. Before their daddy wrapped them in swaddles and tucked them into his heart, they belonged to our Father. My daughters are His daughters, and I ache for them to know this truth.
It is my responsibility (correction: ours, as parents) to deliver such truth to my daughters. If they cannot love themselves, no future husband will ever make a difference. If they cannot find comfort in the Lord's embrace, no future bad habit will ever alleviate the heartache. If they listen to the lies of what mainstream considers beautiful and popular, their bodies will be unrecognizable and their spirits will become sickly. We are failing the children of today, sadly convincing them that their legacy on earth is more valuable than their destiny in heaven. They know no better; they are only watching the example set by the rest of us.
"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."
Psalm 139:14 (NIV)
Three giggly, snuggly, little daughters who love all things girly. Each is different, exhibiting her own unique characteristics from birth. All have engraved their precious selves into my mama heart for eternity. Each was flawlessly crafted by our Father's hands for me (and their daddy) to love for all my days. To love them when they do not love themselves. To see their beauty when they only see imperfections. To pray for them, relentlessly, that they know their value in Him. That they know His plans for them are good. That they know they are His.
I sometimes question my purpose in this current phase of life. Did I really follow the Lord's guidance? Maybe I took a detour along the way, taking the scenic route before realigning myself with His path. However I arrived here, I wonder if I am allowing Him to use me -- selflessly and wholly used for His glory. His clear and unmistakable answer comes every Wednesday night.
A few years back, I began volunteering with the youth at our church. As a small group leader to junior high girls, I see loneliness, confusion, deception, and heartache. I hear stories of broken families, imprisoned parents, and emotional neglect. Young girls, just barely teenagers, are tackling issues too complex for their understanding. Sexual impurity, substance abuse, depression -- it is all there.
Whatever reasoning urged me to begin volunteering a few years ago has changed. I no longer serve just to be fulfilled, though my heart has never been fuller. I no longer serve just to congregate with fellow sisters in Christ, though I am building invaluable relationships. I serve because I see girls with incomprehensible value, angelic beauty, and limitless opportunities. I see daughters of the King lost in the muck of this world. I see daughters who believe their critics, before considering the truth of our Father. I cannot help seeing my daughters.
My daughters have changed me. They are a reflection of my own childhood and offer me a glimpse of the Lord's promises in my future. They grant me overflowing grace in this journey, though I stumble every day. I never fathomed feeling as much love in this lifetime as my heart carries for them. They are persistent reminders of my Father's favor. They embody flawlessness and innocence, and I pray these things remain, even after society sinks in its grips on them.
Too many people and things will try convincing my daughters they are unworthy or unwanted. Surface beauty somehow outweighs the truth in a person's heart. My girls are outwardly beautiful and talented, and we have confidence in their future successes in life. Above all, though, they are His. Before I dreamt of them and felt their first fluttering kicks, they belonged to our Father. Before their daddy wrapped them in swaddles and tucked them into his heart, they belonged to our Father. My daughters are His daughters, and I ache for them to know this truth.
It is my responsibility (correction: ours, as parents) to deliver such truth to my daughters. If they cannot love themselves, no future husband will ever make a difference. If they cannot find comfort in the Lord's embrace, no future bad habit will ever alleviate the heartache. If they listen to the lies of what mainstream considers beautiful and popular, their bodies will be unrecognizable and their spirits will become sickly. We are failing the children of today, sadly convincing them that their legacy on earth is more valuable than their destiny in heaven. They know no better; they are only watching the example set by the rest of us.
"I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."
Psalm 139:14 (NIV)
Friday, September 9, 2016
Mint Condition
Broken. Shattered into jagged fragments. A resin fleur-de-lis now sits on our kitchen counter in broken pieces, awaiting repair. We had an earthquake. Not the kind produced by colliding tectonic plates (although, we had one of those last week, too). This was a boiled-over-the-rim, reached-my-last-fuse, slamming-doors kind of Mama Earthquake. The destruction included crying daughters, a regretful mama, and the shattered fleur-de-lis.
To begin defending my gross display of fury, allow me to preface with the following... Our whole family has been sick for the last week. Snotty noses, sore throats, and congestion-filled heads even cancelled our travel plans over the weekend. The house istwo three weeks dirty, laundry gets done whenever the spit-up stained, pee-soaked garments jump themselves into the washing machine, and hand-washing the mound of dishes in the sink is frequently required, since the dishwasher remains full and because our cabinets are a smidge bare. In addition to this mess of a house, I have also been juggling homeschooling our oldest and my own homework (remind me why I thought an accounting degree would be...fun? Anyone?), all the while my husband's nearing military separation leaves our immediate future a little uncertain. So, now that you have read the above, I get a pass, right?
Have you ever broken something that you refuse to throw in the trash? Maybe it was a memory-filled keepsake passed down generations or something your husband bought on your first date or an awkwardly beautiful piece of art from your kindergartner. This particular, broken decoration is minimally significant to me, except that I have a slight fleur-de-lis obsession...and that throwing it away would suggest defeat. Tossing the fragments into the trashcan, leaving bare wall-space, would imply a deflated mama's spirit and an overpowering Enemy's stronghold. Mending the resin piece and returning it to its position on the wall will signify second chances, lessons learned, and heavenly grace that is never-ending.
Super Glue can surely help to remedy an array of household mishaps (I think my mom earned majority share-holder status in the nineties with two sons at home). Repaired decorations are no longer in mint condition, though, and may even lose value, if the mending is not meticulously conducted. There are usually dried glue beads and misaligned angles reminding the culprits of their mistakes. Memories of indoor soccer games or dodgeball may provide enjoyable reminiscing, while other memories are not as pleasant and foster regret.
The glued-together fleur-de-lis will be a recurrent reminder of my Mama Earthquake, but our Father's overflowing grace and forgiveness repair me to mint condition. Mama, do not let yourself relive past mistakes and regretful decisions, while Jesus offered all of humanity redemption at the cross. Do not abandon even the smallest, broken bit of yourself, while the Healer sees perfection in His daughter. We may not be capable of reversing the damage we cause in life, but Jesus renews us and our Father loves us, in spite of our dried glue beads and misaligned angles.
"In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God's grace..."
Ephesians 1:7 (NIV)
To begin defending my gross display of fury, allow me to preface with the following... Our whole family has been sick for the last week. Snotty noses, sore throats, and congestion-filled heads even cancelled our travel plans over the weekend. The house is
Have you ever broken something that you refuse to throw in the trash? Maybe it was a memory-filled keepsake passed down generations or something your husband bought on your first date or an awkwardly beautiful piece of art from your kindergartner. This particular, broken decoration is minimally significant to me, except that I have a slight fleur-de-lis obsession...and that throwing it away would suggest defeat. Tossing the fragments into the trashcan, leaving bare wall-space, would imply a deflated mama's spirit and an overpowering Enemy's stronghold. Mending the resin piece and returning it to its position on the wall will signify second chances, lessons learned, and heavenly grace that is never-ending.
Super Glue can surely help to remedy an array of household mishaps (I think my mom earned majority share-holder status in the nineties with two sons at home). Repaired decorations are no longer in mint condition, though, and may even lose value, if the mending is not meticulously conducted. There are usually dried glue beads and misaligned angles reminding the culprits of their mistakes. Memories of indoor soccer games or dodgeball may provide enjoyable reminiscing, while other memories are not as pleasant and foster regret.
The glued-together fleur-de-lis will be a recurrent reminder of my Mama Earthquake, but our Father's overflowing grace and forgiveness repair me to mint condition. Mama, do not let yourself relive past mistakes and regretful decisions, while Jesus offered all of humanity redemption at the cross. Do not abandon even the smallest, broken bit of yourself, while the Healer sees perfection in His daughter. We may not be capable of reversing the damage we cause in life, but Jesus renews us and our Father loves us, in spite of our dried glue beads and misaligned angles.
"In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God's grace..."
Ephesians 1:7 (NIV)
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