Belated 6th Anniversary Post

Our sixth anniversary came and went without fanfare. He bought me practical items I haven't yet removed from their boxes. I bought him a card I haven't yet signed and made him a promise I haven't yet kept. Joellen had offered to keep the little kids so we could have kid-free dinner, but I asked Jim to drive the little kids and me to Baltimore, instead, to pick up my brother's younger son Boone. Jim didn't hesitate.

My brother had visited for a week in the early part of July; we had Boone for ten days; we had my brother's older son CJ for four. I watched my husband serve all of them with love, and it meant everything. It was for me; I received it all as a gift. ("Jim is well on his way to becoming a saint," my brother said. "My boys needed you this summer," my sister-in-law said, hugging me.)

I'm so deeply thankful to be married to a family man: to have as my very own the guy who helps his mama buy a car. And then another car. He's a fixer, and sometimes I get aggravated by this, his best trait. Just listen to me, I tell him. Don't take it upon yourself, this time; just listen, and tell me you're sorry I'm upset. But don't I look to him for solutions over and over? We all do. He provides everything we need and so much of what we want. He's the dinner fixer, the boo-boo fixer.

We were in East Tennessee a week ago, and I asked him to drive us by the college. We pointed out to his mama the various dorms where we'd lived, the Center for Campus Ministry where we'd met. And then we decided to walk the Greenbelt like we had nineteen years before when we had no money, no kids, just imagination.

Nineteen years ago, Jim stashed a rose in a tree on the Greenbelt. Hours later, he pushed me up against that tree and kissed me, and like magic, when I opened my eyes, he was holding the rose. We tried and failed to find the tree, last week; we barely recognized the park, in general. "Things have a way of changing in nineteen years, Young'uns," his mama said. "But you have your memories."

And I wanted to say to her: yes, but the years are flying by, and we spent so much time apart, and we spend so much time, now, scrapping over the stupidest things. We love each other so desperately, but sometimes I wonder if we'll ever get it right. I love him, my fixer. He makes me wild in every respect: good and bad.

Saturday night, we took the tram to Ober Gatlinburg just as we had on our first date, before he'd presented that rose in the park. This time, we were surrounded by twenty-three others from our small group. I couldn't see a durn thing except people we love, including our four kids. I held the baby with one arm and clung to Jim with the other. He was, as always, steady as a rock.

Three days before, we'd passed the one-year anniversary of our miscarried child's due date. Two days before, we'd passed the one-year anniversary of Jim's gastric bypass. One life lost; one life saved; another trip around the sun. Still standing, still clinging. Six years married.

Lake

She pulls into the parking lot just minutes after I do, and more than any other, this is our place and the one that's transformed me into a lover of summer. Two summers ago, we very nearly lived here, and I grieved, come Labor Day; I knew what I didn't know, I think: all the coldness and darkness just ahead, and I refer not to anything innately wintry.

2011, Photo by Rachel Huff

2011, Photo by Rachel Huff

Last summer was, hands-down, hardest of my life. I tried to love the lake; I did. I tried to love the lake, the Lord, everyone He's given me to love. I failed often. I could get my heart to neither thaw nor brighten. She loved me, anyway, and I don't mean just a little bit.

2012, Photo by Rachel Huff

2012, Photo by Rachel Huff

So here we are again, another trip 'round the sun, another child among us. He splashes and kicks like Charleigh did two summers ago. Until naptime. My friend offers up her lawn chair: unfolds it flat, parks it in the shade of the lifeguard's stand. 

2013, Photo by Rachel Huff

She had a hard winter, and she's had a hard spring. I look at her shining in the sunlight and think how she's so much stronger than I.

She's waiting for someone, and it's an aggressive wait. I've learned by now: close as she and I are, hard as I pray on her behalf, and even much as I've suffered, myself, I'll never fully understand. Because that's the thing about our hearts: no one (neither our men nor our own mothers) understands them completely save the One who sets them a-beating.

Don't be confused: every mother-to-be enters that waiting place by herself surely as she labors and delivers by herself. It's an awesome thing to witness when you have an idea what you're seeing. My friend is fierce; anyone who thinks her mild-mannered has no clue who she is.

I don't half know who she is, myself, but I have a clue, and she's single-minded and stealthy as a leopard. I pray she'll mess up our summer, next, with a new baby; I'll call that child Lake no matter her real name.

2013, Photo by Rachel Huff

Spring Break in Knoxville

I promised to write about spring break and need to do so before my exhausted brain starts losing details.

We drove down to East Tennessee for Easter 2012 (Easter last year) only because, at Christmastime, I hadn't wanted to miscarry anywhere other than our very own house. We'd always gone down for the Christmas holidays, and--even though Jim's mom and most of my family drove to us--it took some serious wind out of my sails to sit here in the wrong state, Christmastime, waiting to bleed.

By Easter last year, I was pregnant again (this time, with Baby Chip), and down to East Tennessee we drove, mostly in an effort to connect with Jim's brother Terry and his family, whom we'd missed over the Christmas holidays. Our older niece is one month older than Cade, and our younger niece is less than two months older than Charleigh, so what fun! And I learned that Jim's mom--in having all of us dressed to the nines, spilling out of a pew in her church on Easter--glows ten times brighter than any Christmas tree I've ever seen.

I can't even talk about it without crying, and I'm not exaggerating even a little bit. I felt my tired, old sails puff back out, Easter 2012, and told Jim: provided that Cade's spring break coincides with Easter; he's free to travel with us (because I share custody of him, you know); and Terry and crew can join us, we have to do this every year. We just have to. Really.

So we made it happen again, this year, and it was even better than last because we had an extra person to love in Baby Chip, also because Jim--who weighs almost 200 pounds less than he did last year!--and I are both feeling so much better. Everyone was such a great sport about my taking mad photos. I posted my very favorite here, but here are a few more I love from our time in Knoxville:

My SIL Jill (order a tutu from her in the right margin of my blog) & Niece Adalynn

Cupcakes from Scrupdiddlyumptious

Jim's Mom's Homemade Bunny Cake

My Niece Jasmine

Clementine's Little Hands in Church, Easter Morning

Jim's Mom and Chip

I'm already looking forward to next year! The Monday after Easter, Jim, our four children, our nephew Boone, and I headed to Rock City near Chattanooga; I'll tell you about that, next. In the meantime, I've loved comparing the photos from Easter 2012 to those from this year. Children grow so fast; don't they?

We sang this, Easter morning. And "Victory in Jesus." (Be still my heart.)

The Return of Joy

My hair is falling out. It clogs the drains, fills the vacuum, sticks to the fleece sheet. I pull strand after strand from my cleavage and my food and Baby Chip's slobbery cheeks. So much hair. I'd be alarmed, but it's happened after every baby.

The pregnancy hormones are leaving my body, and glory hallelujah, I'm overcome with joy. Singing in the choir, Sunday, the hairs of my arms lifted. The Spirit, and how long had it been since I'd felt It that way?

I no longer startle at the sound of my own laughter. I can pray easily for others, and I want to, and I do. I asked Jim, last night, how long it's been since he's seen me crying: a few weeks, he said.

People say and write things that annoy me, and I don't even consider taking them on. I whisper-bless their pea-pickin' hearts, and I shut my ears and eyes to their words. I smile. I remind myself: the Lord hath not called me into service as the facebook police.

I saw, recently: "Promote what you love instead of bashing what you hate." I'm trying. (I considered writing those words up my arm in Sharpie.)

I haven't felt this happy since, oh, about September 2011.

And I'm praying the same, old prayer regarding the same, old unresolved issue, but one week from today, we'll put our trust in the hands of the top neurosurgeon this country has to offer, and we'll keep our faith in God, same as always. And by the stripes of His Son Jesus may we be healed, amen.

In the meantime, I'm trying to smooch Baby Chip's cheeks clean off. I'm leaning in close and smiling  because, generally, he smiles right back. I'm admiring the delicate bones of Charleigh's face even as she narrows her eyes and works her jaw back and forth at me, as a threat. I'm enjoying the way she uses "mines," not in reference to diamonds or coal, but to say things like: "Mama change mines shirt."

I'm praising Clementine's artwork and the way she draws sunglasses for herself and curly hair and sparkly shoes for her sister. I'm up-close-and-personal watching Cade learn experimental design and parenthetical citations, and I'm loving my man's (suddenly much smaller) body.

And I can't tell you why joy suddenly sat up straight as a poker in my soul, stretched and blinked against the light that's always been in my life. "Joy cometh in the morning," the psalmist writes, but the night can last a long, long time.

What I can tell you for sure (and I've written about this before) is that, if I could have felt joyful, I would have. Also that no one could pressure or even sweet-talk me back into joy. It was in there sure as the Holy Spirit's in there, but it was sleeping. I'm guessing the Holy Spirit in me was too busy fighting off that lion to shake the joy awake and offer it to you, as fruit on a platter. I'm sorry.

I want to tell you my joy has returned because my hormones are righting themselves. Or because I've moved fourteen months past miscarriage and seven past Jim's gastric bypass. I want to tell you I'm full to the brim with joy because I got my heart's desire in Baby Chip, because someone is going to try and help my brother. But it's more complicated than any one of those things, or all of them mixed and rolled together; it really is. 

If you know the Lord but feel the absence of joy, right now, I don't have an easy answer for you. I have only a promise that joy will return. In its own time, it will. I promise.

And look: I have a smile for you, today. A smile...and a prayer, too.

To My Unborn Child

Dear James Reo Galyon III, "Baby Chip":

I never in a million years imagined I'd raise four children, and neither did anyone who's ever known me. Some dreams, though, carry so much weight that they can't be shaken. I dreamed your name; I dreamed your face; and--even though I don't completely understand it--I've known for years: I won't have peace until you're here.

I've been waiting for you.

I asked your daddy, the other night, what he hopes for you, and he answered: he just wants you to be healthy. I started listing, in my mind, a slew of secret hopes for you (that you will be the calm, quiet type; that you will be a wise leader, sought for counsel; that you will play football, etc.), but then I thought: ultimately, so long as you love the Lord, I really just want you to be who you should be.

I really just want you to be here.

I want you to feel that every day. I want you to know: I believed enough that you were meant to be here that I pressed in, hard, for the day you would complete our family. I welcomed four pregnancies  in less than four years, waiting for you, and I allowed nothing--sickness, loss, depression, or (most significantly) fear--to overwhelm my dreams of you.

Your papaw calls you Big Medicine. He believes your purpose is--at least in part--to inspire your daddy's health. I can't say, but I do know: I've wanted desperately to give your daddy a son and a namesake. I can hardly wait to see you, learn you, and feel (at last) that we are all here. Just six weeks more.

I love you so much.
Mommy

The Necklace

Fifteen years ago, in Dallas, I approached a well-respected tattoo artist about a wedding ring of ink. He shrugged, said he didn't tattoo fingers because of their constant exposure to the elements. He went on to say: most people don't get the touch-ups finger tattoos require, and their faded ink reflects poorly upon the artists.

I'm sure I could've found someone to tattoo my finger but didn't pursue it further, and thank goodness, because the marriage ended. My ex-husband's band felt heavy in every sense; I wore it infrequently while we were married, and (no surprise) never, after. It brought a pretty penny when I sold it, a few years ago, for gold.

These days, I wear my wedding ring like I wear my flip-flops, which is to say: I slip it off when I'm in the house. This means nothing except that I prefer bare fingers for washing dishes and children, for preparing food, for sleeping.

As a matter of respect, I try to remember to slide that ring back on before leaving the house, but I wear jewelry best, it seems, when I can forget it's there. I prefer necklaces, and--over the course of my lifetime--there have been a long line of them.

I think of the one my mom gave me from my infant brother: candy-looking hearts on a chain, from Avon.

My dad presented a slightly older me with a gold heart, an opal heart nestled inside it. "I keep your heart inside my heart," he said. After I'd grown, he replaced that necklace with the heart of white gold I wore on my (second) wedding day.

While my beloved and I honeymooned on St. John, he bought me a silver book on a chain. The pages inside, engraved by Kathy Bransfield, bear the last stanza of William Ernest Henley's "Invictus."  We hear the tapping of those silver pages and return to a hotel room by the Caribbean Sea.

I have two necklaces that celebrate my children on earth, and the one I wear, typing this, memorializes my child in heaven. 

I write in necklace places and feel lighter: like I'm wearing a necklace and not a millstone. I scatter and scratch and spill and vomit words on pages and know: I will not drown, today. I have said everything I need to say.

**Sharing with Amber, Emily, and their communities.

The Trap of Body

When he opened the door to me, just over five years ago, I knew by the sickly sheen of his skin: he was beyond nervous. He took a couple steps back and asked: "How do I look?" and the honest truth was that he was much larger than when I'd last seen him, and, well, green. His eyes, though, were the same, and I still loved him, so I opted to answer with a kiss.

We talked non-stop, that weekend, and I feel a little like Larry Boy in saying as much, but we laughed; we cried; it moved me. He talked about an injury he'd sustained while on a cruise 6-7 months earlier. He was fairly fresh out the wheelchair, and he was down well over a hundred pounds. When he showed me a photo of himself from before the fall, I cried; I couldn't believe he'd been that out of control. He looked at me, though, with bright eyes and promised: it was behind him. He wasn't going back.

We didn't have sex that weekend but slept side-by-side, and he rubbed my back until I fell asleep. We went to church together and prayed together, and it makes my eyes well up to remember how he felt like home to me, and when I say that I mean I'd been far from home: desperate, broken, lonely, and weary, and he pushed wide the door to shining home. He made me feel known and understood and beloved. I begged him not to let me go again.

So he didn't. Instead, he rearranged every single thing in his life to marry and move to me three months later. He lost even more weight for our wedding, and we could feel God smiling down on us. It's been a crazy five years, though, and my Jim has always eaten for comfort. For four years, I didn't say much: it was a sensitive subject, and after awhile, just about any situation starts to seem normal. About a year ago, though, a close friend of mine came to visit and expressed concern. When I looked through her eyes, I knew she was right: there was reason for concern. Before going to Jim, I went to the Lord, and I felt like He said to me: "Unless things change, Jim has ten years to live."

The ensuing conversation with Jim was one of the hardest of my life, but that man: he loves me, and he loves our children. To his credit, also, he's never disbelieved anything the Lord has laid upon my heart. So, last August, he went to the doctor and started the ball rolling.

Turns out, it was a really big ball. Regardless of one's history or weight, (s)he can't have just have weight-loss surgery on a whim. Despite our insurance company's long list of requirements, however, we had no reason to believe Jim wouldn't be eligible for surgery last spring. When, in January, we miscarried a baby we'd expected in July, I said over and over: I'm scared of July. I just couldn't understand (especially considering things I'd heard, related to the pregnancy, from the Lord) why the miscarriage...unless there was a reason we shouldn't have a baby in July. Jim's surgery was finally scheduled for June 6...only to be rescheduled for July 25. Our miscarried baby had been due July 24.

It's crazy the things that went through my mind in the year of waiting for Jim's surgery. Imagine knowing the love of your life will be involved in an accident. No one can say whether he'll come out unscathed. No one can even assure you of his survival! Two weeks ago, I had to acknowledge, by signature, that I understood 3-4 pages of risks, up to and including death. Again, it's crazy the things that went through my mind...things like: How much responsibility do I hold for Jim's current, physical state? Will I be capable of caring for him and our children as he recovers? How much responsibility will I--having prompted this course of action--feel if something goes wrong? If something goes wrong, have I loved him enough? And even: What if losing a ton of weight changes him, and he doesn't want me, anymore?

Last Wednesday, I was sitting in the hospital waiting room surrounded by my pastor, a dear sister from my church, and two friends I'd specifically asked to sit with me. We were a happy, lively circle. But, every now and then, there would be a lull in conversation, and I'd remember: my beloved was under anesthesia, and a surgeon was cutting him apart, inside. Those were sobering moments.

I'm so relieved that the surgery is behind us. I'm excited, too, to watch the person I love untangle himself from the trap of his body. Please keep Jim in your prayers as he recovers. He's doing well, for the most part, but he returned to the doctor on Monday for some antibiotics; he has the beginnings of a bacterial infection (heat, redness) in one incision site. And he isn't getting good rest; he's been discouraged from sleeping with his CPAP machine--at least for now--because he could potentially swallow air and damage his new stomach.

We remain so deeply thankful for every single prayer you've offered up on our behalf.

The Down Side to Blogging

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I blog for my kids. I do not blog for Jesus, although He's here, certainly (and there and everywhere). You might be wondering: if I'm writing for my kids, why do I blog? Why don't I just type my thoughts into a Word document?

Great question. I think I've answered it, before, but I'll answer it, again. I started blogging when I saw a coupon code for Blog2Print, which is a site through which a blogger can have his or her words printed and bound into a book. So, far I've printed my blogged words four times. Here's a photo of my books:

Among these four books, there are a total of 486 pages, and I haven't printed since Valentine's Day. I started blogging less than two years ago, on November 10, 2010. I guess I've had a lot to say to my kids. I'm well aware that my lack of niche has hurt me in terms of a following, but, again, I'm blogging for my kids. So I blog what I'm thinking and what we're doing, and I'm pretty much all over the place.

I know I wouldn't have written so much for my kids if I hadn't blogged my words. I'm an extreme extrovert, see, and the interactive nature of blogging make writing fun for me. Usually. And here's where the downside comes in.

If I'm writing for my kids, I'm going to be as wide open as possible. If I'm not honest about my feelings, what's the point in writing them down? I want my kids, especially as parents, to be able to pick up my blog books and experience their childhoods through my eyes. I want them to really feel my feelings. And I certainly--and please hear me on this--do not want my kids reading about their childhoods and thinking I was something I wasn't. Because it will be hard enough for them to parent without trying to live up to some Julie Andrews standard.

I do leave out certain things that I think might be hurtful for my children to read. For example, if I want to wring one of their cotton-pickin' necks (and sometimes I do), I probably won't blog that. Additionally, there are certain things I can't blog freely because the stories (while they impact me tremendously) belong primarily to other adults in my life. Unfortunately, because I have to omit certain stories from my blog, I come across as crazier than I actually am, I think, to people who don't know "the rest of the story."

I think carefully about every word I publish, and I haven't published a single word that I regret. If you've read words, here, that you regret, please--and I mean this as lovingly as possible--get the hound dog out of my business. You're free. You don't have to read my blog. Please do not advise me regarding what I should or shouldn't blog. I'm not asking you to agree with everything I have to say; you're free to disagree, and you're free to say so. But, please, don't advise me not to share my feelings, and please don't bring my Christian witness or testimony into the conversation. Because that just makes me tired.

It also makes me sad because part of the problem with Christians, in my opinion, is that so many of us value how we're perceived (especially by non-Christians) over authenticity. Within the last week, I've heard how--if Christians don't approach challenges with a positive attitude--it reflects poorly not on them, but on God. I'm not sure if I felt shamed, convicted, or both. Regardless, I have to shut those particular voices down for awhile because I don't know how to turn my frown upside-down right now, and I don't need to be worrying about how I'm making God look on top of everything else.

I've also heard, within the last week, more about how the devil steals Christians' joy. I felt even less joyful after hearing those words. I suspect they were channeled directly from God, but it makes no nevermind. I still didn't want to hear them.

And here's a question for my fellow bloggers: when you know people are reading your very personal thoughts, how do you keep from assuming that the words they speak in your general direction aren't related to what you've blogged?

Am I being paranoid? Am I on the brink of a mental breakdown? It's possible, People. I have a lot going on. I'm pregnant (although if you outright blame my issues on hormones, get ready to duck). I'm doing life without meds, even though--trust me--I've asked for them.

So I don't know what to do, really. I feel like quitting everything: teaching Sunday school, church in general, blogging, reading other people's blogs, sharing my feelings with everyone. (How to know whom to trust?) And I feel like that's what the forces want me to do. I've been putting one foot in front of the other for awhile, now, and--looking back--I've been walking like a drunk. So maybe I'd do better to just plop down on my hiney butt for awhile and keep my thoughts to myself.

I'm tempted to switch my blog to private, but I'm concerned about the impact on the friendships I've formed through blogging, also on my motivation to blog once the interactive nature has been choked to death like a chicken.

Can anyone advise? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

My heart is so burdened right now, and so many of the reasons can't be blogged. What I can share is that the due date for our miscarried baby was July 24th, and--had we not experienced the loss--I'd probably be getting ready to go to the hospital in the morning. (My labor was induced a week early with each of the girls.) I've been feeling so sad. Everything looks great for Baby Chip's arrival in November, but he doesn't replace the one who was lost. It just doesn't work that way. I know there are people who don't get it, so let me put it like this: if one of your closest friends died, would it be ok because you have another friend? Right. Separate (beloved) people. Each one matters.

Look, I want to say, too: next week will be a huge, life-changing one for our family. I wish I could blog more about it; I can't. But please pray. I can't help but wonder if God in His wisdom knew it would be a terrible time for a new baby, and that's why the miscarriage.

I can't help but wonder a lot of things.

Friday Whirlwind

So, yesterday morning, I rolled (literally) out of bed at 6:30. I don't know if I've mentioned, before, but I'm a morning hater, so only Big Love could inspire such madness. As it turned out, my blogger friend Anne and her family, Texans!, were in Chester, which is only a forty-five-minute drive from me.

I've written about Anne, before, but--over the last couple years--she's filled a void in my life. I knew I couldn't miss the opportunity to talk to and see her face-to-face. Jim had sweetly agreed to work from home and watch the girls so I could not only meet Anne for breakfast, but also swing by my doctor's office for an ultrasound. Cade came along with me.

I loved my breakfast with Anne because she's the same Anne, in person, that she is on the Internet and over the phone. I don't know how to pay anyone a higher compliment than to say she's the real deal, and Anne's the real deal.

Me and Anne. Photo by Elizabeth Conder.

After I hugged Anne goodbye, Cade and I headed to my doctor's office. Cade hadn't yet seen Baby Chip; he'd been camping with my brother's family during my 20-week ultrasound. At that time, the baby's position had been such that the tech could check neither the anatomy of the baby's heart nor his nose and lips. There had been no real cause for alarm, but I needed another ultrasound to verify that everything was ok, and...

...everything is. I've been breathing a little bit easier, since finding out. This pregnancy has been my easiest in terms of feeling sick but--on the heels of a miscarriage--my hardest in terms of feeling confident. It hasn't helped that my platelet count has been low; that the doctor couldn't locate the baby's heartbeat at 16 weeks; or that the technician wasn't able to say, at 20 weeks, that everything was ok with the baby's heart and face. I've even allowed my lack of sickness to mess with my head.

But here's my baby, and he's already beautiful. Thank You, Lord.

Profile

Another, Closer Profile: Hand over Face

Looking Straight On

I loved having Cade with me for the ultrasound. He didn't say much, but--as soon as images started appearing--he rose (without really realizing it, I think) to his feet, and his eyes stayed fixed on the screen. I hope his brother will be as good of a boy, and I told Cade as much.

Last night, the five of us celebrated our great news by watching Brave at the Goochland Drive-In. We had a blast!

Friday the 13th...unlucky...bah.

On Finding Out

I was upset, going in; I'd just had a hard conversation, but let's get real: I've been pretty upset, lately, in general. The doctor with the doppler didn't know me or my history, and--not for lack of trying--she couldn't capture my baby's heartbeat. "I think I heard it a couple times, just for a split second," she said, "and I think I heard a kick. Your uterus is the perfect size for how far along you're supposed to be. But I'm not satisfied. I'm going to send you to Ultrasound for a quick peek."

I wasn't prepared for an ultrasound. "Will I come back to you, after?" I asked.

"I don't think you'll need to," she said. "Why? Do you have questions for me?" She sat down.

"Well," I said, "it's just: I'm angry and frustrated all the time. A lot's happened, and a lot's going to happen, but I don't feel like those things add up in a way that explains my misery."

She asked about my home life, and I assured her: it's fine. (It really is.) I told her about the miscarriage and all the scary things I can't blog, and--when I finished--she asked: "Why don't you think those things add up in a way that explains your misery?"

I wanted to say: because of my faith, but I was crying too hard.

"Listen," she said, "they make safe medications, these days, but I won't be the one to prescribe them to you. Fact is: those things add up. They more than add up," and she patted my knee and sent me away.

And step after step down the hall, I thought to myself: she doesn't think I'm crazy, but this ultrasound is about to prove I'm crazy because I saw a son before Clementine was born, and he looked just like Jim did, as a toddler, only with Cade's (my old) hair. But two beautiful girls later, he still isn't here. I dreamed his name, and I heard the Lord say very clearly: Thank me for your baby. Thank me for your son, and I thanked and thanked, but then I bled out a baby, and how does that make sense? Isn't that (like so many other things) cruelty? And this is about to be more of the same because something's wrong, and I can't do it, anymore; I won't. I. will. not. I don't care that my word for 2012 is supposed to be "trust"; I don't trust, anymore, that the son I saw was real; and I don't trust that the things I heard came from anywhere other than my own, crazy head. I know I'm about to die inside. There isn't much of anything left, and this is going to empty me out and kill me for good. Why am I even here? Why have I been pushing so hard when I can barely handle the kids I have? Whether the doctor knows it, or not, I'm crazy. And I should know.

"How are you, today?" the ultrasound technician asked. (She never has seemed that bright, to me.)

"I'm good," I said, sniffling.

"Is the doctor coming down?" she asked.

"Probably," I said, "if you can't find a heartbeat."

But minutes later, she was saying: "Here's the heartbeat. It looks good, and here's your baby's face. Your little person's very active. Would you like to know the gender?"

"Well, yeah." I said, "but can you tell? I'm only 16 weeks."

"I can," she answered. "It's a little boy."

"Are you sure?" I asked, squinting at the screen.

"I am," she said. "Look," and she moved the cursor over tiny (but pronounced) boy parts.

And (inside), the old, familiar voice insisted: Trust me!, so I went to Good Will and bought a tiny jean jacket.

"I found out, today, that I'm having a boy," I said to the white-haired gentleman behind the counter, and I started to cry all over again.

"Will this be your first baby?" he asked.

"My fourth," I told him [though, really, this baby will be my fifth], "and my last. My nerves can't handle any more."

He looked deep into my wild, wet eyes, studying and misunderstanding all the pain, there. "It will be wonderful, someday," he said gently, "when they're all grown and they come home for Christmas. Until then, hang in there."

In Praise of Women

"Remember when we went to Chuck E. Cheese's, Mama? You smiled a lot that day," Clementine remarks.

I think: we went to Chuck E. Cheese's for Clementine's birthday, in February. Have I not smiled since February? And then I think: really, I can't believe I smiled enough, in February, that she remembers; I'd only stopped miscarrying a month earlier.

When I--an extreme extrovert--can't bear to be around others, when I don't want to talk to anyone on the phone, when I rage at people I can't avoid (i.e., my husband and children), I know I'm unwell. I consider all that's happened and will happen, soon, but--even when I peer deliberately through a veil of grace--I know: something's not adding up. I can't justify the misery I feel.

I'm tired of requesting prayer, of feeling needy. I'm tired of praying when I don't trust God like I did before the miscarriage. I'm tired of teaching Sunday school, and I'd feel like a fraud for doing it (seeing as how I seem to have misplaced every fruit of the Spirit), but I know we're going directly to Scripture, and I know I need it. I'm tired of feeling unable to write the book I've been called to write. I'm tired of blogging in (and through, and out of) anger. I'm tired of being tired.

But then, in one day, the walls come tumbling down. It's like Jericho, but the people marching around my heart are women. Not one of them suggests I might be crazy. Talk to your doctor, they say. We'll pray for you, they say, and two of them do: right then and there. We're here to help, they say: whatever you need. Can we watch the girls? Help you clean, help you organize? And one of them says, essentially: I am in the middle of this, and I don't have all the answers, but these particular things are helping me. And she passes me her sword and shield. She arms me.

They make me proud to be a woman: how--without judgment--they fight battles from ordinary places like living rooms and parking lots. I remember the power in service not because I've served, but because I've been served. And the only beauty of brokenness, I think, lies there: in realizing we can't do life alone and shouldn't try. We're each of us weak, but together we're strong. And God in us is strongest of all.

Charleigh and Me, Last Week. Photo by Rachel Huff.

Counting Cars

I dreamed, last night, that I was bleeding out something that looked like creamy tomato soup. In my dream, Jim wrapped his arms around me and said: "Maybe we tried again too soon. This doesn't mean that, later, we can't..."

"No," I interrupted. "I can't do this anymore. I'm done." And it was all so real: in my dream, I was thinking crazy thoughts like I do in real life. I thought, first: I've been feeling unconfident because somehow I knew this was coming.

I promise: all of this makes me sound more distressed than I actually am, which is only slightly, also significantly less than last week.

I'm not sharing because I want to worry anyone, but because I was thinking, today: it's a gift not to know what the future holds. Not knowing should enable me to live in the moment...not in anticipation or dread. I lose time when I choose to place more importance on a day other than today.

When I was a little girl, someone told me that--if I were to count all the cars on a train as it passed by--I would learn the number of years left in my life. Even thirty years ago, the thought creeped me out.

I need to remember who I am, and I'm not a car counter.

Freaking Out

The sad truth is: I have absolutely no confidence in this pregnancy. None, zero, zip, nada. My complete lack of confidence is squelching any and all positive emotions: happiness, joy, peace, etc.

I went for my 8-week ultrasound expecting it to be like that other, 8-week ultrasound. Considering what had happened a few months before, I forgave my wariness. I thought: if everything goes well, I'll be able to celebrate.

And everything did go well, but I still haven't celebrated. I went to my 12-week appointment, this week, expecting the worst. It took me by surprise to hear the baby's heartbeat.

My doctor said my lab work had shown a low platelet count. He didn't want to talk about it, he said, unless a second test revealed the same.

So, of course, I've been freaking out for days. The nurse finally called a little while ago and said my count had risen from 115 to 131, which is still low; evidently, it should be at least 140. She said I should switch to Flintstones Plus Iron and expect to take another blood test.

I don't ever want to be pregnant again. Seriously. Whether this baby makes it here, or whether (s)he doesn't, I'm so done. My nerves are completely shot. Like, I don't want to leave my house; I don't want to deal with the girls; and I don't want to mop the kitchen floor or wash my hair. I don't even really want to talk to anybody.

Maybe this is where faith comes in. Then again, the Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. There's no guarantee or promise that I'll have a healthy baby. I can be sure: God won't leave me; He has a plan; and He will work all things to my good.

Right now, none of that feels so very much comforting. And, I mean, it is what it is. If you're waiting for me to apologize for sounding like a spoiled brat...yeah...keep waiting...

About Me

Well, I reckon this is sure to be a post that receives all of five hits. I've been putting off this madness since the beginning; the "About Me" section on my blog has two whole sentences in it! The thing is, I love reading other bloggers' About Me sections, so (as narcissistic and weird as it feels), I'm going to try to complete mine.

I was born in Hagerstown, Maryland in 1974 and lived on a small farm in Greencastle, Pennsylvania until--when I was eleven years old--my family moved to a small farm in East Tennessee. I spent as much time as possible on horseback before graduating from high school in 1992.

I've always enjoyed reading, writing, and singing, and I played flute and piccolo in high school.

I'm extremely close to the family into which I was born, and I consider "daughter" and "sister" vital parts of my identity.

I studied English at Maryville College and--upon graduating in 1996 with a B.A.--moved to Ft. Wayne, Indiana, where I met my ex-husband later in the same year. I followed him to Dallas, Texas; Harrisonburg, Virginia (where our son Cade was born, in 2000); and Richmond, Virginia, where I live, today.

I earned an M.A. in English from James Madison University in 2002. In 2004, my ex-husband and I separated, and we've both since remarried. There are few things of which I'm more proud than my husband's and my relationship with my ex-husband and his wife. Together, the four of us are raising an amazing young man!

My husband Jim and I dated at Maryville College in 1994 but--until 2007--hadn't seen one another since our graduation in 1996. Three months after reconnecting, we married in my parents' front yard. Clementine joined our family in 2009 and Charleigh in 2010. We suffered a miscarriage in January 2012 but are expecting a child in November 2012.

I've worked in many different places and have probably spent more time waiting tables than anything else. My favorite position (other than my current one, as stay-at-home mom) was that of an English instructor to adult students in a technical school. These days, I'm hanging out with my kids, blogging, and teaching a women's Sunday school class. I'm also writing the redemption story of a married couple whom I know and love.

I blog primarily for my children but hope I'm shining the light of Jesus for others, along the way. I asked Christ into my heart when I was eight years old but am sad to think of all the dark places into which I've carried (or dragged) Him. My path hasn't been straight, but I haven't walked it alone for thirty years, and I'm so thankful to have been neither left nor forsaken by my Lord.

How Things Hatch

Bottom line: I didn't feel as joyful as I'd expected, watching the flicker of my kidney-bean baby's heartbeat, on ultrasound. I didn't feel as excited to share the news as I'd expected, either.

I wanted to slink, alone, into a dark room; bury my face in a pillow; bawl my eyes out with relief; and sleep for hours. Or days.

Old hurts and failures cast shadows over beauty, sometimes. If you don't understand, reading this, you're blessed. If you do understand and have friends, as I do, who grab you up and say, "I know just how you feel," you're blessed.

I'm blessed.  

All praise to the God and Father of our Master, Jesus the Messiah! Father of all mercy! God of all healing counsel! He comes alongside us when we go through hard times, and before you know it, he brings us alongside someone else who is going through hard times so that we can be there for that person just as God was there for us (2 Cor 1:3-4, MSG).

I want to write honestly about today. I don't want you to think for even one second that I'm not thankful for my good (no, great) ultrasound or that I don't want (more than anything!) my baby. But the ultrasound, today, didn't erase from my mind the ultrasound in mid-December, and I think--once you've come to understand just how easily things can go wrong--it's hard to celebrate in that old, perfectly optimistic way.

Maybe, in the end, that's why we have children: they remind us of what it is to be carefree. They don't worry about what will become of the egg, what's hidden inside the yolk sac, or how things will hatch.

My Relationship with Food, Pt. 2

After the miscarriage, Jim and I decided to just kind of "go with the flow" for awhile: if we happened to get pregnant, fine; if not, we'd start actively trying in the fall. I wanted to get some weight off in hopes of avoiding gestational diabetes with the next pregnancy, but just the thought of dieting made me want to lay my head down and cry.

I've always felt so deprived when dieting. I know; I'm ridiculous. But, always, in the back of my head, I've asked: when will it be appropriate for me to eat a piece of chocolate-on-chocolate cake as big as my head? I've remembered over and over: the answer's "never," and that's just ticked me off beyond your wildest imaginings.

I wrote more about it here, but I started the Daniel Fast because I looked at it as an opportunity to reset my eating habits, to start from scratch. I wondered if dieting has frustrated me because I've worked so hard to appease my sweet tooth (by limiting my portions of sugary foods, also by consuming mass quantities of sugar substitutes) and found, instead, that my sweet tooth grows until it's about to jut out of my mouth. I wondered what would happen if--for 21 days--I gave up not only sugar and sweeteners, but also dairy, meat, eggs, leavened and white breads, pasta, white flour: everything, basically, except fruits, vegetables, nuts, whole grains, and water.

Here's what happened. (You may receive some of this as TMI.)

• I expected the water-only thing to drive me crazy. Surprisingly, it may have been the easiest part of the fast, for me. I flavored it, generally, with True Lemon or True Lime (each packet of which consists only of a powdered fruit slice). In all fairness, I did end up drinking very small quantities of 1% milk because I found out I was pregnant after I started the fast. I plan to continue drinking only water and small quantities of 1% milk.
• I also expected the no-sugar/sweetener thing to drive me crazy. I had a killer headache the first day, and I believe it was a sugar-detox headache. After that, nothing. I really didn't even think about sugar, which proves to me that 1) sugar poisons me, 2) I can live without sugar, and 3) I'm better off to avoid sweet stuff altogether than to torture myself with sweeteners and small quantities of sugar; moving forward, that's my plan. Honey only.
• I got very hungry at mealtimes, but I didn't have to stay hungry. I just had to fix myself something Daniel-Fast friendly to eat. I discovered that tofu satisfied my hunger like none of the other appropriate foods but tried to limit my consumption of it to 3x/week.
• Within days of being on the Daniel Fast, the stiffness in my fingers went away. I don't even know what the stiffness in my fingers was, but it's gone.
• Within days of being on the Daniel Fast, my eyes felt less dry, like they were moving more freely around in my head. Also? I had a great deal more energy. (I'm feeling very tired, again, as of the last few days, but I think it's because the pregnancy's kicking in.) I'm pretty sure I was dehydrated. 
• Within days of being on the Daniel Fast, I started--*cringe* I'm just going to say it!--having bowel movements once or twice a day instead of once or twice a week, which has been my body's pattern my entire life.
• I feel much more confident in the kitchen, now, when it comes to preparing healthy foods. I've experimented with soup, tofu-based smoothies, stir-fries, pizza (Yes: believe it or not, there's a way!), homemade hummus and salsa, homemade tortilla chips, and baked oatmeal. I will absolutely continue preparing these foods for my family.
• The hardest things, for me, were 1) eating out (I pretty much had to go the salad route!), and 2) no sandwiches. I guess I'd never realized how much I count on sandwiches.

So, it's too soon to say if the Daniel Fast has been a life-changing experience for me. I feel like it could be life-changing. I've absolutely stripped my diet down to the point that lunch meat and cheese on whole wheat sounds like an indulgence. Scrambled eggs and healthy cereal sound like indulgences. Wheat pasta sounds like an indulgence. Fish and shrimp sound like indulgences. (I allowed myself small quantities of chicken after finding out I was pregnant.) The hamburger I plan to eat tomorrow sounds like a HUGE indulgence!

Realistically, if I'm able to limit myself to eating red meat and white bread once a week, otherwise incorporating only healthy foods back into my diet, my life and health will change forever. Over the last 21 days, I've prayed consistently for this kind of strength.

Any prayers you offer up on my behalf will be dearly appreciated. I don't want to suffer with gestational diabetes during this pregnancy, and I'll be honest with you: I'm a little afraid. It was a terrible disease to navigate when I had only an eight- or nine-year-old son. I don't know how I would manage, now, with the little girls in addition to Cade. Furthermore, I don't think my husband will mind my saying: he struggles with his weight, too, and my choices in terms of what foods I prepare and bring into the home impact him tremendously.

For me, it had to be cold turkey on sugar and sweeteners...just like it had to be cold turkey on cigarettes. If there's any hope for me, it will come in this form: cold turkey, and with the help of Christ.

If you're interested in reading more about the Daniel Fast, you might check out this website, which was my primary resource for recipes. I loved every one I tried and have since ordered her [Kristen Feola's] cookbook. I found help at this website, too.

My Relationship with Food, Pt. 1

I'm nineteen days in, which means I've only two left to go. I've never done anything like this before. The only fast in which I'd ever participated before this Daniel Fast was a 24-hour fast from everything but water. To be honest, I've never even counted calories for longer than two months at a time.

My commitment to this fast has required me to take a long, hard look at my relationship with food. I've been overweight my entire adult life, my (non-pregnant) weight ranging anywhere from the 150s to 205 lbs., my pants size 11 to 16. Exercise (particularly waiting tables) and breastfeeding have taken me to the lower end of my weight range moreso than healthy eating habits.

Honestly? For the most part, I've been perfectly comfortable in my own skin. I'm known for saying (and meaning) things like: "I look in the mirror and see extra weight, and I tell myself: those Peanut Butter M&M's were totally worth it!" And--if I'm to be completely honest with you--my extra weight has made me feel mostly sturdy...like a Morgan mare I used to ride.

Things started to shift a little, though, during my pregnancy with Clementine. I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes, and--although it wasn't technically a severe case--I've never in my life felt so sick. The nausea was bad. The dizziness was worse. For months, I cooked and washed dishes while sitting on a stool. I passed out in a Dollar Tree, one day, while shopping for Cade's school supplies.

Interestingly, after Clementine was born (weighing 9 lbs 7 oz), it became evident that--even though the scale hadn't said as much--I'd lost weight in carrying her. (Thanks, I'm sure, to a healthier diet.) I was back in my old jeans two weeks after she was born. In two weeks more, I was wearing clothes I hadn't worn for years. Because I was breastfeeding, my weight stayed down until nine months after Clementine was born, when I got pregnant with Charleigh. I didn't suffer from gestational diabetes during that pregnancy.

Still, in the last couple of years, I've felt less physically reliable. I experience dramatic sugar highs and lows. I've been lethargic more often than not. Also, I've the sense that sugar (especially chocolate) is calling me. I used to smoke, and my cravings for sugar are at least as intense as my cravings for nicotine used to be.

And then there was the miscarriage. Now, don't misunderstand: I've no reason to believe my miscarriage had anything to do with my weight or my eating habits; however, for the first time, I realized my body's capability for failure. My body had always done what I'd asked it to do. Even with the gestational diabetes, I'd gotten myself a beautiful, healthy baby girl.

(To be continued...)

If God Be for Us

I got a call from my doctor's office this afternoon, and it's a go. My numbers look good and four-weeks-pregnantish. They'll schedule my first ultrasound based upon the results of a third blood test (to be performed next week).

My due date's November 13th. Anyone else see the irony God wink?

Thank you all so much for praying. Tuesday was a little sketchy for me, but honestly: I've experienced so much peace the last two days, even before the phone call. I woke up smiling this morning, and trust me: that never happens.

Although we've never prevented pregnancy, we're surprised to have gotten pregnant again so quickly after the miscarriage. We're thankful. Jim will be 41 in September; I'll be 38 in April; and we know this baby will bring with him or her a sense of completion.

I don't understand, yet, why the winter had to be so long and hard. I don't know why the messed up Christmas, the miscarriage, my brother's illness. (There are other things, too, about which I can't write freely.) What I do know is: I invited the Lord into each of those situations, and He not only entered, but He entered profoundly.

I have experienced reconciliation. I have experienced healing in every respect. I have experienced my brother's physical healing, and I'm talking about the blind seeing and the lame walking. Literally. I have experienced victory over things that held me in bondage: resentment, pride, the Internet, sugar.

And listen: I know some of you are thinking it's easy for me to say these things because I've gotten my miracles. You're absolutely right; it's easy for me to say. But I'm so fresh out the pit I've yet to throw my yoga pants in the washing machine.

Here's what the enemy doesn't want me to ask you: 

 (I know he doesn't want me to ask you because he's whispering in my ear: 

"Half the people who read will be offended, and the rest will laugh at you!")

How serious are you about getting your miracle?

I don't know what getting serious looks like for you, but, for me, it meant praying even when I didn't want to; when I wasn't sure anyone was listening; when I didn't know what to pray; and when the words I had to pray were mostly angry, disappointed, and hurt. It meant reading the Bible even when I didn't want to and expecting the Lord to reveal His truths to me. It meant being wide open in front of every brother or sister in Christ whom I thought might go to God on my behalf. It meant casting myself into an altar. It meant praying scripture and claiming its promises. It meant being willing to admit I'd been wrong and ask for forgiveness. It meant being willing to submit myself to the Lord by fasting from my computer and certain foods.

And, most importantly, it meant saying to my Heavenly Father: if You deny me after I've gotten this serious, I will know it's in my best interest, and I will have peace. I will love and trust You no matter what.

The enemy wants you to feel helpless, 

but if God be for us, who can be against us?

Whether or not there's a miracle with your name on it, 

maybe it's time for you to get serious. 

If you're ready, I want to stand in the gap. 

Send me an e-mail: normalgirl (at) hotmail (dot) com. 

Valentine's Day 2012, Pt. 2

The phone rings, and it's my boy on the other end. "Happy Valentine's Day, Mom," he says. "How's your day been?"

My beloved pushes open the front door and steps over the threshold with four shiny, heart balloons. The girls rush to him as they do every evening, and he struggles to juggle what he holds, already, with whom he wants to hold. Laughter and shouts and balloons fill the air, and he kisses my headachy head on his way to the kitchen. "Clementine! Charleigh!" he calls. "I brought home chicken nuggets!"

He's bought a laptop stand to keep my computer from falling off the arm of the couch; he's made and framed a word cloud from his wedding vows; and he's written a poem too intimate to post, here.

All the magic is where Jim is, and it's always been that way: even when he wasn't with me, even when I wasn't looking. And it dawns on me as if for the first time: he's here, and he loves me; I need to celebrate.

My sadness has been hanging over my head like a helium balloon, and I've been afraid to untie and release it because I use it to prove: things matter. My brother's pain, my miscarriage, so many other things: they matter.

But they'll matter even if I start laughing, again: even if I stop waking in the middle of the night, to pray. If I stop eating everything in sight, they'll matter, and they'll matter if I bother to put on make-up and fix my hair. If I tap back into my tolerance for complete and utter bullshit, they'll matter. And if I clean my house? They'll matter, still.

Because God loves my brother; He does. He loves my little, tiny person in heaven, and He loves me. And if you are out there hurting, afraid of what might happen if you let go of your sadness, I want you to know: God loves you, too.

13, Pt. 2

On BibleGateway.com, I pull up Job. Parallel translations. King James on the left, as always. A simpler, easier-to-read translation on the right. My eyes bounce back and forth.

And the LORD said unto Satan, Whence comest thou? Then Satan answered the LORD, and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it (Job 1:7, KJV).

Seven verses out the gate, and already I'm crying. I feel him, Satan, walking to and fro around me: indeed, in the very ashes and dust of my body. I feel him pacing in my brain.

I read how Satan accuses God of placing a hedge around Job, Job's house, and Job's possessions. I read how Satan challenges God to put forth His hand and touch everything Job has; how God doesn't; how God, instead, gives Satan the power to touch everything Job has. To me it's an important distinction: God's allowing Satan to touch as opposed to touching, Himself.

Satan takes from Job seven sons and three daughters; seven thousand sheep; three thousand camels; five hundred yoke of oxen; five hundred she asses; and countless servants.

Then Job arose, and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground, and worshipped, And said, Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return thither: the LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD. In all this Job sinned not, nor charged God foolishly (Job 1: 20-22, KJV).

I weep for Job.

It gets worse. God allows Satan to cover Job in boils. Job's wife encourages Job to curse God and die. (Job refuses.) Job's friends show up to mourn with and comfort Job, and they don't seem so bad at first; they weep, tear their clothing, sprinkle dust on their heads, and sit quietly with Job for a week. They listen to Job when he breaks his silence and cries out, cursing the day he was born.

But then the friends try to convince Job that he or his children have done something to bring God's wrath upon them. Their words agitate Job even further. He insists of his innocence to both his friends and God. It goes on and on, chapter after chapter.

I'm reading mostly in the simpler translation, now. I'm totally engrossed in the story and feeling glad for my spouse and friends. I'm flying along when, for some unknown reason, I look back left to King James. And I read:

Though he [God] slay me, yet will I trust in him.

I come screeching to a halt. My friend and mentor Anne Conder has written these exact words to me more than once in the past month. I'd assumed they were scriptural but didn't know (or look up) fom where, in the Bible, they'd come.

I wonder: where in Job am I, anyway? I look up and gasp. 13. I'm in Chapter 13! And what is the verse number? 13? I look down. No. Verse 15. The middle of Chapter 13? I look down to see how many verses are in Chapter 13. There are 28.

I am 13 verses up from the end of Chapter 13. 13: the name I've given my baby because--on 1/3--God answered my question.

Though he [God] slay me, yet will I trust in him.

I've been scheduled for months to start teaching, this coming Sunday, on trust.