With Hope

Grief.  That thing we feel when someone dear to us, steps into eternity.  That empty, hollow, overflowing feeling.  The way the world looks gray and dull when picturing it without our loved one there.  Most of us know the ache of waking that first morning, knowing it's your first full day without him or her.  Most of us know what it is to stand there in the cemetery, waiting for them to lower someone precious into the ground for a final time. 

But not all of us know hope.  Not all of us believe in heaven and eternal life.  That is the part I don't understand.  How does a person who has no hope, grieve and then move on?  Where do they draw their strength from?  How do they reconcile the death with the eternal nature of our spirits - something we know deep inside regardless of creed?

I believe in eternity.  I believe in Heaven.  I believe that my daughter and my other children are all there waiting for me.  I believe my Gramma is there, and that as we always talked about when I was growing up, she will meet me at the Eastern Gate.  I believe my great-grandpa Max is there.  My great-uncle Elmer.  My brother.

And it fills me with hope and anticipation.  The day is coming when I'll be reunited with them all, and I will never have to say goodbye again.

So I grieve, but with hope.

In My Dreams

During the day, I miss her.  My Gramma, that is.  I miss her every day.  I miss her when something is beautiful, I miss her when things get ugly.  I miss her when I smile and when I cry, and when I do well and when I fail.  When I feel like I am soaring high and when the weight of the world is crushing me, I miss her.

Growing up, she was part of every day.  Most of what I did, she was there and she was in the middle of.  I never really learned to let go of that.  The last time Derek and I drove away from their home, I said to remember and treasure that image, as it wouldn't last.  I had the idea that something was about to change, but I didn't really know at all.

I never would have guessed she was to be taken so abruptly from this world.  To think that a driver's carelessness would be the thing responsible for such a staggering loss... I just wouldn't have done it.  That's what happens to other people, not to me.  Not to her.  But despite being willing to give up everything to go back and change it somehow, with chilling finality, she was killed that day.

She's not dead though - not spiritually.  I know she lives and is rejoicing and dancing in heaven.  But until I join her there, she's gone from my world.  She can't tell me who to love or what to do or how to be, no matter how desperately I wish for her wisdom. 

But at night when I dream, I don't know that.  When I dream, she is alive and present.  Usually, in the dreams, I know she is dead and I know she can't be there... and yet, there she is.  She laughs and smiles and speaks, and we all act like it's perfectly natural for her to be doing those things.  I wish dream-hugs lasted after waking.  I wish I could retain that sense of wholeness and safety after sleep stops for the day.  Some mornings, I let myself sleep through my alarm just so I can have a little longer with her.

But in my dreams is just that... in my dreams.

The reality of it all is, the pain is real.  The alone is real.  The sadness and the lingering sense of shock and disbelief and the empty feelings... they are all real.  Even more real, though, is the fact that this isn't going to last forever.  I'll see her again, and it will be a forever reunion.  It's going to be the end of the pain, the end of the nightmares, the end of the loneliness.  THAT is the reality I try my hardest to focus on.

And in my dreams... in my dreams, I let myself have a reminder that this situation isn't exactly as it appears.

I am NOT sorry...

So, I hear it all the time.  "I'm sorry, but..." "... I disagree."  "... I don't want to."  Blah blah blah.  I'm sorry but... it is a phrase I have come to truly loathe.

It isn't used as a positive phrase the majority of the time (i.e., I am sorry to have to say this, but your test result came back badly.").  It's just used as an excuse to say things we would not dare say without some sort of get-out-of-jail-free card. 

"I'm sorry but your hair looks really bad."

"I'm sorry, but that's what I want and so that's what I will do."

But the one usage that gets me going... that torques me off and makes me want to scream is this... "I'm sorry, but that's just what I believe."

We need to stand up for our beliefs, not hide behind insincere apologies for them.  I believe in God, Creator God who created all that is and was and will ever be.  I believe His son came to earth in human form, while somehow retaining his God-hood (is that a word?)  I believe he lived a truly sinless life, and was crucified one day when he was about 33 years old.  He didn't stay dead though - three days later He rose and ascended and is seated at the right hand of God the father.  I believe that that sacrifice is what earns me a place in heaven.  I have given my heart and soul to Him,and I believe it is all real.

And I'm not sorry.  I'm not sorry I believe it, not sorry I said it.  I'm not sorry if it offends you and I'm not sorry if you disagree. 

It's Supposed To Hurt

I burned my finger recently.  Was putting in a baking sheet with supper on top, and the front of my finger hit the oven rack.  I heard it go "psssttt" before I felt my hand jerking back (luckily, without the baking sheet full of food).  It's a tiny burn - from my fingernail down to the knuckle, just under half an inch.  And it's just on one finger.

And you know what?  It hurts.  It's distracting.  It makes me feel generally uncomfortable, even though it's just a tiny injury.

That's how our conscience should be.  When we blurt out a bad word, it should sting like this.  It should distract us and bother us.  When we fudge the truth just a little, it should burn.

But our consciences are like my dad's hands.

He is a mechanic (a gifted one, at that), and does a lot of welding and other things that burn his hands.  He doesn't even feel them anymore.  He can have big, angry blisters and not have even noticed they were there until I ask what they are from.  Sometimes, even after he thinks about it, he can't remember. 

We get that way.  We get so used to our little transgressions that we fail to feel the sting. 

The problem with that isn't the absence of pain.  The problem is, when our conscience hurts, we turn to God.  We pray, we repent, we resolve to change for the better.  When that happens, the result is good.  But when we get so accustomed to the little pains, we don't bother turning to him - because we aren't even really aware that anything is wrong at all.

Psalm 139:23-24
God, examine me and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.  See if there is any bad thing in me.  Lead me on the road to everlasting life.

We have hope though.  No matter how seared our consciences are, God can still search us and show us what we need to see.  The question is, are you (and am I) brave enough to do that?

What I Am Proudest Of

This is what I am proudest of.  Out of every thing God has given me the ability to do, everything I have accomplished, every drop of sweat and blood and every tear, nothing has meant as much to me as this. 

When I was twelve, I was just a scrawny, insecure, abused little girl with no hope and no concept of "future."  All I had was the present, and the present was nothing I wanted.  But one afternoon, my dad came home from his new job and handed me a newsletter put out by a local hospital.  He said "read the class list - see if there is anything in there that you would like to do together."  My eyes landed on "Karate for adults and children aged eight and up.  Maximum 25 students."  Dad and I made 23.  All of us white belts, with one lone black belt as the instructor.  That man became first an instructor and then a mentor and then my doctor and then my friend, as years passed.  And it turned out not to be Karate - it was Tae Kwan Do, but with some Judo and Hapkido mixed in. 

At our school, earning a black belt is no easy feat.  It takes years, and it takes everything you have to give - and then more.  At age twelve, I saw that and suddenly, I had something in my future.  Something I wanted - needed even.  Something that I could do. I knew I could.  It literally changed everything about who I was.  Not dramatically, especially at first.  But a subtle shift from hopeless to hopeful, from lost to found, from broken to healed. 

There has not been a day since, that I have questioned whether God used martial arts to save my life.  He did.  He still is. 

And that is why this is what I am proudest of.

What If?

It seems like the longer I live, the more chances I get to ask myself "What if?"

What if June 1, 2006 had gone differently?  What if that ultrasound had shown a healthy, living fourteen week baby?  What if my deep-rooted fear and sinking feeling had been unfounded?

I'd have a child now; she'd be about five and a half.  I'd be thanking God for the time with her and mourning how quickly it had passed.  And she'd have had five and a half years of experiences to shape her into who she is. 

Instead, my baby went to heaven before I got to meet her.  Instead, my husband and I saw that still, silent ultrasound and spent the next day begging and praying and trying to hope that things weren't as they seemed.  Instead, we chose her name with tears and longing.  Instead, we watched her due date come and go and our arms stayed achingly empty.

What if on January 31, 2007 I had let my Gramma stay at my house to take care of me after my knee surgery?  What if she had not been in the van during that crash?  What if the van hadn't been there?  What if the driver of that milk truck hadn't chosen to use his cell phone?  What if the road crews had done a better job of spreading salt on that particular stretch?

Would that mean that today, I'd be able to ask my Gramma how to love my dying friend?  Would it mean that I'd have someone to give me the push I need to love without reservation?  Would it mean I'd have fewer nights filled with empty, silent tears?  Would my heart hurt a little less?

What if I had chosen to ignore the growing attachment and attraction I felt toward Derek nine years ago?

I'd have loved and perhaps married someone else.  And I'd have missed out on so much.  I'd have missed the laughter and the joy and the tender moments.  I'd have missed the frustration and fear and uncertainty.  I'd never have stood in disbelief as I watched my new relatives dance in a circle to weird Greek music.  I wouldn't have found myself having to choose between what I wanted and what was right as I responded to certain situations.  I wouldn't be laying on the couch with my leg in the air, knowing that tonight my husband will come home and I will be proud of how well he did today as he works a job that he is not "naturally gifted" to do.

What if in September of 1999, the person visiting me in the hospital had simply said "That is sad and I am sorry" when I told him I had to find a new home?  What if his wife had said she didn't want to start again with yet another teenager?  What if my dad hadn't been agreeable?  What if the doctors had said no?

I wouldn't have learned to love.  I wouldn't have learned to laugh, or to trust, or to be honest.  I wouldn't have experienced unconditional acceptance into a family that loved me just because they wanted to.  I wouldn't have had the foundation I needed to go out into the world and build a life.  And truthfully, I probably wouldn't have survived.

What if my childhood had been easier?  What if I'd never been betrayed, abandoned, or abused?  What if I hadn't survived things that are almost unspeakable?

I would have been closer to "normal."  I wouldn't have been living with PTSD for as long as I can remember.  I would have had less fear, less anger, less pain.  I wouldn't have had to be as strong or as brave.  I wouldn't have learned to lie about everything.  I could have "just been me."  But I wouldn't have had a reason to develop the compassion I have today.  I wouldn't have such a personal motivation to drive so much of what I do.  I wouldn't know how profoundly forgiveness changes a person.  I would never have seen the amazing transformation that happens when someone literally turns from evil and surrenders to Christ.  I probably wouldn't be as accepting of others and I am certain that I'd have less wisdom, less strength, and less hope. 

I could go on, and on, and on.  Because there are hundreds, no, thousands, of "what ifs" in my life.  In every life.  There are so many things that change the course of our lives from that moment on.  Sometimes, we get the better option.  Sometimes, we don't.  Always, we can choose to look back and ask "What if?"  Sometimes, doing so can help us.  It can give us insight, it can give us wisdom, help us make better choices in the future.  It can give us a chance to be grateful and an opportunity to embrace peace and acceptance.  But it can also hurt us.  It can make us regret things we cannot change.  It can make us grieve, it can make us angry and uncertain and afraid.  We can look back and feel slighted and compel us to make decisions that are hurtful to us now.

I have one final "what if" that I would like to ask.  One question that I think we all need to answer for ourselves, in our own hearts and minds.  One thing that needs to be settled permanently within each of us.

What if I choose to look back at my life from time to time, and ask myself how things could have been different, and then I take that perspective and use it to answer the 'what ifs' that face me every day, so that I can face tomorrow without regret?

There Are Days

Ten years ago (well, nine years and eleven and a half months), I graduated from high school.  I remember sitting in the second row of chairs, surrounded by people I'd spent most of my life knowing.  I remember looking around me and seeing how easy they had it.  How simple and enjoyable and effortless their lives were.  How beautiful they were.  How little they struggled and how seldom they had to fight.  I stared briefly at every face.

And I remember them.

But the last ten years have taught me something.  They didn't have it easy.  Their lives weren't necessarily any simpler than mine.  They didn't have a unequal share of happiness.  And they fought.  They grew up with one parent, they were abused, they had eating disorders and were addicted to drugs and self harm.  But they fought.  And because they fought, they got to keep going.  They got to build lives and families and careers.  They got to develop strength and faith and wisdom. 

I see those things reflected in them now.

And I see them reflected in me now.  I'm thankful.  I'm thankful for the lessons and for the joy and for the beauty and for the relationships I've had since that day.  Sometimes, I get overwhelmed by the negatives though.  On mother's day, I let that happen.  It was an empty, heavy day.  I found my thoughts constantly focusing on one thing:  my Gramma, who was the closest thing I had to a mother growing up, is in heaven.  My babies are there too, and I've never met them.  And my mom?  There's an ocean of time and emotional distance between us.  I miss her, always.  She's sick; each night when I am trying to fall asleep, I inevitably find myself thinking about the fact that I don't know if I'll ever see her again.

I let myself focus on that, and it pulled me down. 

This week has felt like swimming through quick sand.  My physical energy is depleted.  Emotionally I've been on edge.  Mentally, my thoughts are jumpy and disconnected.  And each day has gotten just a little harder.

Those things have combined with the reappearance of pain and other symptoms from endometriosis to create days like today.  Days when I'm just... unwell.  Unwell enough to lack the strength even to sit upright.  Unwell enough that I can't focus to follow the plot in the book I'm trying to read.  Unwell enough that my body temperature is up and my blood pressure is down.  Unwell enough that lab work is coming back abnormal.

There are days like that in every one's life, as far as I can tell. 

And as far as I can tell, the only thing I can really do about it, is to rest.  So that is what I am doing.  I am resting.  I want to be with people, to do things, to "be productive."  But there are days when that seems to be too much to ask.

There are certain truths that keep rolling through my head and heart though.

Cast all your cares on Him, for He cares about you.

Come to Me all who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

He leads me beside still waters.  He restores my soul.

Fear not.

Fully God, fully man.  He has done it all, lived through it all, faced it all.  Perfectly.  I don't have to be perfect, because He already was and still is.  And that is why I can have faith and hope.

Even though there are days...

Random Things

In the 23 days since I last wrote, it feels like everything has changed.  And also like nothing has changed.

Most of my writing and "sorting" has been done in my journal.  My paper and glue, use-a-pen journal.  Rather than try to recap all of it, I'd prefer to just... share.  A little bit of two of the entries.  Enough to show you what's been on my heart, enough to illuminate the struggle and the fight and to show you that even in those things, there is beauty.

---

God,
I need you.  I need you to consume me like a fire, burning away everything that can be destroyed.  I need you to change my heart and renew my mind according to Your will.  My own will is sinful and imperfect.  I love with hesitation and with impurity.  I speak lies with ease and I am afraid of the truth.  But part of me still wants to bend to your will.  My soul is weak and my body is dying, but my spirit is alive and cries out for You.  So fill me, change me, consume me.  Rewrite my script, and make yourself the primary role.

Save me, oh God, and I will be saved for all eternity.

"I Have Eternal Life"
Truly, truly, I say to you:  Whoever hears my Word and believes Him who sent Me has eternal life. 
~1John 5:24a

---

I need to go home.  To my family, to my Father, to my church.  I miss God.  I miss His Word.  I miss His love.  I miss His Presence.  And I miss my Pastor.  I miss his influence in my life.  I miss his protection.  God gives us so many people for so many things... but He only gives us one Pastor.  If something happens that makes it impossible for that Pastor to keep being our Pastor, God can give us another.  But it's not a matter of simple choice.  It's a matter of necessity and a gift born of love.

I have so much I am hiding.  So much shame.  But my Pastor loves me.  He really does.  He always will.  He loves me as a daughter.  And the pain of not being under his care, of not having a leader in my life, of choosing to walk away from that gift, is shredding my heart.

Today, I realized something.  If any of the kids in my class came to me, after being gone - regardless of how long they'd been gone or why they left or what they'd done while they were away - even if the things they'd said or done were so horrible that they hurt the deepest parts of me - I would run to them with open arms and hold them and tell them I never stopped loving them.  And my Pastor is better at love than I am.  So it is time to go home.

Lord, help me and give me the courage and strength that I need to do this.

Swearing In

In court, if you are part of an actual trial and you have to testify, they have a procedure in which you are "sworn in."  Once you have done that, you are committed to telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

So help me, God.

I am swearing in, here. 

And it scares me.  I've always maintained a certain amount of detachment, freedom, from this blog.  That won't change.  But I also have frequently hidden behind "this is not for public knowledge" to avoid telling the whole truth about situations.

This post is months in the making, folks.  That's weird for me.  And different.

But the phrase at the top of my blog talks not just about being living proof, and not just about carrying light into the darkness.  It talks about the truth giving light.  And the truth is, there are ways to maintain privacy and anonymity without concealing that truth.

The truth is, I have been in a tooth-and-nail, knock-down-and-drag-em-out fight for my life.  In November, that fight had a temporary time out, as I was too sick do any more than lay in a hospital bed being filled with medication and connected to lines and tubes and having lots of surgery.  But I've healed well physically, and I'm back in the fight full force.  And I claim here to be honest, I claim to want to use my life, both the good and bad parts, to touch others and minister to them, and show them how God can do so much to help them.

And it's been clear for some time now that accomplishing that means telling the truth.

The truth is, my fight is the sort of fight that Ephesians 6 talks about.
And that about wraps it up. God is strong, and he wants you strong. So take everything the Master has set out for you, well-made weapons of the best materials. And put them to use so you will be able to stand up to everything the Devil throws your way. This is no afternoon athletic contest that we'll walk away from and forget about in a couple of hours. This is for keeps, a life-or-death fight to the finish against the Devil and all his angels.
Be prepared. You're up against far more than you can handle on your own. Take all the help you can get, every weapon God has issued, so that when it's all over but the shouting you'll still be on your feet. Truth, righteousness, peace, faith, and salvation are more than words. Learn how to apply them. You'll need them throughout your life. God's Word is an indispensable weapon. In the same way, prayer is essential in this ongoing warfare. Pray hard and long.  (MSG)

If the things I am fighting, were things I could fight on my own, then I wouldn't need God.  I wouldn't be leaning completely on Him.  I wouldn't be entirely dependent on Him to just get through the day.  I wouldn't need a supernatural boost to walk out my back door and try to face life.

When my daughter went to heaven, I thought I was truly and entirely broken and dependent on my God.  And then my Grandma was killed, and I realized I had never known dependence before.  And then, something changed.

The past I had been fighting so fiercely to hide from everyone who loves me, started leaking out.  A little bit at a time, the truth started to spill out.  Tiny bits at a time were revealed first to my husband, and then to my Pastor.  My husband, didn't know what to do.  He didn't know what words to use or what he should feel or what I needed... and he didn't know what he needed either.  Our Pastor, wasn't lost.  He wasn't overwhelmed.  He wasn't confused. 

And he wasn't surprised.  Through a series of meetings and pre-meeting letters, I shared more of my past with him than I'd shared with anyone.  And I was amazed.  It didn't hurt him.  It didn't hurt me.  It didn't cause a cascade of terrible events.  And it didn't change the way my Pastor treated me or my husband.  He continued to show us God.  And His love.  And for the first time in my life, I thought maybe I didn't have to hide the truth.  I thought maybe I could actually tell it and still be okay. 

The first counselor I saw was a good man.  I do mean that - he was good.  He was kind and compassionate and loved God and assured me that my Pastor was right when he told me that this counselor would understand and help without any need for me to feel out of place or ashamed.  But... he didn't seem quite strong enough to handle the things I told him.  I started... tentatively.  I shared just a little bit at a time, things that I knew were more... average.  Things I went through that I assumed lots of others had gone through as well.  And those first admissions were received with compassion and gentleness and support, which is what I needed.  He reminded me often to lean on God and to let my faith carry me.  Which would have been fine, but the things I was not saying, make faith and trust so very difficult.  And terrifying.  And I was convinced he was not strong enough to handle it if I were to tell him the things I still had bottled up.

He eventually decided to ask another counselor for help, to attempt doing EMDR

Flashbacks and nightmares and almost every symptom associated with PTSD took over my life.  Each day seemed longer and harder than the day before.  I couldn't eat - on a good day I would manage an entire tangerine and a handful of goldfish crackers.  Most days, it was less than that.  Anything more and I would vomit uncontrollably.  It wasn't an eating disorder; it was fear and anxiety and depression taking over my body.  Out of desperation, I turned to the only thing that had ever overcome the memories in the past.  I started cutting myself, deeper and more extensively than ever before.  With that came dishonesty and shame and constant fear that the wrong people would find out.

My self-destructive spiral landed me in the hospital.  It saved my life; I would never say otherwise.  But I was repeatedly reminded that I was there for crisis intervention.  My past was not appropriate subject matter for any of the counseling services received there.  A close friend visited daily and became the only person I could share the memories with.  Slowly, painfully, they came out.  Not all and not even most.  But some, a little at a time.

The counselor I started seeing after being released was different than anyone who had tried to help me, ever.  The first thing I noticed was that he was strong.  And intelligent.  Painfully blunt, which is what I crave in communication.  He was and is in many ways similar to my Pastor; the difference was, I actually care what my Pastor thinks and feels about and toward me.  The counselor, was only a counselor.  I had no fear or shame in revealing what was really happening, because there was no pre-existing connection.  He was in my life for one purpose and only one.  And that was what I needed most.

Since then, it has been two years.  Those two years have been spent in this battle I talk of.  I am overcoming a past that belongs in one of those horror films that is too bizarre to be believable.  A past that consisted of polar opposites in almost every arena.  The things that were done to me, the things I saw and heard, the people in my life, all seemed to be either very, very evil or very, very good. 

I was hurt.  When I was a child, a very, very young child, I was hurt.  I was abandoned and neglected and abused physically, emotionally, sexually, and spiritually.  As I grew, I had two worlds.  The world of good parenting and love and loving God and doing healthy things, and the world of abuse and shame and pretending to worship something distinctly not God.  Harming myself was my way to bring back reality on days when it all became too confusing.  It is something I started doing in kindergarten - maybe earlier, but I still clearly remember the first time I chose it as a way to turn off the images playing through my head.  It was the one thing, other than my body, that was part of both worlds I knew.

The abuse continued for years.  It was horrific and graphic and nearly destroyed my spirit, soul, and body.  I am not sharing details here, not because it's "not for public consumption" but because when it comes to sharing, they aren't needed.  It's not the specific events or even the people involved that make living today so hard.  It's what those things did to shape my thoughts and my beliefs and the way it impacted my body.  It's the fear and anxiety and flashbacks and disconnects and the random things that trigger terror and anger and specific thoughts.  And it's the way it interferes with my faith and my beliefs and the way I feel scared and ashamed almost all of the time.

God is the one constant that has been with me.  The only One who is strong enough and faithful enough to see me through.  And He has put people in my life to act on His behalf.  I don't know exactly what I will be sharing in the coming months.  I probably will never go into any detail; I just feel like the details of what I went through aren't what the world needs to know.  I think the part that matters most is how it changed me - and how I am fighting those changes now.

Thank you all for reading and for your support and encouragement. 

Not Me Monday

Long ago, in a frozen and windy land, a person named MckMama decided to throw a large blog party.  The purpose of the party was to help those who participated have a chance to be honest, telling about those things that they might otherwise try to hide.  In sharing, there was a decrease in guilty feelings and an instant and significant increase in laughter.

So, in honor of this weeks Not Me Monday, here I go.

In the last week, the following things most certainly did not* happen.

I did not spend the entire day Tuesday with the best friend a person could ever ask for, and that best friend's mother.  The purpose of the trip was not to drive a couple hours to see a specialist regarding a not good at all diagnosis, and to receive less-than-good news about her progress (or lack there of).  But if I did do that, I would want you to pray with everything you've got for my friend, Elizabeth.  Specifically, I would want you to pray that medication would begin to be effective, and that the damage to her vision would somehow be reversed.

On that same imaginary trip, I starved.  I did not accompany them to an extraordinarily delicious Mongolian grill, wherein people are allowed to compile their own choice of ingredients, and then surrender them to the "Grill Warriors" who proceed to make steaming hot plates of whatever you want and present them to you straight off the grill.  I did not fail to believe my friend when she said it was really easy to load so much onto a plate that you could only eat one or two at most.  And I did not end up leaving half of my second plate, on the plate.  I haven't been trying to find an excuse to go back ever since, either.

Since I'm on a roll with this imaginary trip I took... after dinner, my friend and I and her mother did not find ourselves at a well known department store, trying out the display beds.  By laying on them.  We did not discover that some refrigerators have "MEAT FISH STORAGE" drawers and find it hilarious.  We did not laugh until tears came out of our eyes as we tried to come with a way to ask why do you have AC adapters inside your display dresser, and what exactly do the DO for said dresser, since we knew we couldn't ask it with a straight face.  We did not marvel at treadmills, we did not sit in lawn chairs, we did not spend 30 minutes in a tiny kitchen store mocking some of the more... unusual devices.  We did not laugh and smile and enjoy our time far more than seems possible on a trip of that location.

Not me.  Not them.  Not us.

I did not work at a Samurai Sword Show for four days.  And while in the car on the way to the show I did not work at, I did not make a phone call to the biggest, most popular news station in that area to inquire whether or not they would be present to do a news piece on the show.  When the man answered, I did not say "Hi, my name is Jenn, and I am calling to see if you will be sending any reporters over to the Schlamurai Swow Shord," or something very similar.  I did not hear the jumble of words and lose the ability to speak while I laughed to myself.  And the reporter who had taken my call did not fall silent for a solid five seconds, and then crack up laughing so hard I suspect he had to lean on something for support just to keep from falling over, and gasp out "Ma'am, I am sorry.  Could you please repeat what you just asked me?  And then tell me what you meant to ask me?"  It did not strike me as so funny that for the rest of the weekend, all I needed was a little reminder and I would laugh until my entire BODY was bright red.  No, not me.  Because I never mix bits and pieces of words together to form various other words.

I also did not consume "schlockett" or blow "Blubblows" as a young child.

I did not consider the idea that I was truly losing my mind as I stood on the 12th floor of the convention center, noticing the floor pulsating and moving beneath my feet and hearing the sounds of loons drifting down the highway.  And I was not relieved when I realized everyone could feel the moving floor, nor was a relieved when I realized that the PA system was responsible for the loon sounds.   All day and all night.  Every day.  And every night.

I did not find it disproportionately funny to be working at a SWORD SHOW, where there really were sharp, shiny, big Samurai swords everywhere, while in the lobby, a large group was meeting to celebrate the beauty of organ donation and get more people to commit to it.  Because asking someone to donate organs while surrounded by signs announcing the presence of hundreds, maybe thousands, of swords and people of the sort that actually enjoy collecting these swords, is not ironic.  Or funny.

I did not know yesterday that I really was starting to feel crummy and I did not wake up this morning with a fever and tonsils swollen so much that they are squished together and glands so sore and swollen that I can't turn my head.  And doing so, and cancelling all plans for the day in order to stay wrapped in a blanket and not move, did not make me wonder what nurses think when you call and cancel a bone scan because you feel too crummy to come in and get tested to see if the bone in your leg is infected.

Lastly, I am not struggling to find things to share for Not Me Monday, because I haven't gotten out of the habit and I also have not had more stress than laughter recently.

*By did not I actually mean they really did.  Just to clarify.  There are probably witnesses willing to testify that all these things that did not happen, actually did happen. 

In 10 Days...

In 10 days, I travel to The City.  I will go to the Hospital. 

And the Surgeon will cut into my body yet again (this will be the tenth time).  She will remove the remnants of my scarred and painful and fluid-filled, useless fallopian tubes.  She will separate organs that have fused into random solid masses.  She will use cautery and wire loops and blades and lasers to obliterate as much endometriosis as she can do safely.  Then she'll use InnerCede (a mesh that is body-friendly and dissolves after several months) and stitches to wrap things up and hold them in place and try to prevent scar tissue from going this crazy again.  And she has assured me that I will wake up in a lot of pain.

And I believe my God will deliver me.

I believe that His promise is one of children.  I believe some day, some how, it will happen.  I don't care if it has to involve doctors and embryologists and In-Vitro.  That's fine.  Because any way you look at it, conception, pregnancy, and then birth - it is all one massive miracle.  I will be honest - I used to be bitter.  I used to be jealous. I used to feel that it was so unfair that so many people were fertile and I was not.  It used to bother me that at a minimum, we required shots and steroids and anticoagulants to conceive.  It still bothers me that all nine of my children live in Heaven.  Not that they are there, but that they are not here.

But today?  If you conceive your babies with ease - I am delighted for you.  If you struggle, but it still happens "the old fashioned way" I am relieved that your struggles were rewarded.  If you used medication, I am thankful that your body responded correctly.  If you used IUI, I am thankful for technology and for your willingness to go beyond "just the basics" in your quest to have a child.  If you conceived with IVF, I am amazed by your strength and tenacity (and willingness to stab yourself with needles on a daily basis).  And if you conceived by an obvious miracle, when it was not possible for it to happen - it makes my heart swell with joy. 

I simply do not care how God works in my life.  I know He will, I know He is.  I know that if I die without ever once giving birth... my God is still God and still good.  I know I do not need biological motherhood to be happy, to feel complete.  I want it more than any other earthly desire, but I will be fine if it never happens.  My pity party was long and pathetic, but it's over now.  It's been over for quite some time.  If you were part of it - I apologize.  If you missed it, I'm glad. 

Some day, someone is going to call me mom.  And it's not going to be a slip of the tongue.  That someone will be a child.  I do not know who will carry and deliver that child.  I do not know what that child's biological or legal relationship to me will be.  But I believe completely that I will be a mother.  And I am fine with whatever it takes for that to happen.  When I talk about the fact that to conceive, we will need physicians and needles and procedures and laboratories, and we will call it In-Vitro Fertilization... don't be sad for me.  Rejoice with me because there is an answer to our situation.  If the day comes when I say we are completely out of the race for a biological child... don't mourn.  Rejoice with me because my name is written in the Lamb's Book of Life.  When I tell you we are adopting (we aren't, yet), don't tell yourself that it's second best.  It has never been second best in our eyes.  It is a dream, a separate dream.  A dream that is on hold for now, because for now, I still have ovaries.  Did you know that you don't need ovaries or a uterus or the ability to support a pregnancy for a successful adoption?

Anyway, I rarely write about fertility issues here.  But I wanted to today, because I want people to know that even if my dreams of being a biological mother never come true, I still love my God.  I am still thankful.  I still thank God for the gift of life.  I will not fall out or back away over this.  And I am not afraid, not ashamed, and not destroyed.

I Will Be Happy If...

I've noticed a lot of people lately talking about how they finally have what was supposed to make them happy.  Kids, a spouse, friends, money, a home, whatever... and I've noticed something.  The ones who are happy now, were happy before.  It seems to have almost NOTHING to do with whatever they wanted.

So.

What will make you happy?

Personally, I will be happy if we pull ahead further in our finances.  I will be happy if I can actually get pregnant before time runs out (actually, I will be happy if I find out time has not run out already).  I will be happy if we can adopt some babies.  I will be happy if we can adopt some older children.  I will be happy if we finish our house.  I will be happy if I can spend more time with friends.  I will be happy if I can be healthy.  I will be happy when I heal from the surgery I had just over a week ago.

But all of that... all of that is nothing when I try to compare it to knowing my God.  I can't even make the comparison, because they are too far apart.

And I realize something... I have to be happy.  Not because it's important.  Really it's not - my lungs work just as well when I'm sad as they do happy.  My finances don't go any further, my life isn't easier, and I'm not any more saved if I am happy than I am if I am sad. 

But people are watching.  Sad people.  Angry people.  Hurt people.  Scared people.  All those emotions I don't like, they feel.  And so do I.  So I let them see.  And then I let them see me happy in spite of it all.  I let them see me happy while we can't fathom how we'll pay next week's taxes and bills, while my uterus is painful empty (it really is painful; part of last week's procedure has made sure of that), while I scramble to find a way to try one last time before surgery takes away my chance for the rest of my life, while I dream about adopting babies and older kids and wonder if it will ever really happen, while our house has insulation showing where there is no drywall and I don't know when the last time I hugged certain friends was, and it's been over a year since I last thought of myself as "healthy" and even while I lay curled from the pain of the last operation.  I am happy.  Yes.  Right now, right this second, I am happy.  I have something that shines so brightly that all of those other real and painful and unpleasant things lose their emotional pull, and I.  Am.  Happy.

Are you?

~Psalm 119:2:  Happy are those who keep His rules, who try to obey Him with their whole heart.

I cannot even begin to TRY to count the number of times when people have heard me express longing for children.  Countless times.  Also, sorrow for the children who I've conceived and then had go on to heaven before they were even born.  I admit, it's been a big focal point for a bit over five years now.

And so many well-intentioned people have said "Just be happy with what you have."  And the reality is, I am not happy "with what I have."  I am not happy about the loss.  I am not happy that my husband is taking a Sunday afternoon nap with no children around him.  I am not happy that the surgeon has said that really, this last surgery was it.  End of the line.  Time for baby or time to move on.  I am not happy that my house is, 3 years later, still a construction zone.  I am not happy that our choices as a family have not meant greater financial prosperity.  None of those things are reasons to be happy.  But truthfully, if I was rich and had ten kids and a mansion and had never had so much as a cold, none of that would be a reason to be happy, either.

The only real reasons to be happy, are not impacted or changed or touched at all by the circumstances of life.  Our salvation, peace, eternal life, hope, confidence, and the fact that Romans 8 promises that NOTHING can separate us from the love of God.  THAT is why I am happy.  I am unshakably, undeniably happy.

And I still want babies.  I still cry sometimes when I think about what could be.  I still ache to hold a child that is biologically related to my husband and to me in my arms.  That may never happen - each day that goes by is a day closer to saying "Okay, nope."  But even if that day comes - even if things get painful enough or I find myself in danger again - and I say "Okay, do it" and the surgeon spends her day sectioning off my abdomen and wrapping organs and taking steps that make pregnancy a very dangerous idea... even then, I will still cry about my desire to be a biological mother.  But while the tears stream and my heart aches, I will also be happy.  Just like I am today.

Dreaming of Aiden

I have a confession to make.

For the last three and a half years, I have been dreaming.  Not day-dreams.  Night dreams.  Vivid, hard-to-pull-away-from dreams.

It started with dreaming about a tiny baby boy with soft blond fuzz on his head and ordinary blue eyes.  A softly rounded face, a perfect chin and a rose-bud mouth.  The first dream had no sound.

A few months later, I dreamt about a bigger baby boy.  More blond fuzz.  Blue eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled.  A dimple in his left cheek.  A soft, warm, typical baby boy.

A few months later, I dreamt of him again.  He was sitting up, and would rock forward to his hands and knees and crawl.  I dreamt of him many nights in a row.  It was in these dreams that I started hearing sounds.  His gurgly laughter and his squeals.  My own voice, calling him Aiden.

A few months later, I watched him walk in my dream.  I called his name, and he toddled toward me.  And then he simply vanished.  I woke with tears in my eyes and a tight ache in my chest, and what seemed almost like left-over warmth in my arms.

I went over a year without dreaming of him at all.  I would have forgotten if I hadn't written it here, in posts I never published.

Then it went back to the intermittent, random dreams for about a year.  Lately, it's gotten more frequent.

In these dreams, I've watched him grow physically.  I've interacted with him.  And he's shown all the signs of a child without parents.  A child without attachments, without hope, without a home.  In my last dream, my husband and I went to see him in an orphanage.  He was there among beautiful babies.  A lanky 3.5 year old, laying in a bed with a blank face.  Large blue eyes with no expression, that dimpled left cheek and perfect chin.  Freckles splashed across his nose and cheeks.  His hair was sandy blond, coarse and cut shaggily.  We played with him, and at first he seemed so normal.  As the day (dream) progressed, he showed more and more of the signs, and my heart broke more and more.  This one had tears streaming when I awoke, and a heart that ached.  And the name of this made-up child rolling through my head.  Aiden.  It means little fire, in case you wondered.

I have no idea what it's all about.  None at all.  It's certainly not a wish of mine for ANY child to be that way - to hurt, and cry, and struggle, and grow to need intervention more desperately each day.  I have never intended to name any child of mine Aiden, so it's not a sub-conscious fulfillment of a name I fear I'll never get to use (trust me, I have those dreams too, but they aren't like this one).  I don't work with kids with attachment disorder anymore, so it's not a work life carry-over.  In fact, I have known two children with the disorder that were younger than age 8, ever.  They were both African, and I had no special feelings for them, so it's not because of THEM. 

Maybe it's frustrated maternal instinct.  Maybe I feel like my children (or the hopes I have for them and of them) are slipping away and  coming apart.  Maybe it's a real child that will some day come into our lives.  Maybe I'm just a weirdo who has a set of serial dreams that depict an accurate progression of time and development, that aren't based on anything at all.

Just curious.  I get a lot of good feed-back from you guys.  I'm curious what you all will have to say.  As always, if you want your comment/question to remain private, just say so and I won't hit "publish."

Colossians 3:1

Since, then, I have been raised with Christ, I set my heart on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.  I set my mind on things above, not on earthly things.  For I died, and my life is now hidden with Christ in God.  When Christ, who is my life, appears, then I will also appear with Him in glory.

I remind myself of this today.  Today, I am not the only one missing a child.  I am not the only one who knows my child is in heaven, but does not know the color of his eyes or the texture of his hair.

I have a friend who is missing his child today, too.

It is a secret, painful ache.  One that people don't run around talking about.

"Hey, Bob, what's up?  Me... oh, well, I'm just thinking an extra lot about my dead children today."

Right.  When is the last time someone admitted such a thing to you?

That's what I thought.

So today, rather than talk about my friend or his child, I will talk about me.  Because if you know about me, you will know about my friend.  And you will know about Suzie and Matt, and you will know about J. & C., and M. & J., and S. & J., and R. and J., and T. & E., and L. & F., and so many more - and these are just people in my life.  I am sure there are just as many in yours.

There are parents who knew their child.  Who looked into his or her eyes, who stroked his or her hair, who prayed desperately to not have to say good bye.  Parents who have stood before a tiny coffin, tears streaming. 

There are parents who have paid all the fees, filled out all the papers, been approved on every level... and who must spend the rest of their earthly lives knowing their child (or children) will never come home because for whatever reason, the adoption never came to fruition. 

There are parents who met their child briefly... tiny babies, babies too tiny for life in the world.  Babies with beautiful souls and eternal spirits and no breath.  Babies who spent minutes, hours maybe, here on earth.

There are parents who have not met their child.  Parents who knew the child was on the way, and parents who didn't.  Parents who found out later, or who knew right at the moment, that a tiny life was leaving this planet and going to "a better place."

Some of these parents have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful for the children you do have."  As if they do not have, and never had the child or children that are already in heaven.  As if one child replaces another.

Some of these parents do not have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful you don't have to do the work of parenting.  Be thankful you can do whatever you want."  As if raising their children would have been hurtful.  As if they didn't want to raise their child.  As if pain and sadness were what that parent really wanted.

Today, I ask you to do something with us.  With these parents who have children who don't live on earth, but live forever in heaven.  You may or may not be one of these, but that doesn't change my request. 

Picture us in heaven, with our children.  Don't worry about getting the hair color or eye shapes or smiles all right.  I suspect that in heaven, these things are not going to be so important.  Just picture us together.  See that in your heart.  And remember this togetherness, in perfection for all eternity.  Remember this is what His perfect will is. 

I leave you with this... an image generated by a just-for-fun website.  If aging were to proceed in heaven as it does on earth, our children would be four years and seven months; four years and two months; three years and nine months (twins); three years and four months; and our recent twins were due in August of this year. 

Truth is, it hurts.  It always hurts.  But when I close my eyes, and picture our family of nine walking through eternity together, it hurts less.

Top Secret Information

**If you have requested an invite to my fertility blog and have not received it, please check your junk-mail or request another invite.  I have over 30 open invitations right now, so I know not everyone has gotten theirs.**

First, if you want to read my fertility blog, you will have to either email me or leave a comment as it is now protected.  It will stay this way for at least the next few weeks, as we go through retrieval, fertilization, and get "the news."  It's not that I want to hide from the world... it's just that I want to have a way to update people, but not have the added stress of nay-sayers.

Now, on to the Top Secret Information I have for you. 

Truth is, I have been holding out on you guys big time.  There was a big thing that happened back in September, a thing that we didn't want anybody to hear about second-hand.  We also didn't want to tell certain people until we had a resolution to said thing.

Derek was working, and he made a statement to a customer that seemed perfectly acceptable at the time - both to Derek and to the customer.  However, the manager monitoring the call felt that Derek was trying to avoid helping the customer and chose to terminate his employment.  We were truthfully terrified.  Especially me.  He was more ashamed than afraid, I think.

But over the days and weeks following, I was prouder of him than I've maybe ever been.  Like me, he's still imperfect.  Because he's still human and trapped on earth.  In the past, I've ached for him to step up and be the leader I believe God has called him to be.  For him to be decisive, firm.  To lead our family.  And it hasn't always happened (don't get me wrong - there have also been times I've chosen not to follow or submit, which is in my opinion probably more dangerous).  But this time, he didn't back down. 

He told me what we were going to do.  He stuck to his word.  He worked so hard to get a new job - and had one 3 days after he was informed that he was fired.  Not a great job - not the best fit for him, poor wages and no benefits.  But better than starving, right?  He worked at that job diligently, all the while searching for an alternative (I helped, but the spotlight here is on Derek).  He's applied at so many locations, but as many of you know, the job market just isn't the best right now.  There was one job he was promised that never came to fruition.  He was so disappointed when the date he should have started came and went.  He wanted to work for that company - still does.

Then, last week, he got a phone call informing him of a different, unexpected opening at that company.  It pays $3.60 more per hour than the job he originally wanted, and is in the IT field (something Derek really wanted to break into).  His position right now is officially temporary, but will hopefully be made permanent in January.  Meanwhile, at the other job he was working, he asked if he could go part time.  They were disappointed - they were planning on promoting him very shortly after he completed training.  They said yes though.  So he is staying there part time, with the knowledge that if he were to return to full time, the promotion is waiting for him. 

Can I just say, I am proud of him?  I think he's acted very honorably and very much the "man" in all of this.  Thank you Derek, for leading our family, for loving me, and most of all, for loving God.

Heal the Wound...

Every once in a while, I write a post wherein I expose to you the things that I usually keep carefully covered up.  The things that are uncomfortable, unpopular... without beauty and without grace.  This is going to be one of those.  If you want to continue to look at me the same way you always have - stop reading here.  I'll resume "regular" posting soon.

If you are okay with maybe changing what you think of me, of my life... if you're okay with reality being different than you might think, keep going.

If you were sitting here in the room with me, you wouldn't see my legs.  They'd be covered.  My right hand would probably be covering my left arm.  I'd talk to you, look you in the eyes.  You'd see me smile, see my brows pull together with concern.  I'd listen to your every word, tell you I cared.  And I would care.  I'd do whatever I could to show you His love.  But you wouldn't see my legs.

Unless you were truly broken.

If your hope was gone, if your heart was shattered, if tears were streaming down your face.  I'd take your hand, look into your eyes.  I wouldn't look away.  I might shake, and my voice would get quiet.  I'd pull up the leg of my pants.

You'd look down, wondering what I was doing.  The ugly, red hole in my leg... the lines across my skin... the evidence of old wounds would be there for you to see.  Your face would register surprise.  Maybe repulsion, maybe curiosity.  You'd stare, for a few seconds, maybe minutes.  Silence, until your eyes shifted back to my face.

And then, I would tell you why the song that is playing right now means anything at all to me. 

I would tell you that my hope has been gone.  My heart shattered.  I've cried until I had no more tears.  I've stared silently at the darkness, afraid of the light.  I would take a deep breath.  I would tell you that time and again, the pain and the blood have flowed out of me.  That my own hands have been instruments of destruction.

I would look down, and you would too.  Together, we'd look at the scars.

And I would tell you why I have stopped wishing for God to take them away.  Each one is a silent witness, proclaiming this truth: He is enough.  He is there.  He is faithful.

I do not show them off.  I do not want the world to see them if I don't have a chance to explain.  I am ashamed of what I've done.  But I am not ashamed of Him.  I am not ashamed to say that out of the ashes left by burnt out hope, He is creating a masterpiece.  I cannot see it - it is not finished, and I am on the inside looking out. 

I am breathing.  My heart is beating.  My hands are warm, there is fire in my eyes, my back is strong.  And it is not because of anything I am or have or can do.  It is Him.

He has preserved me.  He will present me blameless.  He lifts my head, He washes the shame from my face.  In Him, there is freedom.  Life.  Liberty.  There is no condemnation.  No fear.

He is your hope.  He is the only thing that can hold the pieces of your heart together.  He is the One who never leaves, never fails, never ends.  His shoulders are broad - they can carry the weight of the world.  And He loves you.  He has redeemed you.  He knew you before you were born, and He knows every minute tomorrow holds. 

The hurt, the loss, the destruction I have known, are not visible.  You can't see them.  If you were here in this room, there wouldn't be any way for you to know about them.  Except for the scars.

They speak.

They might make you cry.  They might make you cringe.  They might make you wonder if I've ever known the pain that you're feeling now. 

They will show you dependence. 

If you were here, I would squeeze your hands, ask you to look at me.

I would tell you that you will fall, again and again.  That your heart might be broken anew.  That you will feel more pain.  And I would tell you that He will pick you up.  That He will hold you, and wash you, and purify you.  I would remind you that in Him, there is healing and fullness of joy. 

And after you left, I would be thankful for the scars.  Not for the pain.  Not for the wounds.  Not for the sorrow.  But for the healing.  For the truth.  For Him.  For you.

If you were here.

But That's So Selfish (Plus a Leg Update)

Forgive me if I include a very brief leg update for the curious: Still scheduled to be admitted the morning of May 11th, will go home 5-7 days later. The psuedomonas turned out to be susceptible to Cipro, so I'm taking very high doses of that and Augmentin up until that morning. A "colony" of bacteria was removed by the nurse today, which will be cultured and verified as something that either Cipro or Augmentin will kill. Slurpy's working well. Pain is decreasing. There are several small eschars (areas of hard, dead tissue) and several obvious colonies of bacteria, but over all, the wound is looking better than it has since the original surgery. Talked to the doctor about some concerns I have related to the PTSD. The result? He understood. I will have a private room. I will not be catheterized and I will not be required to use a bedpan. Over all, a very productive day.

Okay. Now that that's over with, the meat of this post.

Selfishness. Defined by Webster's as either "concerned excessively or exclusively with oneself: seeking or concentrating on one's own advantage, pleasure, or well-being without regard for others" or "arising from concern with one's own welfare or advantage in disregard of others." Certainly not a trait most of us want attributed to ourselves. In fact, I don't know that I've ever met someone who said to me, "I wish I could be just a little more selfish."

I have noticed that many people, myself included, seem to say "yes" to almost any request made of them. I want to give. I want to help. I want to be selfless. If it benefits someone else, I am all for it. Even if it hurts me. I have always used Galatians 5:13 & 14 to justify myself in this attitude. I've convinced myself that i have to "do it all" because... well, because that's the unselfish thing to do. Look at those verses with me for just a moment, will you?

It is absolutely clear that God has called you to a free life. Just make sure that you don't use this freedom as an excuse to do whatever you want to do and destroy your freedom. Rather, use your freedom to serve one another in love; that's how freedom grows. For everything we know about God's Word is summed up in a single sentence: Love others as you love yourself. That's an act of true freedom. (taken from the Message Bible)

I could use this passage to try to convince you that we should do everything others ask. After all it says "serve one another in love." Right? We should serve others. In love. Because that's what we're told to do.

Let me ask you something though. Have you ever been SO busy that you cannot remember what it is you are supposed to do next? Maybe not. Have you promised someone that you'd be there for them, only to walk away with the sinking realization that you have another equally important commitment? I think that sometimes in our efforts to serve God, to love our neighbors, we fall terribly short. Not for lack of willingness. Not for lack of "yes" answers. But because we don't say no. We get so wrapped up in doing, going, and helping, that our own lives start to fall apart.

Look at Luke 6:41 & 42

"Why do you notice the little piece of dust in your friend's eye, but you don't notice the big piece of wood in your own eye? How can you say to your friend, 'Friend, let me take that little piece of dust out of your eye' when you cannot see that big piece of wood in your own eye?! You hypocrite! First, take the wood out of your own eye. Then you will see clearly to take the dust out of your friend's eye.

I always looked at that passage as sort of applying to them. You know, those other people who sit in church with you. But you know what? It's talking to me. The reason I didn't think it was? Well... I am pretty sure I would notice if I got a big piece of wood in my eye. Even if it was metaphorical, like getting entrenched in sin. Or failing to meet my commitments. Or failing to manage my finances. Becoming unsubmissive to my husband. Wouldn't I?

Maybe. If I had time to pay attention to that sort of thing. You know, in between all of the loving my neighbor that I have to do.

Face it. We cannot obey the commandment set forth in Galatians if we don't take heed to what's written here in Luke. Maybe that's why Luke comes first in the Bible? We absolutely, positively must take heed to ourselves. We have to take care of ourselves before we can take care of anything or anyone else. There is no way we can be of any earthly use if we are falling apart.

I am a very good example of this one. I got so caught up in wanting to "be better" and help people that I didn't even notice myself slipping back into the very dangerous, very scary habit of self mutilation. The mess I made is still being cleaned up (see the note at the top of this entry). And right now? I just need to let myself take care of me. I can't take care of others, can't see past my own mountain to help them. And that hurts. But truth doesn't always feel good going down - sometimes, it's bitter, like medicine. Right now, my truth is that I can't really do much for anybody else. I hate it. Loathe it. Want to deny or ignore it. Or both. But I can't. I have to heed it, or I'll wind up with not just a big stick in my eye, but an entire log jamb. And that would certainly help my neighbor, right? Well... maybe not so much.

A little bit further in Luke, it we see what exactly it was that Christ came to do. We are called to be Christians, or Christ-Like. So maybe we ought to read what He did, so we know what we ought to be doing. Read Luke 19:10 with me:

The Son of Man (Christ Jesus) came to find lost people and save them.

Well, that's simple. If we're to love people, and be like Christ, we should be out finding lost people and saving them.

I will be honest. Right now, I feel selfish. I am not out finding lost people and saving them. I am barely getting through my days, battling a systemic infection, fighting to keep my leg, looking at my 3rd urgent surgery in so many weeks. Praying that this one the last - the surgeon isn't sure it will be.

Am I a bad Christian for this? Am I failing? I've stepped back from some of the "helps" things that I usually do. I spend less time now "reaching out." I am asking others to help me. I am trying to force myself to let them. Everything in me is screaming out "THIS IS SO SELFISH."

But then I read this in Matthew. Matthew comes before Luke the way we arrange our Bibles, but this account is after the commandment to love, and after we see what Jesus came to do.

Read Matthew 14, verses 22 and 23:

As soon as the meal was finished, He (Jesus) insisted that the disciples get in the boat and go on ahead to the other side while He dismissed the people. When the crowd dispersed, He climbed the mountainside so He could be by Himself and pray. He stayed there alone, late into the night.

So. There you have it. Jesus, who was perfect, drew away for a time. He spent time alone. He prayed, and He didn't do it for just a little while. He did it late into the night. He didn't just happen to find Himself alone, either. He sent everyone away. He took care of Himself. I don't believe that He would have been able to do what He did if He didn't take this time, alone. This time to be restored and refreshed and rebuilt.

And so, while my flesh screams "SELFISH SELFISH WOMAN" my Spirit whispers, "Wisdom. This is wisdom."

Think about it... can you find a way to apply any of this to your own life? If so, please leave me a comment. I'd love to hear from you.

The Surgeon Says...

So, as some of you may know, I've been on the phone with a man who is not my husband an awful lot lately. His name is Dr. T, and he is my surgeon. I struggled for two days to convince him to see me, because my leg wound was turning black. He kept saying it was fine, that it wasn't really black. Actually, my description yesterday was "the middle is black, and the skin radiating out from the edges is mottled yellow and green and brown and black."

I've got a picture of what I was trying to describe. It's a bit... graphic. So if you're squeamish, do not click on the link below.

Click here to see what my leg looked like on April 20th

However, after my husband saw what it looked like, he called the surgeon himself and got me an appointment. Went in, had to wait 45 minutes, and the surgeon came in. He looked at it and I promise, he did a double take. He apparently really didn't think it was actually black. He thought that we were seeing blood clots or something of the sort. No, not so much.

He scraped away at the tissue he described as "dead" and then scraped some more. Then he got giddy, and called it a word I can't remember. And then the bomb got dropped - it was actually my fault. The cutting I did in January (haven't done any since before the last time I was hospitalized, by the way) has really hindered my superficial blood supply. The wound he made to treat the previous tissue death, inadvertently removed the blood supply for much of the surrounding skin/tissue as well.

Because of that, the skin, and the tissue beneath, has died. It looks gross. Smells worse than it looks. And it creeps me out. He said it's okay - that it will be self-limiting and should be about done progressing. On Friday, his plan is to keep me wide awake, use only a local anesthetic, and remove the tissue that has died. Time for a little baring of my soul, so to speak... that absolutely, thoroughly terrifies me. So if you pray for me, please, PLEASE pray for peace as I go in Friday morning. Once all of the dead tissue is removed, he will be putting a wound vac on. I haven't researched this yet, so if anybody has had one, or knows much about them, please share.

After all his scraping and carrying on, I don't think my leg looks any better at all. I think it looks worse, to be honest. But here is what it looks like today. Again, if you are squeamish, do NOT click the link below.

Click here to see what my leg looked like on April 21st

So, that's my update for those of you (and there have been quite a few) who have asked how my leg is.

It's What I Do

Sometimes people ask me what, exactly, I do all day. Truth is, right now, what I do all day can be best described by pictures. I go through this process "as often as possible," according to my surgeon's instructions.

First, I take something to take the edge off the pain of the coming procedure... (usually only a half tablet).

Next, I use some sterile saline to wet the dressing that is currently on my leg. This makes it a little less painful when I rip it off. I had been gently peeling things off, trying to reduce or eliminate pain. But yesterday, the surgeon informed me that I need to literally rip the dressing off, so that I am also ripping away the tissue that's stuck to it. Appealing, eh? I still cheat a little though, and at least get it good and wet first.

Once the old dressing is off, I put Bacitracin on any exposed living tissue, so I don't rip that off with the dressing.

It takes a lot of gauze to cover the wound right now - it's about the size of my fist and goes down to the muscle and bone.

I put in a few layers just to "pack" things, and then a couple layers to cover everything up.

And then a couple more layers of packing material.

We go through a lot of this stuff right now... because all actual dressing materials are removed and thrown away three times a day, minimum.

I try to make this the worst that my loved ones have to see - a scarred up leg with gauze wrapped around it.

Once the wound is covered, I take this gel and rub it into my leg below the dressing, all the way down to my toes. It is an anti-inflammatory/pain reliever, and I am SO grateful for it.

It really helps with the swelling. Controlling the swelling is key to avoiding even more tissue death.

Next, I begin wrapping my leg from the foot upward, using an Ace bandage. It starts somewhat tight around my foot, and loosens as it goes up. This is also to help with the swelling, and to hopefully prevent further tissue death.

The trouble with Ace bandages is that they tend to wrinkle as you wear them, and the tension tends to even out. I want to avoid that - I need tension on my foot, and absolutely can not have tension on my shin. So I go over the bandage with Vet Wrap (the animal equivalent to Coban - identical in every way except for price).

Once my leg is wrapped up to the bottom of the dressing, I cut the Vet Wrap. I then use a second piece of Vet Wrap to continue up and over the dressing. This makes it easier to do middle-of-the-day changes and means I don't have to remove everything every time I do a dressing change.

Now I'd like to introduce you to Boot. Boot has been my companion since January, and I'm really not sure when Boot will be leaving. I was on my way to being Boot free when this setback happened.

I put my foot into Boot, like so...

...and then I close it up and secure the straps.

Lastly, I turn this little knob and then use the light colored "pump bump" to inflate the air bladders inside Boot. These help to reduce swelling, which helps to reduce... well, yeah, you get the picture. And then, several hours later, I do it again.

A Funny Story With Serious Implications

Yesterday, I started running low on the narcotic I was prescribed for the pain caused by the large chunk of flesh that was removed from my shin. So I stopped taking it, and I realized that without it, the pain was... nearly unbearable. It wasn't too bad, as long as I didn't walk. Or sneeze. Or move. In between heartbeats, it was fine. But with all of those, the minor increase in pressure was almost enough to send me through the roof. I called the doctor, said I wanted to be seen because something was awry. I'll write more on that tomorrow, though, because today's post is about the picture above.

I'd like to introduce you to Lucy. That's what I call her. The cardinal, that is. Lucy has a problem. You see, she has worked hard with Mr. Cardinal to build a nest in a branch that overhangs our two dysfunctional cars. But at some point this morning - I'm guessing right around sunrise, which is when I first heard her complain, she discovered two intruders. As you may know, cardinals are territorial.

Lucy will do anything to keep any cardinal other than Mr. Cardinal out of her territory, away from her nest. She wants to protect it. She would lay down her life to give her eggs a chance. Well, these two intruders weren't like any she'd ever discovered before. I first discovered that she had this problem at about 9:00 AM, on my way to my car so I could go to the doctor. I could hear her complaining, Mr. Cardinal calling plaintively, and this repetitive smack, smack, smack sound. It was almost like someone was hitting one of our cars with a stick.

My first thought was that a child from an area daycare had escaped and was indeed hitting our car with a stick. But no... it was she. Lucy. She was using every last ounce of her tiny body and every bit of energy generated by her fierce desire to protect to attack an intruder. Unfortunately, she was unsuccessful. The intruder? Trapped within the mirror of our car. After about 30 seconds, she seemed exhausted - hopped on top of the mirror, ruffled her feathers, and looked around. Then she spotted the other mirror. On the other car. And she was right back at it.

I spent nearly two hours at the doctor's, and she was still at it when I came home. Several hours later, she was still attacking the "intruders" trapped within our mirrors. I laughed hysterically, and stood to watch a while.

I noticed that every now and then, Mr. Cardinal's voice would break through her obsessive, slightly crazy drive to defend, and she would follow him back to reality and "normal life." She'd stay as long as he occupied her, but sooner or later - usually sooner - she came back. I laughed some more.

And then I froze. I realized that I was laughing at myself.

I'm like that. There are things I am battling right now, very real, very intense, potentially dangerous things. Things that I want out of my life for good, that keep coming back. But there are other things - things that can't hurt me any more than those reflections could hurt Lucy's eggs - that I fight just as hard. I will beat myself senseless in so many figurative ways, giving all I have to defeat these reflections.

I am blessed.

I have a Mr. Cardinal. He pulls me back when I'm doing that. And just like the real Mr. Cardinal, he shows no sign of judgment when I return. He receives me with joy and gladness, eager to show me the joy and wonder of the world we live in. He points out the good things. Loves me. Shows his love. There is no shame, no condemnation. Just... love. Even though he knows I've been fighting against reflections, against shadows - things without substance - he helps me fight and holds me close when I'm done.

Mr. Cardinal and my husband have a lot in common. I am so amazingly thankful for this vivid picture that was painted for me today. And even more thankful for my very own Mr. Cardinal. I usually call him Derek or Sir though. I think he'd look at me oddly if I were to address him as Mr. Cardinal.

But most of all, I am thankful for my God. Do you know that some of what we battle is nothing more than shadow or reflection? I know, it's hard, and seems so real. It is so real. It's just that so often, it's not as bad as we think. And He gives us strength for these battles we wage. And when we finally notice Him calling us, and we run after Him.... He welcomes us back. Romans 8:1 - there is no condemnation for us. He doesn't judge us. No name calling - we are not addressed as silly or foolish or wasteful or stupid. He welcomes us, with just love. Unfailing, unyielding, unchanging, unshakable love.

That's all for today - a funny story, with some serious parallels. By the way, did I mention that cardinals have an extremely special meaning to me, and that I have been praying for God to show me one for a while now? Once again, He's done exceedingly above and beyond that which I have asked or even imagined.