It's Not Forever.

This life, I mean.  Eventually, we leave this earth and enter heaven, or we enter hell.  Death isn't scary if you are confident of your eternity.

But for those left here on earth after someone dies... it hurts.  It often does not feel temporary.  It feels like a giant hole has been ripped through you, a hole that will never heal.  It DOES heal, at least some.  It takes time, it takes faith, it takes hope, it takes support.  But healing happens.

Today, one of the best men I know is dancing in Heaven.  His son was there waiting, and his granddaughter, and so many others.  He's without pain, without chains, without flaws.  And I rejoice for him.  I truly do.

And my heart is aching, tears are flowing, for his family.  Because  good-bye hurts, even though it's not forever.  I remember how badly it hurt when my Gramma left my house healthy and happy, and didn't make it home.  That's as close as I can come to understanding what my friends, my family, are feeling.  Steven Curtis Chapman did a pretty good job of saying what's on my heart tonight.




This is not how it should be
This is not how it could be
This is how it is
Our God is in control

This is not how it will be
When we finally will see
We’ll see with our own eyes
He was always in control

And we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
And we will finally really understand what it means

So we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
While we’re waiting for that day

This is not where we planned to be
When we started this journey
This is where we are
And Our God is in control

Though this first taste is bitter
There will be sweetness forever
When we finally taste and see
That Our God is in control

And we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
And we will finally really understand what it means

So we’ll sing
Holy Holy Holy is our God
While we’re waiting for that day
We’re waiting for that day
We’ll keep on waiting for that day

And we will know
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy
Holy Holy Holy
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy
Our God is in control
Holy Holy Holy

*This song was written and recorded by Steven Curtis Chapman. 

Today's The Day

Today, the Fed-Ex man didn't knock very loudly.  Or maybe I dosed off.  We're going to say it was his fault though, not mine.  So I didn't know he was here, and he left one of those wonderful tags hanging on my door.

The delivery?

Leuprolide.  It's the injectable medication I am starting to help (we hope) with the endometriosis.  So he couldn't just leave it.  So he took my medicine with him and left.

So I called the pharmaceutical company.  And they put me in touch with logistics for Fed-Ex.  And they put me in touch with their special group that handles the delivery of perishable medication.  And they called the Fed-Ex guy on the phone and told him to come back.

He did.  Six hours later.  And as I was signing, he smiled and said he had no idea what could be so important inside the box... after all how much could one medication cost someone?  Oh, if only you knew what you are so often delivering.

Anyway, I have been waiting and waiting for this stuff to arrive.

And after I opened it and gave myself the first dose... I realized something.  I have almost a full two week vial left from last year.  It expires 9/30.  So I can use it.  Duh.  Of course the stuff we just got now will be useful, since I'll be on this for at least two months.  But still.

And just like I remember, the shots don't hurt a bit, but they leave crazy red splotches on my belly as the medication disperses.  Anybody remember if I was premedicating with Benadryl last year?  I can't for the life of me remember if I was or not... Yeah.  Right.  I didn't share the IVF process here.  I forgot about that part.

And no, I am not currently in any stage of the IVF process.  I am genuinely using Leuprolide to hopefully suppress the endometriosis.

Rewind.

Do you ever think that you're going through a "rough patch" in life?  One of those times where it's not terrible, but you certainly look forward to when things get better?

Have you ever been thinking that and found yourself, just days later, desperately wanting to push rewind, to go back to that "rough patch" because it was so much better than where you are now?

Me too.

It's not my place to say why, and it's probably not even my place to be as impacted as I am.  But tonight, I sit with tears running down my face (they have been for a couple days now), wishing with everything in me that I knew what to do, what to say... how to be... how to make sure I don't mess this up.  Because it's not about me at all... and yet, I am part of it, in a way.   A helpless, confused, sad, angry part.

I'll be fine.  I really will.  Because it's really not about me.  It's about someone else entirely... and while I've learned how to deal with bad things in my own life, how to handle the unknown and how to be patient and remain hopeful and enjoy life no matter what is going on... I haven't learned how to be the "okay outsider."  And I desperately, desperately want to do exactly the right things, say exactly the right things... but I don't know if there are any words or actions that are "right."

Rewind, please.  Go back to 2010.  June.  Let me start from there, please.  Let us all start from there.  Because there's a lot I would do differently, if I had known then what I know now.

National Invisible Chronic Illness Awareness Week

I am reposting this because I've received several entries already, but I don't want folks to forget - there are still two weeks left.  Thank you all so much.

Please visit This Link to learn more about National Invisible Chronic Illness Week.

Thousands, millions even, of people suffer with invisible illness.  As months, weeks, and years go by, we learn to stay silent, to quit complaining, to "toughen up."  We learn to not ask for support or help.  We get tired of being  a burden.  Sometimes, we find ourselves dreading the next person who says "But you look just fine."  This year, from September 12-18th, I will be publishing as many stories as are submitted to me.  You can follow this checklist, or you can write it in any other format you choose.  But try to view it as an opportunity to show the world what it is like to be you.  It's important to me this year, to give my readers a voice.  You can email me at kyukidojen@hotmail.com and I will gladly post on your behalf.  Please include what you want me to call you in the post dedicated to you, and as well as you can, answer the following questions.  It is time to see just how NOT alone we really are.

1. The illness I live with is:

2. I was diagnosed with it in the year:

3. But I had symptoms since:

4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is:

5. Most people assume:

6. The hardest part about mornings are:

7. My favorite medical TV show is:

8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is:

9. The hardest part about nights are:

10. Each day I take __ pills & vitamins. (No comments, please)

11. Regarding alternative treatments I:

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose:

13. Regarding working and career:

14. People would be surprised to know:

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been:

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was:

17. The commercials about my illness:

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is:

19. It was really hard to have to give up:

20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is:

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would:

22. My illness has taught me:

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is:

24. But I love it when people:

25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is:

26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them:

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is:

28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was:

29. I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because:

30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel:

The Highground.

In Exodus 3, Moses was out in the desert and God spoke to him from within a bush that burned, but didn't burn up.   God spoke to him.  And Moses was instructed to take off his shoes, because he was on holy ground.

I grew up believing that if God was speaking to people (or a person) somewhere, that place became holy ground.  It wasn't the fact that there was a burning bush, it wasn't the miraculous lack of consumption in the fire, it wasn't even the fact that God was there - because God is everywhere.  It was the fact that God was deliberately revealing Himself and speaking to Moses. 

Saturday, we chose to skip our planned trip to the zoo, and we instead visited a couple veterans memorials.  The first was what I expected - lots of plaques, statues, a tank, a jet.  Those things are sort of... standard.  They are important.  They are meaningful.  And I really, genuinely enjoy going to them.  And I feel honored, and privileged, and so incredibly thankful for all that's been done on our behalf.  We took a lot of pictures for a project we are doing, and spent some time reading the plaques and some time being silent in respect and in memory of what had to be done to purchase our freedom here in the United States.

Then we started driving to the second one. 

As we slowed to turn off the highway, there was something very... different about it.  It felt... well, it felt special.  Spiritual, even.  I was very strongly impressed, inside, to not wear my shoes.

I walked barefoot down the walkway.  It was paved with square stones, each bearing the name of someone who had served our country, who had given the ultimate sacrifice.  I could feel the heat of the sun in each stone.  And I read the names.  All of them.  And the heavy, serious, "God is here" feeling stayed, and grew stronger still.

At one end of the memorial is the memorial that is pictured here:

What you can't see in this picture, is what that memorial was truly like to stand before. 

I don't know if you've spent a lot of time around statues that generate tears in the people who view them, but I have.  Tears leave salt rings after they dry.  Sometimes people will wipe the tears away with their hands, and leave a white-rimmed hand print.  It washes away as soon as it gets wet, but for just a while, it stays.  This memorial, had tear rings.  It had a hand print on the side of one of the faces, faint.  And then I noticed... the dog tags.  The dog tags were hanging off the soldiers' hands, they were around their necks, they were suspended with the many metal rods bearing the names of fallen soldiers.

And it hit me, hard and fast.  The "different feeling" and the fact that I couldn't get myself to wear my shoes, and the sadness and peace that were both prevalent... this was holy ground.  Here, at this memorial, God speaks to people.  Hurting, broken people go there and He ministers hope to them.  He ministers life.  They leave dog tags, they leave watches and medals, and with these little bits of material, they lay down some of their grief.  Because God meets them there, and he takes some of their grief, and gives them what they desperately need. 

During the time we spent there, I found myself in tears.  The changing of the guards at the tomb of the unknown soldier is more emotional.  The rows and rows and rows of silent, white crosses in Arlington cemetery are more somber and are enough to drive me to my knees.

But they are the closest things I've ever felt, to what was at the Highground on Saturday.  I read the names on the dog tags.  I saw the medals hanging among the chimes.  I saw the picture propped by one of the statues, with the words "I miss you and I will always love you" on it.  I did not photograph that picture. 

My words are failing me tonight.  Failing me miserably.

The gist of it all is this:  I went to the Highground.  It is a place where God meets people.  It is holy ground.  And it is truly a beautiful, sad place... and also a place of evident hope and faith.

Just One Picture.

This image combines three photos I took today.  And a watermark.  And I really, really like it.

Honey, I Love You

Six years ago today, I married my beloved Derek.  People then told us we weren't ready, said to wait, said to slow down... but we knew deep down, that waiting wouldn't change things... just prolong the "hard part" unnecessarily.  Yep.  We were that smart and also very mature.

But the thing is... when we married, we each had a secret.  A big secret, that we hadn't shared with the other.  Not in full.  For the first several years of our marriage, those secrets would rear their ugly heads and we'd beat them back down.  Quickly.  Before the other person noticed.

And then they started to be known.  Right around the time we had our third, fourth, and fifth miscarriages.  And my Gramma was killed in a senseless accident.  And I was trying to rebuild a relationship - a new relationship - with a part of my family I hadn't so much as spoken to in years.  And then I had my first endometriosis surgery.  We did some fertility treatments.  I had another surgery.  Then we did some more treatments.  I got depressed.  Derek got depressed.  I finally let my secret out, and it shook us until we were barely standing - and that, only by the grace of God.  And not long after, Derek let his out, and we were shaken again.  And then we tried another fertility treatment and more surgery, and it didn't work.

Derek stood helpless as I spiraled out of control, caught in the snares of PTSD and depression.  I was battling not just in my mind, but physically, too.  So much - SO much - had to be conquered.  The people we'd worked so hard to bring back into our lives ended up sort of being let back out. Not because we didn't love them, but because at the time, our focus needed to be exclusively on our God and our relationship... and any added stress could have caused this house to wash away the next time rain fell or the wind blew.  But we held on. 

And we've grown closer and stronger, and stronger, and stronger.  Two days ago, we were meeting with my counselor (yes, I see one.  No, it's not a secret.)  Derek had to handle some pretty rough stuff... and I have been noticing that the healthier I get, the more emotional my responses to him are.  Not out of control emotional... but emotional as in I feel things now, instead of just being numb.  I got angry.  I felt hurt.  And I told him.  And he didn't attack it.  He has never, ever, that I can recall, verbally (or physically or in any other way) attacked or put me down.  Ever.

And through it all?  He is mine.  I am his.  We are Christ's.  Do you know how truly beautiful, and rare this gift is?

And now that I've told you vaguely about the hard stuff, I will tell you some of my favorite parts of the last six years:

Laying in the dark talking until the sun starts coming up.  After going to bed early so we can "get lots of sleep."

Laughing so hard we cry, at silly, stupid jokes shared between us.

Having a chance to show love and honor and support to someone who forgives me when I don't do so well at it.  And someone who genuinely appreciates everything I do get right.

Having someone irrevocably, unwaveringly on my side.  In everything.

Swimming with dolphins. 

Being honored and privileged and fortunate enough to know the hopes and dreams of another, intimately.

Seeing my six foot tall, two hundred plus pound husband holding a 24-hour-old kitten, patiently feeding it a bottle and smiling.  In the middle of the night.

Watching our five cats light up and swarm around him when he gets home - and watching how happy he gets.

Growing and changing with someone I love.

Discounted admission to the zoo for our anniversary, because they were closing.  But let us in anyway and we didn't leave till almost two hours after closing time.  And it was okay, because there was a kids' overnight thing and I think the staff thought we were part of that.

Being safe and loved enough to be able to say "I am angry" or "I am sad" and not be afraid of the consequences.

APAP (automatic positive airway pressure) machine.  Like a C-PAP only it's not a constant pressure - it varies with his breathing.  The little black machine has done more for our marriage than any other possession we have.

Most of all, I am thankful that we have been married for six years.  We no longer get "You're so young and you aren't ready for marriage."  We no longer get called newly-weds.  We haven't heard "be married longer before kids" in quite some time.  And yet... it is still just as much work, just as hard, just as beautiful, just as amazing, and just as much an adventure as it was six years ago.

I'm ready for... hmm... about 83 more years?  I don't think I want to live to be older than 100.

NICIAW - Thank you

I've gotten submissions both from my blog, here, and from a few other people I have directly asked.  I appreciate the feedback, and I look forward to letting other voices be heard here.

National Invisible Chronic Illness Awareness Week starts on September 12, so there's still lots of time for you to submit your own post.  You can use the survey questions I posted here, or you can write whatever else you want.  You can submit your posts either in the comments section or by emailing me.  If you use email, make sure you include something in the subject to catch my attention, or it might get overlooked as spam.

Anyway, thank you for your participation so far.  It's very much appreciated!

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.

Rain

It's raining outside today.  Big, round drops of precious water.  The air smells of earth and rain and of the crops that are maturing nearby.  It is cool and the sound is quiet, steady... soothing.  The cloud-shadow makes things look a little flatter, a little less distracting, a little less harsh.

I love the rain, love to stand outside with my arms open to the heavens, letting it wash over my face.  Years ago, I was given a key to one of the churches on our town.  The pastor has since retired, so I no longer use that key.  But, especially during the 18 months of serious trial and hurt and fear that I've so recently come out of, that key was so important to me.  The moments of peace were almost impossible to find then, but sometimes... sometimes they were there.  Late at night, when the rest of the town was sleeping, I would go to that church.  That Pastor and his wife were my "parents" in high school.  I know their church as well as I know their home.  I would silently open and close the door, locking it behind me.  I'd walk on soft carpet through the darkness, up the stairs and through the narrow hallway, out into the sanctuary.  I'd turn the sound system off, and I would sit down at the piano.  The light from streetlamps or the moon always made just enough light to see by, filtered through the stained glass and gentle.  I would play softly, listening as the music resonated and grew around me. 

I would pray, I would cry for mercy, for hope, for healing.  Mostly for forgiveness.  And in the darkness, in the quiet, He would touch my heart.

And then I'd hear the sound of rain.  It would start imperceptibly quiet and slowly build until it was a rushing roar that surrounded me like air.

In the Old Testament, when the people really, really messed things up, God withheld the rain.  If you want examples, I would be happy to send you a list.  They are there though - Genesis, Leviticus, Deuteronomy, 1 and 2 Kings, 1 and 2 Samuel, and so on.  When the people sinned and God was angry, it did not rain.

But in Genesis, chapter 49, verse 25, it says "Your father's God helps you.  God Almighty blesses you.  He blesses you with rain from above..."  Psalm 68, verses seven and eight:  "When you, God, went out before your people, when you marched through the wilderness, the earth shook, the heavens poured down rain, before God, the one of Sinai, before God, the God of Israel."

And as the rain fell, I knew He was near.  As close to me as the air I was breathing, and mightier than every storm on the earth, My God was there. 

For me, when the rain comes down, it reminds me of God's love.  Of His mercy, His forgiveness, His grace.  It reminds me that even when I've done wrong, He is ready and mighty to save.  And my heartfelt cries, they do not go unanswered and unheard.  The Lord of All hears and answers.

And the rain falls down.

Briefly

Yesterday, I learned five kids' names.  In less than a minute.  And I still remember them.  :)  That's neat, no?

But it's not what I want to write about.

I left the City last night about 7:30.  We live East of the City, and the sun was starting to set.  The first thing I noticed was how very deeply, darkly blue the sky was.  And how brilliantly white and gold and crimson the clouds were.  Then I noticed that the hills were green... so green.  A deep, almost-blue green.  And the fields were a bright, almost-glowing green.  Barns seemed so red.  Houses seemed so brightly colored.

I don't know why it was that way.  When I got home and looked at some pictures, they looked normal.  The inside of my house didn't seem vivid.  But looking out the windows... stuff looked vivid up until darkness made it all fade away.  And not just vivid.

Alive.  Bright.  Full of beauty.

And I don't know why.

All I knew to do was to say "Thank you Lord, for all you have done."

O Lord, my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works Thy hands have made
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder
I see Thy pow'r throughout the universe displayed

Then sings my soul
My Savior, God, to Thee
How great Thou art
How great Thou art!

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.

Better Men - July 4th, 2011

War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things.
The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling
which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse.
The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight,
nothing which is more important than his own personal safety,
is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free
unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.
~John Stewart Mill
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(C) Potter's Clay Studios.  Image may not be reproduced, hyperlinked, embedded, downloaded, shared, or archived in any system, paper or electronic, without express permission from the owner of Potter's Clay Studios.

Today, I am remembering those "Better Men" who are part of my life, part of my being, part of who I am.  And I am remembering those "Better Men" who gave of themselves and stepped into eternity.  And I am remembering that today is truly a day to remember all of the "Better Men" and to celebrate not just freedom, but those who have given that freedom to us.

RAW

So after a long absence, one of my favorite bloggy activities is back.

RAW.  Head on over to Sailor and Company to check out the rules and submit your own entry. 

In short, the photos must be completely, 100% untouched, and must fit the theme for the week.

Here is my entry for the theme "America" - RAW, unedited, unchanged photo.  It was taken at a veteran's memorial not terribly far from where I live.

(C) Potter's Clay Studios.  All rights reserved.

A Few Things.

First, Lizzie asked who died on the 28th... and I'm not sure what she's referring to?  Lizzie, if you read this and would leave a comment as to why you asked that, I'd be happy to answer.
Second... a leg update.
It hurts.  The tibial plateau (or at least the soft tissue over it) is very inflamed.  And red.  And brown.  And purple.  And bruised.  And there is a bruising all the way up and down my tibia.  It hurts like you wouldn't believe to walk on it.  Which makes no sense, because there's no infection.  No internal damage.  Unless the infection was there before... which I had been wondering about.

Today, my friend called my doctor, to inform him (the doctor) that my leg was really sore and swollen and red and warm.  The doctor gave me a serious lecture about going to the emergency room right away.  Because my leg cannot be messed around with.  At all.  Can't take that kind of risk.  Apparently, it's still... "fragile" and isn't remotely healed enough to be able to handle any further damage.  Or something.  I grudgingly concluded the phone call with "Yes, sir" in response to his demands that I go to the ER "right away" and not wait even an hour.

And then my friend approached with a very well known (and very excellent) surgeon in tow.  He (the surgeon) just happens to be a black belt where I take martial arts.  He checked my leg.  His expert diagnosis?  "That looks like it hurts."  Ya think?!  He proceeded to say that it's an inflammatory response that is sort of creating a negative loop - more inflammation, irritates the tissues that were previously infected and irritated (i.e. muscle compartments, periosteum on my tibia, venous structures, lymphatics... which causes more swelling and more irritation. 

He also said it was an exceptionally beautiful graft, and insisted I tell him the name of the surgeon who did it.  And then he said it looked like a shark bite.  Totally un-prompted, I promise.
That's funny.  Because when nosy people who I don't know ask what happened, I say "Shark bite."  And then they say "Really?"  And I smile and say "What do you think?"  I make it pretty clear with my tone that it's not really a shark bite, but that I also won't entertain any further questions.
We're attempting to install a motion alarm in our stairway and door alarms on our doors.  Right now.  It's 11:00 PM.  It's not going well. 
I wish it was Sunday.  On Sunday, my Pastor is taking part of the service to answer some very important questions for us.  I think we might get rebuked a little bit, but I really want and need to know the answers, so it's all good.
I'm rambling.  Because I'm tired.  And the hydroxyzine has kicked in.  Which means it's time for the Ambien and the lorazapam.  Yes... that's three meds.  As opposed to four.  And we're looking to wean off the lorazapam within the next month or two.

Take My Breath Away

Many are saying of me, “God will not deliver her.”  But You, LORD, are a shield around me, my glory, the One who lifts my head high. 
I call out to the LORD, and He answers me from his holy mountain.
~Psalm 3:2-4

There are moments in life that take my breath away.  Beautiful moments. 

Like the day my nephew Israel was born, and the first time I held him close to me. 

Or the day my daddy walked me down the aisle at my wedding.  He was wearing his flip flops and I was wearing... nothing on my feet.  I had heels but they hurt so I left them in the back of the church.  I kept looking at my daddy's face.  He'd see me looking and his smile would get bigger still.  And then mine would.  And then his would. 

And then I looked up and I saw my husband.  Derek is absolutely, without a doubt, 100% in love with me.  Do you know how amazing that is?  To have someone so loyal, so committed, so passionate?  To not have any real fear of abandonment or even harm or neglect?  It will take your breath away, just for a minute, when you realize that there is someone who feels that way about you.

Other moments... walking along a path in the woods, crying privately about the recent death of my Gramma.  Knowing I would wait the rest of my life before I could be reunited with her.  Aching and broken and trying so hard to be strong.  And there, on a snow-covered branch, with big flakes floating all around me, was a flawless cardinal singing so sweetly.

Looking to my left and seeing my dad and my Kelly and my husband and my dad's friend Charlie, all beaming.  Looking in front of me and seeing my friends and instructors.  Raising my arms up so that a black belt could be tied around my waist... less than a month after getting out of the hospital with my hand, and 8 months earlier than it was predicted I'd be able to even START training with my leg again.

Trying to teach a very happy 10 year old how to do some ground-fighting.  Trying to be serious.  Starting to get annoyed with his unstoppable laughter and unyielding smile... and finding it suddenly pouring out of me, too.  Laying next to him on the mat, just laughing.  Looking into his black, almond-shaped eyes, at his tan skin and a smile so big it looks like it almost hurts... and realizing that the isolation and resignation and sadness have faded away.

Hearing my closest and dearest friend after Derek tell someone that I am a good, good friend.  That I would be a strong place for them, that I could hold them up during a hard time.

Those moments take my breath away.

Seeing lines of clouds in a deep blue sky, with fields of hay rolling in the breeze and birds singing. 

Watching the hillside behind our house blinking with so many fireflies it seems impossible.

Coming in softly late at night, and watching my husband sleep.  All the tension gone from his face.  Gently kissing him, pulling the covers up over his shoulders.  His mumbled "I love you" that is so deeply ingrained, he says it even in his sleep.

Sitting on the back of a horse for what would be her last full-speed run... ever.  And what was my first full-speed run with a horse, ever.  And feeling for just a moment that I was somehow joined together with this animal who CHOSE to obey me, and that the world rushing by could not touch me.

Tiny, sticky arms wrapping around my waist as two young boys dash across a restaurant to greet me.  Spaghetti stains left on my shirt from their faces, and warmth spreading through my heart with their "I love you" still fresh and new.

Feeling my pocket vibrate and hearing the strumming of a guitar, telling me that my daddy - my hero, my protector, my friend - is calling me.

Those moments, take my breath away.  Not for long, but briefly.  Just briefly, I am too full of so much good, and I don't have room for air.

And then there are other moments.

Watching a young father gently pick up a tiny, tiny white coffin that holds his newborn daughter.  Watching him walk, alone, down the aisle of the church while my heart exploded with grief and love for that child's family.  Watching that man slowly sink to his knees at the back of the sanctuary as tears poured and his shoulders slumped.  Watching him rise up again.

Driving too fast for too long in order to make a cross-country trip in time to attend a "brother's" funeral.  Feeling my heart explode with new grief as I notice one of the pictures by his coffin - it was him, holding his baby girl, before she went to heaven.  Dreaming so vividly of him stronger even than he was here, with his giggling daughter, dancing in heaven.  Seeing his bride comforting those who came to mourn this wonderful man, and vowing not to cause her any more grief or hurt... knowing I would bear all of her pain for her if I could.  Hugging her and suddenly feeling the crushing weight of what she was facing, and being so unprepared that I began to cry.  Forcing a smile as I said to her, "My heart is broken for you, for your kids, for all of us who will miss him.  He is in heaven, and we WILL meet him again." 

It took my breath away.  So intensely that I wouldn't have been surprised if I had physically turned blue.

Standing with a camera, as requested by my Grandfather.  Taking pictures silently, as he bent to kiss my Grandma goodnight.  Hearing him tell her she was beautiful.  That he loved her - that he'd always loved her, from the first time he met her.  Watching the back that had always been straight and the shoulders that had always been square slowly droop.  They've dropped further in the years since.  And when I look at him, it takes my breath away.  This man has known death, has known grief, has known financial hardship, has carried personal burdens that he is afraid to put down... and what did he choose for the inscription on the grave site he will someday share with his wife?  "But you MUST be born again."

I relived that moment when the film came back.  All you can see is the flowers around the coffin.  The middle of the pictures is completely white.  It takes my breath away.

Seeing a still, perfectly formed but not-beating heart on the ultrasound screen before the technician turned it away.  Falling to my knees in the bathroom of a convenience store on the way home, and crying out to God in sheer, broken anguish.  A month later, getting "lost" in the Black Hills with my husband.  Still waiting for my body to release its hold on our daughter.  And being filled with a gentle peace that did not remove the sadness, but made it easier to bear, as we sat beside a mountain stream surrounded by millions of tiny blue flowers, and tiny blue butterflies.  Anna's flowers. 

It took my breath away, to be so broken and so at peace and surrounded by both beautiful life and ugly death.

Watching my friend be blasted financially, physically, spiritually, and emotionally.  And seeing no end in sight.  Knowing I cannot fight this battle for him, I cannot take it on his behalf.  And loving him so deeply that I would.  I would take every last bit of it, if it would take it from him.  Watching that friend give up over and over... and over and over, renew his fight, renew his vow to NEVER give up.  Knowing that I am so blessed... to have my husband, my daddy, my friend... men who treat me with respect and love and honor and gentleness, and who defend not just me, but everyone around them.

Walking into a nursing home and having tears start welling up and my throat clamp shut when I see a strong, intelligent man curled up like a baby in the bed, having shrunk drastically in such a short time.  Wondering if that day, he'll know who I am or if he'll once again thank me for being kind enough to "visit a stranger."  Kneeling down to hug him, and feeling his hands soft and warm gripping my hand and around my neck, holding on with every bit of strength left in his failing body.  Feeling his tears wet against my cheek, and hearing him whisper thank you.  Trying to stand strong, maintain composure on the way out the door.  But unable to stop the ache inside, and unable to stop myself from imagining that it will be my dad in that bed some day.  Breaking inside for him, and for his children, for his wife.  Knowing that the burden he carries, the aching and sorrow that come when a parent buries a child, aren't fading along with the rest of his memories.  Knowing that soon, he'll be with his son in heaven... and that his other son will be here on earth and will be more broken than he's ever been.  And knowing I'm powerless to do anything more than be present.

It takes my breath away.

Watching my husband walking the same difficult path I walked down myself just a few short months ago - the path of genuinely and fully grieving the fact that all of our children live in heaven, and not here.  Facing the very real probability that we will not raise any of our biological children here on earth.  And hearing his stifled sobs as he does what I've been doing... and reads a childrens' book about heaven.  As he gets the truth of eternity ingrained more deeply into his heart, giving him the strength and courage to feel the temporary loss here and now.

Seeing so vividly that it seems as if it's playing out in front of my eyes, an image of that daughter who went to heaven.  Seeing her holding my Gramma's hand and beaming as they wait for me at the Eastern Gate.  Remembering Gramma's soft promise, made each night that she tucked me in.  "Make sure you look for me in the Rapture, Jenn.  It will be beyond description.  But if I beat you to heaven, I promise, I will meet you at the Eastern Gate."  Aching for that day with every fiber of my being.

Knowing that in Heaven, there is so much.  And loving my life.  But wanting so much to just be done.  To go there, and be with my Jesus.  To see my Grandma smile, to hear my childrens' voices.  I wonder if my uncle Paul is a carpenter there?  I wonder if Gramma takes care of kids who get there before their parents?  I wonder what it's like to truly and eternally be free of oppression.

And it takes my breath away.

And when I have no breath, when life squeezes the air out and I am at the end of myself... I remember these words from Job, chapter 33.

"The Spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty gives me life."

FIberglass, Part 2

So.

I have neglected this blog.  Not out of spite,b ut out of lack of time to write.  Lots of new, exciting, good things in life right now.

But also, something old.  The endometriosis has gotten bad again.  It hurts, every day, all day.  And some days, it hurts even more.  SO, surgery is scheduled for two weeks from today.  I'm glad, in a way.  I don't like surgery, and especially don't like recovery, but I DO like being in less pain.

The other issue is my thyroid.  It's sort of taken a vacation, or leave of absence, or however you'd like to put it.  The doctor is testing for certain autoimmune idsorders, and there's a good chance that a few particular tests will come back positive and if so, it will be an indication that we should no longer attempt to get pregnant.  Because my body, if those tests are positive, is not a good place for a baby to be.  At all.

At first, I was shocked.  And then heartbroken.  And then (very shortly after), I realized something.  If this pans out the way the doctor supects, and we indeed will never have a biological child, it's not a huge shock.  It's a possibility that has grown and been dealt with by us for years now.  And people WILL say "You can always adopt instead."  And I'll still get angry, and I'll still say to myself "Why can't you say 'you can adopt too'  Adoption isn't a replacement, it's not settling, it's not second best.  It is a way to become parents, and it isn't seomthing we would do if (and only if) we are unable to have kids 'of our own'.  It's something we will do whether we have biological children or not.  And by the way... any child we adopt WILL be a child 'of our own.'  So pfft." 

Yep, in my secret thought life, I really am that snarky.

So I got to thinking last night... what if all the time and energy and money we've spent pursuing biological children has been... well, has been like my cat licking fiberglass when we have really good cat food for her upstairs.  What if we've been trying to obtain something we think is going to be so good, and for us God has a different and better plan?  Maybe, just maybe, the chocolate cake is just around the next bend.  And who knows what that chocolate cake will look like.  It might look like Derek and/or I.  Or maybe it will have chocolate skin or almond eyes. 

Don't Lick Fiberglass.

I have a cat named Izzy.  She's a good kitty, and I like her.  But she has this unhealthy obsession... she will work ridiculously hard to fulfill it, too.  She'll dig and hunt and search, and finally... she'll succeed.  And she'll take her prize and lick it.  The object of her affection?  Fiberglass insulation.

I was talking to my daddy tonight, and told him that she'd just obtained and licked more fiberglass.  I then said I had no idea why any creature would do such a thing - think about how much it hurts when you put your HAND on fiberglass.  And then try to imagine licking it?! 

He paused, and said, "Well, I think that a lot of times, that's how God feels about us."

My dad sometimes says things that stop me in my tracks.

And now, I am thinking to myself... "How much fiberglass have I licked lately?"

Obviously (or it should be obvious, anyway) I haven't actually licked any.  But... what have I worked hard and long for?  What have I kept in the front of my mind, devoting my attention, affection, and energy to?  And of those things, how much is the equivalent of licking fiberglass?

I am quite certain there are things I find appealing, enjoyable, or for whatever other reason, I like to do.  Things that seem worthwhile to me.  Things that, from a heavenly, eternal perspective... well, they are like licking fiberglass.  God knows what could be and what I could have/do/experience... and He knows what I actually have/do/experience.  And I suspect my daddy is right.  God probably looks at a lot of it and feels the same way I do when I watch my cat lick fiberglass.

Because truthfully... there is better.

Drawing Anna.

My God, the Creator of the Universe, speaks to me.  Through His Word, every time I read it or hear it, He speaks.  I have had very few instances where I believe he has spoken to me that were anything else. 

One of those times was in December of 2006.  It was the day our daughter was due... the daughter we'd miscarried that summer.  I was so broken inside, longing so much for her... I prayed fervently, "Lord, give me peace.  I trust You.  I love You.  And right now, I desperately need You to do something inside me... something to make me okay again."

And then I went back to bed, since I really prefer NOT getting up that early.  And I had the most vivid, beautiful dream.  I saw my baby girl... she was laying in my lap, wrapped in a very pale purplish-pink blanket.  She was brand-new... still red and puffy eyed.  But she was so beautiful.  Smooth, soft skin.  Gently rounded cheeks.  A perfect little mouth that turned up at the corners like her daddy's.  A cute little chin that reminds me very much of her aunt Cari.  A nose that clearly came from daddy (or daddy's mom, however you want to look at it), but was still exquisitely formed.  Her eyes were shut, and she had one hand up by her face.  I picked her up carefully, and she settled against my chest.  I could feel her breath on my skin, smell her new-baby smell, I could feel her heart beating against me and the rise and fall of her chest.  I could feel her warmth and her weight, and in the dream, I thought to myself, "This is heaven."

I woke with a start... and could still feel her, almost.  It took a long time to fade, and I expected that eventually the dream would fade all together.  But then I noticed something... I didn't have the heaviness.  I didn't hurt quite so much.  I missed her just as strongly, but I knew she was okay.  

I believe without any hesitation, that dream was a gift from God.

I kept it to myself for a while - weeks, if I remember correctly.  Then I shared it with my husband.  And he wanted to know what she looked like.  All I could say was beautiful.  I tried to describe that mouth, her nose... the shape of her brows being the same as the shape of my Gramma's... her tiny hand that looked just like mine, her chin like Cari's... her complexion dark, like Daddy, with just a tiny bit of soft brown hair.  But words don't work for things like that.

So over the next few months, I drew her.  I drew her so many times... and each time, I ached to hold her, to have her, and I felt so much peace about where she was.  And then I'd finish the drawing, and I'd look at her, my daughter, and I couldn't stand it.  The picture would get tucked away into a box... a box I no longer know if we even have.

One year later, we mourned together the fact that our daughter was not turning one.  And that night, I saw her.  Wobbly, chunky baby legs.  Sparkling brown eyes, that mouth that turned up just a little at the corners, soft, dark hair that was almost black.  That perfectly adorable little chin.  In the dream, she was standing across the room, and I called out her name... "Anna, come to mommy" and she did.  She ran to me, and I felt her slam against me and wrap her pudgy arms around my neck and it was so beautiful.

2008, I dreamt of her again.  She was obviously two.  She told me "I can do it" when I offered to help her get up into a rocking chair.  I asked if I could sit with her... she said "Yes mama.  I like snuggles."  She looked even more like her daddy, and seemed even more beautiful.  I held her, and rocked with her in that chair, and it was glorious.  I woke aching for her, but filled with joy.  I thanked my God.

2009, she would have been three.  This last year, she would have been four.

I keep dreaming of her... on her due date.  On Mother's day the last couple of years.  They are the most vivid dreams I have ever had, and they leave me with so much peace.  I miss her, I long to be with her, I long to just... stay with her, always.  But I have a life to live here and now, and I have to focus on that. 

And I keep drawing Anna.  I keep drawing and it feels so good to get it down on paper, and then I look at her face, and it's a reminder of what is not here, of what is missing... and I can't keep the drawing.

But this year, I want to share her with Derek.  I want to show him.  I want to draw Anna for my husband, and I need God's help and strength to do it.

I know this may not make sense, but... it is where I am at today.

Hurting... It's Mother's Day Tomorrow.

Mothers' Day is so hard for me, in so many ways.  I want my own mommy, I want my Gramma, and my Grandmother.  I want my babies - I want Annaliah and I want the two sets of twins and I want the other two, too.
But I don't have them.

And tonight, today... I feel like the storm has sent so many waves and they are crashing all around me.  So I am ending this post with a quote in a great book I read.  By the way... if you have not yet, please read Mary Beth Chapman's book, "Choosing to See."  You can download free kindle-for-pc software, and purchase her book here at Amazon.com.  It is the most raw, honest look at grief tempered by hope of forever that I have ever seen, and has meant so much to me in the last weeks as I've poured over the book time and again. 

The quickest way for anyone to reach the sun and the light of day is not to run west, chasing after the setting sun, but to head east, plunging into the darkness until one comes to the sunrise.
Jerry Sittner