Chan.
I fully blame him.
It all started with a pretty red book with a catchy title.
Guessed it?
Yup, Crazy Love.
Sheesh.
If you haven't read it, don't.
That is unless you want to stay awake at night asking yourself the big questions.
Well, I don't know if they're big or not, but it sounded right.
Stay up at night looking around you and wondering why, where and what.
Why do you have so much? Where to begin? And what do you need?
And then more...how on earth do we truly show love for our Savior, the One who shows us a seriously CRAZY LOVE?
So yeah, Francis Chan, this is all on you.
After I read that book, I really started to feel God convicting me about my lifestyle and whether it is a reflection of a loving God and my relationship with Him. I know that it was conviction and not condemnation because the thought of making changes in my life was like a weight lifted. I didn't feel depressed or guilty, although I did kick myself for taking so long to start to see these things.
But it really gave me new eyes, seeing people and the world a tiny bit more the way Jesus must see people. To Him all of my success, wealth, prosperity, it means nothing. In fact, it is rarely ever more than a distraction. How much time have I spent wrapped up in those things when I could have been hanging out with Jesus, showing others His love? Ugh...hopeless I tell you. truly I am hopeless.
So I was on a roll for all of two weeks and then I realized it was just too hard. So I distracted myself with other things. I started getting really into Bible theology and studying different denominations and beliefs, learning the differences and scouring the scriptures for the "Right" answer. I found answers to some things and others remained a mystery. And man oh man, the "right fighter" in me just couldn't stand it. I was pestering pastors and elders with my questions, my arguments, my confusion....something just wasn't fitting. There was still some little piece missing. As many questions as I had answered, I was still not content. I thought I needed to know more. I downloaded about three billion theology books, stayed up reading websites from various seminaries, devoured creeds and confessions. I was learning a lot. My knowledge bank was getting fuller and fuller.
But somehow, I still felt called to more. SOMETHING was missing.
And then by some crazy turn of events, my husband and I moved our family to Colorado to take advantage of a great job opportunity. Even though we were moving for a job, I kept telling myself and friends that God had some big plans for us and I just didn't know what they were yet. I kept having this sneaking feeling that God was taking me there for a very particular reason, other than my husband's job and the gloriously fresh air.
And in just over a month, we were off on our adventure. The first thing I noticed about Colorado was the beauty of it. Everything was just breathtaking. The Rocky Mountains on one side and the Great Plains on the other. The incredible blue skies and giant white clouds. Snow here and there. It was just gorgeous. Then, once we entered the city limits of Colorado Springs, I started to see signs of poor and homeless communities. I've talked a little bit about the demographics here so I won't bore you with that, but within the first week or two of being here I was completely overcome with this burden for the marginalized here in Colorado Springs. It was just so close, impossible to ignore. And I knew, clear as day I heard God tell me, this is why I was brought here. To learn how to live my life serving the least, loving the least as God does, sacrificing my own ridiculous luxuries and giving of myself. I started to see that God may have meant what He said literally, to serve the poor. Hmmm...what an idea.
I shared this tug on my heart with some close friends and they all suggested different books and directions, reaching out to churches, toys for tots, etc. One of the books suggested, I had waiting on my Kindle. Downloaded two years earlier. Literally. Sad, huh? Shane Claiborne's Irresistible Revolution.
Yeah. Thanks a lot Shane. I know you get this a lot, but you seriously messed up my mojo here in my little bubble. I thought that I just needed to learn more, really dissect the Bible and tear up theology. Maybe go to seminary. True story, I really looked into it. But I think I've realized that what has been missing is not knowledge, but actually living Christ's love. Living the Christian life that He showed us in His word. Wha??!!
I know. Tough stuff.
So there it is, there's the beginning. This journey is gonna get crazy, I'm pretty sure. Bear with me, or don't. It's okay.
Here goes nothing....wait, no, that's not right.
Here goes EVERYTHING!
Showing posts with label Jesus. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jesus. Show all posts
Friday, June 14
Monday, May 20
Rejection and Redemption
My heart is just aching...aching so much. I am crying out for the hurt and pain. Everywhere. Oh Lord, come quickly Lord. We are so broken.
When I was younger, maybe around seven, someone at school asked me what my earliest memory was. What the furthest point in my mind was...what was the very first thing I remember experiencing. I pushed hard and I thought long and a particular memory came to mind. It had played in my mind countless times for reasons unbeknownst to myself. I could remember being little and driving with my mom. I was three, almost four. I remember peering out the window and pulling up to the curb of a single story home. We walked up to the door and knocked. We went inside. I remember looking around and thinking the decor was odd...very masculine. Pictures of hunters and dogs and lots of brown furniture. Then I remember my dad coming to me, crouching down and handing me an old hot wheels van. It was orange with a black hood and a circle window on the back end. I remember the wheels were a little wobbly but it drove well and I loved toy cars.
That is my earliest memory. My first memory. The oldest story in my autobiography.
When I told the other child at school they thought it was a strange first memory. Drab and dull. Why was THAT my first memory? I had no answer. It was a boring story, but I remembered it so vividly. Which side the couch was on when I walked in. How many hallways there were. We only stayed but five minutes in that house and I don't remember every visiting that house again. So I came home from school and told my mom "I have this memory....we went to a house..." And I asked her why? Why do I remember that? What were we doing and whose house were we at? She said we were visiting one of my dad's friends.
I have replayed that memory thousands of times. Always enchanted by it and always stretching to remember a tiny bit more...but always the same exact story plays out. I still have the van. Tucked in my keepsake tote.
When I was in high school, when I was sixteen, my parents took me to lunch one day. Just me. I think they took me out of school early. We ate at Oscar's on the Pond. After we ate they suggested we walk around the pond. We never made it to the pond. We walked on the grass and my mom told me she wanted to tell me something. She asked me to sit down.
"You're pregnant, aren't you?!" I guessed.
They laughed and answered that they were not. Then they proceeded to tell me that my dad was not really my dad. My mom had made a mistake years ago and my biological father had chosen not to be a part of our lives. My mom met my dad when I was three and they were married a year later. He adopted me when I was five.
At first I laughed. I laughed a lot. I'm sure my parents were concerned...how on earth could I be laughing?! Then I started to ask questions. My parents answered some and were uncomfortable discussing others. My father's name is Bill. They didn't tell me his last name. There was no need they said.
Then when I realized my questions were making my dad feel hurt, I started to think about that van. My first memory...that was the first time I met the man that would become my daddy. Not dull or drab...life changing. Altering. The first time that little girl that was me ever received a gift from a dad, her dad.
I am so thankful that God gave me the dad that He did. He isn't perfect, but he was a wonderful dad and he stepped up and chose to be my dad when he really didn't have to. He wanted to.
But the strange feeling inside....the feeling that half of me is still a mystery, that part never goes away. The questions still sneak up, asking why didn't he want me? Why didn't he return when he said he would? Does he think about me? Do I have any other brothers or sisters? Do I look like him? Do my kids look like him? Would we get along? The nagging feeling of rejection is still there...haunting almost. And then there is guilt...because no matter what, I still had a wonderful dad and never have I wished he were someone else. This nagging feeling has nothing to do with him. There is nothing he could have done differently or that he did not do. It is just an odd thing to not know about a whole part of you. To grow up thinking you are an odd looking half Italian and realize that you are really half Australian. To always wonder. Has he changed? Is he a dad? Did he have any medical issues? Does he have asthma? Does he love to read and is he good at spelling?
It is so silly...but it's real nonetheless. And my heart hurts when I hear stories similar to and exponentially more hurtful than mine. Stories of children who don't know their fathers or mothers, whose parents have abandoned them or lived lives too selfish to afford to keep their children. Stories of children who grew up thinking one thing only to learn another. Stories of children alone in the system. I cannot relate to most of these children, but I can relate a tiny bit to the feeling of emptiness and rejection. Just a tiny bit. Because I didn't actively live out being rejected, I don't remember watching my father walk out the door and waiting for him to never return. I don't remember my mother's tears. I only know the feeling that I had when my parents told me the truth at sixteen. And the rippling feelings since then. And those still hurt. i cannot imagine the pain that other children feel. But I can also relate a tiny bit to the joy and gratitude a child can feel when chosen by someone who does not have to choose you. A feeling of redemption. Ahhh...so sweet, isn't it?
When I was younger, maybe around seven, someone at school asked me what my earliest memory was. What the furthest point in my mind was...what was the very first thing I remember experiencing. I pushed hard and I thought long and a particular memory came to mind. It had played in my mind countless times for reasons unbeknownst to myself. I could remember being little and driving with my mom. I was three, almost four. I remember peering out the window and pulling up to the curb of a single story home. We walked up to the door and knocked. We went inside. I remember looking around and thinking the decor was odd...very masculine. Pictures of hunters and dogs and lots of brown furniture. Then I remember my dad coming to me, crouching down and handing me an old hot wheels van. It was orange with a black hood and a circle window on the back end. I remember the wheels were a little wobbly but it drove well and I loved toy cars.
That is my earliest memory. My first memory. The oldest story in my autobiography.
When I told the other child at school they thought it was a strange first memory. Drab and dull. Why was THAT my first memory? I had no answer. It was a boring story, but I remembered it so vividly. Which side the couch was on when I walked in. How many hallways there were. We only stayed but five minutes in that house and I don't remember every visiting that house again. So I came home from school and told my mom "I have this memory....we went to a house..." And I asked her why? Why do I remember that? What were we doing and whose house were we at? She said we were visiting one of my dad's friends.
I have replayed that memory thousands of times. Always enchanted by it and always stretching to remember a tiny bit more...but always the same exact story plays out. I still have the van. Tucked in my keepsake tote.
When I was in high school, when I was sixteen, my parents took me to lunch one day. Just me. I think they took me out of school early. We ate at Oscar's on the Pond. After we ate they suggested we walk around the pond. We never made it to the pond. We walked on the grass and my mom told me she wanted to tell me something. She asked me to sit down.
"You're pregnant, aren't you?!" I guessed.
They laughed and answered that they were not. Then they proceeded to tell me that my dad was not really my dad. My mom had made a mistake years ago and my biological father had chosen not to be a part of our lives. My mom met my dad when I was three and they were married a year later. He adopted me when I was five.
At first I laughed. I laughed a lot. I'm sure my parents were concerned...how on earth could I be laughing?! Then I started to ask questions. My parents answered some and were uncomfortable discussing others. My father's name is Bill. They didn't tell me his last name. There was no need they said.
Then when I realized my questions were making my dad feel hurt, I started to think about that van. My first memory...that was the first time I met the man that would become my daddy. Not dull or drab...life changing. Altering. The first time that little girl that was me ever received a gift from a dad, her dad.
I am so thankful that God gave me the dad that He did. He isn't perfect, but he was a wonderful dad and he stepped up and chose to be my dad when he really didn't have to. He wanted to.
But the strange feeling inside....the feeling that half of me is still a mystery, that part never goes away. The questions still sneak up, asking why didn't he want me? Why didn't he return when he said he would? Does he think about me? Do I have any other brothers or sisters? Do I look like him? Do my kids look like him? Would we get along? The nagging feeling of rejection is still there...haunting almost. And then there is guilt...because no matter what, I still had a wonderful dad and never have I wished he were someone else. This nagging feeling has nothing to do with him. There is nothing he could have done differently or that he did not do. It is just an odd thing to not know about a whole part of you. To grow up thinking you are an odd looking half Italian and realize that you are really half Australian. To always wonder. Has he changed? Is he a dad? Did he have any medical issues? Does he have asthma? Does he love to read and is he good at spelling?
It is so silly...but it's real nonetheless. And my heart hurts when I hear stories similar to and exponentially more hurtful than mine. Stories of children who don't know their fathers or mothers, whose parents have abandoned them or lived lives too selfish to afford to keep their children. Stories of children who grew up thinking one thing only to learn another. Stories of children alone in the system. I cannot relate to most of these children, but I can relate a tiny bit to the feeling of emptiness and rejection. Just a tiny bit. Because I didn't actively live out being rejected, I don't remember watching my father walk out the door and waiting for him to never return. I don't remember my mother's tears. I only know the feeling that I had when my parents told me the truth at sixteen. And the rippling feelings since then. And those still hurt. i cannot imagine the pain that other children feel. But I can also relate a tiny bit to the joy and gratitude a child can feel when chosen by someone who does not have to choose you. A feeling of redemption. Ahhh...so sweet, isn't it?
Thursday, May 16
Jesus loved sinners
So here it is, here's the skinny, just for the sake of writing it down.
We are now in Colorado! Eek! Hubby found a great job here and off we went. Things are going well, as well as expected. I am loving so much of Colorado and burdened by the other part. We found a home in a wonderful area, though it is very old and barely a hop skip and a jump away from other areas where the homeless will find shelter in an unlocked car.
The whole city is really like that. Incredible, lovely and amazing areas and then a couple houses down the street tiny houses with windows and doors barely hanging on. There are so many men and women lining certain streets, obviously in dire need of a clean jacket and a new pair of shoes.
When skies open with rain or snow, you can see them scurry to and huddle under various freeway overpasses. I was at a laundromat the other day and a woman was telling her daughter in law how she had left her car unlocked overnight and came out in the morning to find an old man sleeping inside. Nothing was disturbed or missing, he was simply trying to find a warm, dry place to rest his head. She said he thanked her for the place to sleep when she woke him up.
Later, at the natural food store next door to the laundromat, I found myself rubbing elbows with some of the more upper class of the Springs.
I find it curious, yet extraordinary to watch how closely these economic polar opposites coexist.
It has always been such a distant issue where I have lived. There were wealthy, middle class and sort of struggling and one or two bums at a street corner here and there. It is different here. It is grabbing me.
We have been living in an exquisite resort. A one hundred year old hotel whose history is as rich as the flooring and furniture. There are endless hallways to explore and countless employees eager to share a story or two. We have truly enjoyed living the "suite life." Late nights by the over sized outdoor fireplaces, hot chocolate every night, dining on the patio for breakfast, lunch and dinner, feeding birds, watching deer, swimming, walking around the lake, playing checkers, bowling, video games and going to the movie theatre...all without ever leaving the property. And of course, I don't need to mention room service, housekeeping and valet services...it has been grand, a luxury, an experience that we would never have had on our own. And I am so very thankful for this grand time that I have been able to sit back and just be with my children. We have been busy still, of course, moving to a new state comes with a long list of to-do's. But without the distractions of regular housework and chores in between, I have spent many hours playing board games with my children, reading to them, exploring and just being together. For that, I am filled with gratitude.
However, my heart has also been so torn! Here I am among some of the most elite of society in Colorado, if not some of the most elite in the world. You think I am exaggerating? Oh no friends, Prince Harry was a guest here this past weekend. My husband prepared his dinner one night. I am not telling a tale. And I dare to tread on this topic that involves wealth and upper class society...I hope that my heart's musings are not misconstrued and not used in a hurtful way, but rather just an examination of self. As I have watched so many people come and go, tossing money around so easily, and then spent the next afternoon playing with the poorer children at the laundromat, I just can't help but wonder how it is so unevenly split? Now, I am not at all saying that wealth should or should not be evenly distributed...I am definitely not trying to get into that argument. I believe in hard work and that you sow what you reap.
No...not my point in the slightest.
I am merely explaining some of my own heart's concerns. I couldn't help but think of the times that Jesus reached out to the poor, the sick, the weak. About the times He warned the rich. Jesus loved the lowest members in society. He dined with them. He called them to Him. He washed their feet. Jesus loved sinners. Harlots. Liars. Adulterers. These were the type of people that made up our Biblical heroes. These are the "greats" that God chose to serve Him. And then He commanded us to love. To love our neighbors. Not just the hardworking, bill paying neighbors with their lawns mowed and their children's hair cut neat....no, there is no exclusionary statement in His commandment. He simply said Love them.
Of course He knew we never could. He knew that we would never want to or even try to. Nevertheless He plucked us up and put His spirit within us, His spirit to love others.
I am feeling His love when I see these dirty faces with missing teeth. I can see His hands reaching towards them. It would be easy to close my eyes or even just stay in this bubble...this bubble that is only beauty and perfection. To walk beside people who are also in this bubble, to make friends with people in this bubble. That would be easy...and fun, I'm sure. But Jesus has called me to be His hands and feet...it's not a comfortable idea, but a narrow road is never very comfortable, now is it?
All of this to say, or not to say, that this place that we are privileged to be a part of for the time being...it is not bad. It is lovely. It truly is. It is one of the most pleasant, beautiful, and relaxing yet fun places I have ever been to. If you ever have the opportunity for an incredible Colorado vacation that will go down in the books forever, this is the place. Truly! ;)
I just couldn't ignore the irony of my situation...spending my days in the laundromat with the bottom of the barrel and then the evenings spent with the creme de la creme. Such an experience.
We are now in Colorado! Eek! Hubby found a great job here and off we went. Things are going well, as well as expected. I am loving so much of Colorado and burdened by the other part. We found a home in a wonderful area, though it is very old and barely a hop skip and a jump away from other areas where the homeless will find shelter in an unlocked car.
The whole city is really like that. Incredible, lovely and amazing areas and then a couple houses down the street tiny houses with windows and doors barely hanging on. There are so many men and women lining certain streets, obviously in dire need of a clean jacket and a new pair of shoes.
When skies open with rain or snow, you can see them scurry to and huddle under various freeway overpasses. I was at a laundromat the other day and a woman was telling her daughter in law how she had left her car unlocked overnight and came out in the morning to find an old man sleeping inside. Nothing was disturbed or missing, he was simply trying to find a warm, dry place to rest his head. She said he thanked her for the place to sleep when she woke him up.
Later, at the natural food store next door to the laundromat, I found myself rubbing elbows with some of the more upper class of the Springs.
I find it curious, yet extraordinary to watch how closely these economic polar opposites coexist.
It has always been such a distant issue where I have lived. There were wealthy, middle class and sort of struggling and one or two bums at a street corner here and there. It is different here. It is grabbing me.
We have been living in an exquisite resort. A one hundred year old hotel whose history is as rich as the flooring and furniture. There are endless hallways to explore and countless employees eager to share a story or two. We have truly enjoyed living the "suite life." Late nights by the over sized outdoor fireplaces, hot chocolate every night, dining on the patio for breakfast, lunch and dinner, feeding birds, watching deer, swimming, walking around the lake, playing checkers, bowling, video games and going to the movie theatre...all without ever leaving the property. And of course, I don't need to mention room service, housekeeping and valet services...it has been grand, a luxury, an experience that we would never have had on our own. And I am so very thankful for this grand time that I have been able to sit back and just be with my children. We have been busy still, of course, moving to a new state comes with a long list of to-do's. But without the distractions of regular housework and chores in between, I have spent many hours playing board games with my children, reading to them, exploring and just being together. For that, I am filled with gratitude.
However, my heart has also been so torn! Here I am among some of the most elite of society in Colorado, if not some of the most elite in the world. You think I am exaggerating? Oh no friends, Prince Harry was a guest here this past weekend. My husband prepared his dinner one night. I am not telling a tale. And I dare to tread on this topic that involves wealth and upper class society...I hope that my heart's musings are not misconstrued and not used in a hurtful way, but rather just an examination of self. As I have watched so many people come and go, tossing money around so easily, and then spent the next afternoon playing with the poorer children at the laundromat, I just can't help but wonder how it is so unevenly split? Now, I am not at all saying that wealth should or should not be evenly distributed...I am definitely not trying to get into that argument. I believe in hard work and that you sow what you reap.
No...not my point in the slightest.
I am merely explaining some of my own heart's concerns. I couldn't help but think of the times that Jesus reached out to the poor, the sick, the weak. About the times He warned the rich. Jesus loved the lowest members in society. He dined with them. He called them to Him. He washed their feet. Jesus loved sinners. Harlots. Liars. Adulterers. These were the type of people that made up our Biblical heroes. These are the "greats" that God chose to serve Him. And then He commanded us to love. To love our neighbors. Not just the hardworking, bill paying neighbors with their lawns mowed and their children's hair cut neat....no, there is no exclusionary statement in His commandment. He simply said Love them.
Of course He knew we never could. He knew that we would never want to or even try to. Nevertheless He plucked us up and put His spirit within us, His spirit to love others.
I am feeling His love when I see these dirty faces with missing teeth. I can see His hands reaching towards them. It would be easy to close my eyes or even just stay in this bubble...this bubble that is only beauty and perfection. To walk beside people who are also in this bubble, to make friends with people in this bubble. That would be easy...and fun, I'm sure. But Jesus has called me to be His hands and feet...it's not a comfortable idea, but a narrow road is never very comfortable, now is it?
All of this to say, or not to say, that this place that we are privileged to be a part of for the time being...it is not bad. It is lovely. It truly is. It is one of the most pleasant, beautiful, and relaxing yet fun places I have ever been to. If you ever have the opportunity for an incredible Colorado vacation that will go down in the books forever, this is the place. Truly! ;)
I just couldn't ignore the irony of my situation...spending my days in the laundromat with the bottom of the barrel and then the evenings spent with the creme de la creme. Such an experience.
Monday, May 13
Learning
Oh friends...
I am feeling. So much. I don't entirely know what or how to describe it. Just feeling. My heart feels open, hurting yet full and joyful at the same time. I truly don't know what is going on within but I can only guess that God is peeling back layers and continuing the work He has started in me. I wish I could trace this never ending journey back to a beginning. I cannot. There seem to be many beginnings to my story. And then, there's a big problem. It's not my story at all.
That's one thing that's happening. I am learning...really learning. So much. About God, myself, the Bible, my family, how this whole Christian thing is meant to work. Boy oh boy have I had it all wrong. This isn't my story, not even in the slightest. I am but a tiny excerpt in the greatest story ever told. The story written and told by the Almighty about the Magnificent. And I just a little bullet point, whose sole purpose is to exemplify to glory and grace of God. I suck at my job, might I add.
On any given day and time I am running from God, absorbed in self-righteousness, and shaming the grace that has been so abundantly poured out on me. And God knew that I would do that. And then He knew that after He showed me that I was doing that and gave me a spirit of grief for my sinful ways, that I would return and do it all again. He knew all that. And He still chose me. The King of the heavens and the earth, the creator of all things, scooped me out of the filth and pulled me to Himself. Before I even knew I wanted to be loved by the Almighty, He did. And then He put His love within me and spoke to me: Surrender. Everything, all you have and all you are. Because it is not me, friends. I am not good. Not even a tiny bit. Only Him in me is good and how can I but to throw my hands in the air and turn my face to the heavens and cry out in awe and worship...and offer everything?? I am trying. Well, I think I am trying. But we all know how that story goes. Only when I stop trying and just start letting God do it will I actually be giving of myself. Giving grace. And love and goodness from Him. Back to Him.
Oh what a relief it has been to realize that there is nothing I can do to pave the way for my salvation. Not a single thing. Just graciously thank Jesus for it. And live it. Live saved by grace.
That is mostly what I am learning friends. I have been a Christian all my life. Since I was five when I prayed that little prayer. But I never knew what that meant. I never knew that I was a Christian, not because of that prayer. Not because of any of my prayers. But only because I was chosen first. Sweet redemption. I am just learning what it truly means. And it is so sweet.
I am feeling. So much. I don't entirely know what or how to describe it. Just feeling. My heart feels open, hurting yet full and joyful at the same time. I truly don't know what is going on within but I can only guess that God is peeling back layers and continuing the work He has started in me. I wish I could trace this never ending journey back to a beginning. I cannot. There seem to be many beginnings to my story. And then, there's a big problem. It's not my story at all.
That's one thing that's happening. I am learning...really learning. So much. About God, myself, the Bible, my family, how this whole Christian thing is meant to work. Boy oh boy have I had it all wrong. This isn't my story, not even in the slightest. I am but a tiny excerpt in the greatest story ever told. The story written and told by the Almighty about the Magnificent. And I just a little bullet point, whose sole purpose is to exemplify to glory and grace of God. I suck at my job, might I add.
On any given day and time I am running from God, absorbed in self-righteousness, and shaming the grace that has been so abundantly poured out on me. And God knew that I would do that. And then He knew that after He showed me that I was doing that and gave me a spirit of grief for my sinful ways, that I would return and do it all again. He knew all that. And He still chose me. The King of the heavens and the earth, the creator of all things, scooped me out of the filth and pulled me to Himself. Before I even knew I wanted to be loved by the Almighty, He did. And then He put His love within me and spoke to me: Surrender. Everything, all you have and all you are. Because it is not me, friends. I am not good. Not even a tiny bit. Only Him in me is good and how can I but to throw my hands in the air and turn my face to the heavens and cry out in awe and worship...and offer everything?? I am trying. Well, I think I am trying. But we all know how that story goes. Only when I stop trying and just start letting God do it will I actually be giving of myself. Giving grace. And love and goodness from Him. Back to Him.
Oh what a relief it has been to realize that there is nothing I can do to pave the way for my salvation. Not a single thing. Just graciously thank Jesus for it. And live it. Live saved by grace.
That is mostly what I am learning friends. I have been a Christian all my life. Since I was five when I prayed that little prayer. But I never knew what that meant. I never knew that I was a Christian, not because of that prayer. Not because of any of my prayers. But only because I was chosen first. Sweet redemption. I am just learning what it truly means. And it is so sweet.
Monday, January 23
A Lovely Birth Story
Hello everyone! She's here!!
Warning: Kinda, sorta, REALLY long. ;)
Apparently Tuesday was a good day to have a baby!
But barely. She arrived Tuesday night at 11:04. She was six pounds four ounces and nineteen inches long. She has light brown/blonde hair with some light blonde and red in it and really light eyebrows and lashes. So we're not too sure which way her hair will go.
I have to tell you a little about the meaning of her name. We've liked her first name since we were pregnant with our second baby, Son. We didn't know what we were having so that was our choice if it was a girl. Then we still liked it through our third pregnancy, again a boy. And now, we still liked it when we found out that Jelly Bean was a girl!! I had looked up the meaning to the name years ago and really hadn't given it much thought again and didn't remember what it meant. Anyway, we picked her middle name based on the meaning, it means birth or born (in reference to Christ's birth) and I just loved it. In the hospital, Hubby asked me what her first name meant and I had no clue anymore, so I just looked it up again and the Greek and French origins of her name mean "bright light" or "torch." So her full name could mean a bright light or torch is born! How amazing!! God's got plans for this little one, let me tell you! ;)
So that's it. She's here. She's great.
Huh?
What?
You want to hear our birth story?
Well....
Okay fine. ;)
So Wednesday I posted about being up all night with contractions. They continued as I had written all day. They were every five minutes, very uncomfortable. I couldn't sleep through them, but I could still walk and talk through most of them. I was in early labor and I knew it. Around noon I started getting frustrated that there wasn't any change. I would even have ten minute breaks here and there with no contractions at all. So my friend Rachelle was so kind to come over and hang out with the kids and I. Then she pulled out her stroller, loaded up her kids and asked promptly "Ready to go for a walk?" We walked around the block a couple times and even ran a little at one point.
I also cleaned my bathrooms, cleared out all the laundry hampers, picked out clothes for all the kids for the week, cleaned the couches and vacuumed. Just a few last minute chores to get things moving. ;)
Well things were still the exact same until around 3:30 or 4:00 when I started to notice the intensity of the contractions increasing, however not the frequency. At this point I found myself still wanting to walk and move around a lot, but had to lean on something through a contraction and couldn't really focus well to talk through them.
Hubby had come home from work early and started to ask every 30 minutes "Time to go?" I told him I would absolutely NOT go to the hospital only to be sent home because my contractions are not consistent or frequent enough. That's what they told me with Baby and I was at 8 cm when I went BACK to the hospital a few hours later. So this time, I was not leaving until I knew I was already far along like that. So we waited.
Fed the kids. Bathed them. Read stories. Explained what was going on and that we could be taking mommy to the Doctor while they were sleeping if Jelly Bean told us it was time. Daughter was a little nervous about me being away, but really excited for her baby sister to come. Then we sat down to wait. I worked on a blanket and read a book. But then I noticed that the contractions seemed to subside a bit! It was around seven at night and I started to get frustrated again that they weren't progressing. I had already called my neighbor to be ready that night and hubby had already told his work he'd be out the next day. I started to think maybe she won't come tonight!
Hubby suggested that I lay down and sleep since I'd been up since midnight, but I didn't want to because I just wanted to keep things going! So I paced the house. For almost an hour I walked around, stopping to lean on a chair, swaying from side to side through contractions every five minutes. Around 8:30, I was still frustrated and very tired. So I decided to just give up and lay down. I fell asleep on the couch almost immediately. About 25 minutes later, my eyes opened so fast as my whole body folded in half. My stomach tightened hard and my legs were shaking as the worst contraction yet rolled through. It lasted for two minutes and after that I knew she was coming that night.
The contractions...ahh the contractions.
They were excruciating, the pain was so deep, rolling through my back and my abdomen, shooting violent shakes down my legs. I couldn't hold back the large tears that came with each one, my jaw clenched tight and my face was hot with exhaustion from this pain that couldn't be escaped.
I had been mentally preparing myself for labor for weeks. I didn't want an epidural (although I was sure I'd give in the second I walked through the hospital doors) and I knew I wanted to stay home as long as possible, even though the same plan with Baby had still led to five hours laboring in the hospital before he was born.
Every time I'd have a contraction I'd sing softly to myself "It is well" or repeat her name, reminding myself this was so minor a pain compared to the joy I'd be experiencing so soon. I'd tell myself that I was not at the limit of pain that God had designed my body to bear and I'd remember all the hours I'd spent praying for the tiny life inside me. It ended up being a really mental and sometimes even spiritual with the amount of prayers I was sending up, battle. Sometimes I'd think "If I were at the hospital, I could already have an epidural and be sleeping through most of this." But I'd remind myself that my body was designed to endure this and if Jesus could experience the suffering He had for us, I could surely endure this labor to welcome our baby into this life.
We decided to wait about an hour before going to the hospital, about the same as what we'd done with Baby. I had about seven more contractions, but the last three were almost back to back. We called our neighbor, checked on the kids and we were off by 10:15. We got to the hospital and signed in at admitting by 10:30. We were sent up to labor and delivery and taken to a room. I was having contractions every 1-2 minutes, each one lasting two minutes. I was crying and moaning and groaning, gritting my teeth, and often times thinking that I just needed to calm down. I changed into the open backed hospital gown and got into bed and they checked me immediately. It was 10:42. I was dilated to seven, although they said it was hard to tell exactly because my water bag was bulging (remember the high fluid numbers?). The baby's head was no longer on my cervix (it was the day and week before, causing a lot of pressure), but was being pushed up because the bag of waters was bulging down. That explains why everything felt so slow progressing all day...it was moving along nicely, but I wasn't feeling that intense pressure normally felt during active labor. So they laid me on my side to try to relieve some of the bulging and then left to start a chart and get an IV going. They asked if I wanted an epidural and I said I did if they thought they could get it in time, because by this point all of my self control was gone and I just wanted to sleep. I kept saying "I'm so tired...I'm so so tired!"
As soon as all the nurses had left the room, I felt a pop and then warm fluid rushed all over the bed, down my legs. There was so much fluid it just kept pouring out. Hubby went to the hall to tell the nurse and as soon as all the fluid had stopped, I immediately felt the most overwhelming and painful pressure right at my cervix. It felt as if a bowling ball slammed against my cervix out of nowhere. I literally felt like bones were crushing and pulling apart at the same time. I looked at the clock right when my water broke. It was 10:55pm.
The nurses were telling me to relax and not to push at all because we were waiting for the Doctor. I kept saying I was sorry and that I was trying and I kept telling them I wasn't pushing. It felt like something was inside me (well, duh) pushing the baby. My main nurse looked at me and said that if she had to deliver the baby, everything would be fine and that she'd done it numerous times before. I just nodded and didn't take the time to explain that I wasn't really concerned with who was delivering my baby, I just didn't want her to end up on the floor. I felt the nurse pushing back on the baby's head and I knew she was holding her head inside as she was talking to me. A minute later she said "Okay, head's out!"
I was surprised because I had been trying so very hard not to push, to hold her inside. But at the same time I wasn't surprised at all because I had felt her head pushing despite all my best efforts. The nurse told me to push one time, I did and Jelly Bean was born. I remember looking at Hubby's face and laughing because he was so excited, nervous, surprised and shocked at the whole situation. Bean's time of birth was 11:04, exactly 22 minutes after I climbed onto that hospital bed and 34 minutes after we arrived at the hospital. Everything happened so fast, so different than the other kids...so unexpected.
The Doctor didn't make it for delivery. He arrived 20 minutes after birth. Our friend and photographer, who I had planned to be there for a little bit before the birth as well, arrived about three minutes after the birth.
**By the way, thank you so much Sarah for being a part of this day, this incredibly special time with our family and for capturing such perfect moments. And if you haven't thought about or decided to have your birth photographed professionally, I would HIGHLY recommend it. I wish I would have done it with all my kids...the pictures are just priceless**
I didn't have an IV hooked up. There was no time to start any of my paperwork, the nurses didn't even have time to break down the bed. The monitors only had about two minutes of contractions and heart rates recorded. It was a blur, but it was an incredible, wonderful blur.
Seeing her sweet, tiny little face with her paper thin ears and cheeks covered in peach fuzz was overwhelming, to say the least. She's my fourth baby, so I knew this was coming, but it never tires. The wonder is never worn, the magic is never old. The mystery of birth and life is revealed new each time and each time I whisper to myself how I cannot imagine not having done this one more time.
I marvel that Jesus actually knit her together...pieced her precious little self tiny bit by tiny bit, deep in my body. At the same time, He also nurtured a seed of love planted deep in my soul. All her soft little flutters, every time I heard her strong heart beat, every thought of her that passed through my mind were all orchestrated together to create a love that was exploding long before I held her fragile hands, touching each slender finger.
I could go on and on describing the moment, the experience, the feelings and mostly, the baby. My child. My youngest child.
But really, it is summed up so perfectly in such an ordinary way. I needn't do all this blabbering. Just look at her. Just know that Jesus designed her and allowed us to meet her, to hold her, to know her, to love her. I don't need to say much...she tells the story in her soft little noises that sound like a kitten, her sweet baby smell, the velvety smoothness of her skin.
So I'll just leave it at this...the two words that run through my mind all the time.
She's Lovely.
Friday, March 25
Early
5:30
AM
It is still dark. It is cool, no, cold.
Crisp. Quiet.
People are still warm under blankets, asleep.
Birds are still quiet.
The streets are lonely.
The early and dark world is calm, serene.
I wake to baby crying. I change him and wrap him warm in a blanket, rocking in the dark.
He opens his mouth and yawns big. He settles his head on my shoulder, soothed by my warmth and the calmness. I think that in just an hour or so, the serenity of the night, of the early morning, will be swept away and the bustle of day will take its place. The sun will come and spread its light, people will begin their jobs, activities, chores.
I rock, quiet in the chair, holding my youngest child close.
I soak up the peace of the night and the warmth of my baby.
A candle, forgotten the night before, flickers its warm and gentle glow across the walls.
Shadows dance.
Baby grows heavy. I take him to his bed, lay him down and tuck the soft blankets close. He looks into my eyes before they flutter and give way to sleep.
I return to my own warm bed, climb under my blankets and get the pillow just right. I close my eyes, eager to snatch up that one more hour before the day begins.
A song pops into my head.
From nowhere.
From above.
"In the morning, when I rise.
In the morning, when I rise.
In the morning, when I rise,
Give me Jesus...
You can have all this world,
Just give me Jesus."
I shoo the song away.
"Give me Jesus,
Give me Jesus,
Give me Jesus,
You can have all this world,
Just give me Jesus."
It will not go away.
I don't want it to.
I lay there, eyes wide open.
I am not tired.
I am joyful.
I am thankful.
I rise and go downstairs.
Soak up the serene.
Thank Him for these few moments to be with Him.
To take in His glory.
To ponder on His words.
To start my day with thoughts of Him.
Thank Him for speaking to me so clearly this morning.
Help me to leave the world at the door,
Throughout this day,
Just give me Jesus.
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