{becoming}

From my earliest memories there has always been an ideal, a story about the princess that I would like to become. I played "prince and princess" with my sister, my friends, my dolls. I don't think I ever had to be taught that I was supposed to grow up to be that princess. But the idea was there, always, ingrained in me before I was even aware of myself. I was subconsciously consumed with the deep-seated longing to grow up into a beautiful long-haired maiden, to fall desperately, hopelessly in love with a romantic and dashing hero, to be swept, both physically and metaphorically off my feet, and to ride off into the glittering sunset of true love and eternal happiness.

And all of those things happened, more or less. I certainly grew up, at least into a slightly less awkward and more stylish version of my childhood self. I met several dapper gentlemen and eventually managed to fall in love with the one who loved me back. He certainly did sweep me off my feet and onto his longboard and ride off with me. We were, and are, in fact, crazy about each other. Madly in love isn’t exactly how I always pictured it to be, but then again, neither is my hair. Disney movies and romance novels are notorious liars, after all.

But then, life went on. I always knew in a sense that life really did continue after marriage. At least I thought I knew that the big white wedding was the beginning of the story, not the end. I had looked forward, as far as I was able, into the misty future and seen a husband with a steady job, a house with a little garden and a prowly cat, and me, barefoot and pregnant and happily surrounded by fat babies for eternity. I had looked no further.

And then all of the unexpected things started happening. 

The steady jobs didn’t materialize like they were supposed to. The Air Force took us far(ish) away and opened up new doors and new challenges. The house turned into a major remodeling project and the garden into a mud pit. The cat is actually a dog who eats holes in my couch and throws up in my car. And me? Who had I become? I certainly wasn’t barefoot or pregnant or surrounded by babes and their trappings. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make that dream come true. The more I struggled, the more the picture crumbled and I was finally left as I am now: empty and weeping and totally, completely undone.

So what now? I ask myself. What is there to do now? What am I to become in the midst of my shambles? Who shall I be in this strange, unexpected life?

I have focused so hard on the outcomes, the measurable goals and planned future events. And every time I decide, every plan I make, every worry I have morphs suddenly and dramatically into an opposite problem, a totally unexpected decision needing to be made. Not once have things gone as I anticipated. It leaves me shaking and frightened and weak. I’m horribly confused most of the time.

But slowly, slowly the clouds clear. In one tiny space at a time, in one small step after another, I find myself again. Inch by painful, painstaking inch, I am growing.

I am becoming.

I am not who I thought I would be. I am much, much more and I am so very much less than anything I had ever dreamed. This process, this miserable, slow process, with its sudden starts and stops, is what my life is all about. It is about becoming. And I've finally realized that it’s not what I become that matters, but who. Whoever I am meant to be, I will not stop until I have become her. And as the next day comes and the next curve in the road arrives, I will become her all over again.

Image by d'arcy benincosa

{on worry}

These months leading up to the deployment are hard. Right now the deployment is "certain" with a huge dose of uncertainty. The timeline keeps changing, there is a training possibility that means the deployment could be cancelled last minute and P would go elsewhere, there are fertility and adoption issues to consider and living situations to think about. And no decisions can be made without knowing the info that the AF just won't tell us yet! 

There is just so.much.waiting.

And in the midst of the waiting is the enormous pressure to worry. In my attempts to stay calm and not stress I feel like my life has been a constant cycle of yoga, bubble bath, long walk, prayer, repeat. I'm doing everything I know to keep the stress at bay and yet I still see signs of it in my body, in my face. I wake up from hectic dreams and find myself gritting my teeth until my jaw aches. I have moments of overwhelming fear and feel myself teeter on the brink of falling apart.

And yet, amid the stress and worry, I am given gentle reminders of the Lord's presence with me, of His hand guiding us gently and lovingly through this process. In this period of waiting there is fear and trepidation, but there is also comfort and confidence that His plans will ultimately succeed. I cling ferociously to His unceasing love. I remind myself daily that feelings are fleeting and temporary things. I will not feel this forever, I will not wait forever. Days pass slowly, but they always, always pass. 

It's obviously not good for me to be stressed. Thus the bubble baths, the yoga, the calming teas and the time I'm trying to spend in nature every day. I'm avoiding grains and sugars and chemicals and trying to give my mind and body every chance to cope with the stress.

But this period, however difficult or painful, is good for me, too. It is good for me to wait. And I will find joy in the waiting: I will battle worry and learn a deeper, sweeter form of trust. 

images via: modern hepburn, flickr, tumblr

{new} years that ask and answer

This year.

This year has stretched and challenged me. 

This long hard year has grown me and it has shattered me. 

I am broken and I am better. I am braver and lonelier. I am face down in prayer and I am stretched high in worship. I am questioning and yet I am answered. 

The year ahead is looming now, full of unanswered questions and frightening realities. It is pressing in with whys and hows and wheres and whens. 

And yet, in the quietest moments, there is peace.

In the tiniest answers, there is hope.

In the hardest questions, the deepest pain,the most frightening moments of desperate longing and aching and fear, I am answered by the still small voice of the One who knows my pain. 

In His presence I am healed. In His Spirit I am comforted, encouraged, renewed. 

In the year ahead I will continue to break. And I will continue to heal. I will continue to seek and someday, somehow I will find. This year will answer, or the one after that. And little by little the questions will fade, and little by little new ones will arise to take their place. 

Year by year by year, questions and answers unending.

"But I will hope continually, and will praise You yet more and more."

Psalm 71:14

Here's to a new year. May its questions and answers draw you ever closer to hope.

Images via: {soliloquy}, pinterest

{i press on}

"Forgetting what is behind and straining towards what is ahead, I press on."

(excerpt from Phillipians 3:13-14)

I am striving and straining to just keep moving forward, even when things seem to pull me back. Even when my heart isn't ready. Even when I'm terrified of the future. And I am very scared. Because the future, aside from being unknown, contains some changes that I'm not prepared to meet. And yet the future, for as far as I can see, remains exactly the same in so many painful ways. How do I press on in hope and courage when I'm exhausted and weak and overwhelmed? When I see a new challenge facing me squarely, coming closer every day, and I'm still carrying the weight of my other trials? How do I keep climbing as the road gets steeper every day?

Sometimes forward is the only way through. 

And as I look forward in anxious anticipation at the road ahead, at the steepness and rocks and troubles that seem to surround me, I comfort myself that at any moment there may be a lull, a break, a valley of flowers and rest. But if I don't keep pressing forward, I will never get to the place where I can finally enjoy the view.

Images via: chic type, quince with sugar, tumblr, kiyoaki, pinterest

To my future-ones

Hello you, whoever you are.

I cannot wait to meet you. I am just dying to finally hold you and know you and live every day with your sweet young self.

I don't much care who you turn out to be, as long as you're finally mine. There are just a few things I want for you:

I want you to be carried in my own womb, grown in my own body, a mysterious mixture of your father and me. I want to see his eyes and my hair and hopefully his gentle temperament and fierce loyalty blended perfectly into a person who's all you. I want to carry your weight and feel you kick and bring you into the world with my own sweat and pain and tears.

But I also want to find you, adopt you, bring you home and watch you grow from a perfect stranger to finally be my very own perfect someone. I want to see my heart rise up and shine out of your eyes as you use the compassion I will teach you. I want to see my old childhood dresses and old childhood games on a frame so different from my own. I want to earn your love, to rescue and protect you and to know that God's perfect plan has brought us together from the ends of the earth. I want to bring you into our family through sacrifice and faith and persistence and so much love.

I want to brush your hair with my fingers and rub your cheeks against mine. I don't care a bit what color they are, and I cannot wait to find out. You will be so beautiful to me.

I can already sense the wonder I will feel as I watch you learn to run and dance and love. I want to just watch you, being you, for hours on end. My eyes and my heart are aching as I imagine how you're going to look, and act, and be.

I want so many of you. I want boys and girls and twins and I want us all to tussle and love and protect each other forever. I want to sing to you and pray with you and lay in the grass watching clouds with you. I want to teach you so many things and learn from you. To read to you and travel with you and stay home under blankets and cuddle you. I want to chase you in parks and catch you in fields and tumble into streams with you. I want to wipe your tears and comfort you. I want to watch you sleeping and feel my heart burst at the seams with the very joy of you.

I'm waiting and hoping and praying for you, my little ones.

I'm imagining you right now in God's big kitchen; He's cooking you up just for me. He's planning our meeting with so much tender care. I just know He's got it all worked out. I'm trying to learn all I can while I wait, oh so impatiently, for that first time when we'll gaze at each other and finally recognize why it has to take so long.

Your father and I are just practicing away at loving, playing, forgiving, laughing, and learning. We're preparing ourselves daily for you. We are so often praying and sometimes crying for you. We are dying to see you grow up, to see who you'll become and what you'll decide to be. We're praying you'll be strong and healthy and safe, but also full of adventure and wildness and joy. We're praying you'll change the world with your love, your passion, and your hard work. God is going to use you, my darlings.

He's already used you to change us. We're changing just thinking about you.

I'll be dreaming of you, my future-ones, and wishing and waiting for you.
I love you so much already.
Come quickly.

Mom

{an update}

I know so many of you are praying for us as we struggle through this messy infertility business and I wanted to update you on where we are now.

At the beginning of July we had our first appointment with a fertility specialist. That meeting was shortly followed by a flurry of tests and a short period of waiting. Some of the tests were simple and easy and the results came back quickly. A few of them were awkward, painful, invasive, or long. And the waiting, while relatively short, felt infinite. I was nervous.

Long story short, there's nothing wrong with either of us. All of our tests came back with the results that we are perfectly normal. Healthy, even. I hear this is called "unexplained infertility."

We haven't had our official "wrap up" appointment with our doctors yet. I know there are procedures they can offer us and medications we can try to increase our monthly chances, which the doctors say are on average about 3% monthly.

We're still thinking and praying about those options. We're also still pursuing acupuncture and alternative medicines and foods. We're praying and slowly pursuing other options, like adoption and foster care. We're sort of going in all directions at once, like working on a blog/ideas to start raising money to adopt and also finishing up a room to use as foster care kids room. I have no idea what God wants us to do. I know He'll make it clear in time, but that time never seems to be now.  

Some moments I am filled with peace and hope and renewed energy to try, try again.

And sometimes I'm not.

Thanks for listening, friends. It really does mean the world to me.

{it was never random}

Today I have my first appointment with a fertility specialist. 

I'm nervous. 

But the first day of a new month seems to be a fitting time to begin a new stage in the journey.

It isn't random. It never was.

Wish me luck! 

Encountering Mother-Love in Childlessness

I've been rolling this thought around in my brain for a while, savoring it and saving it until that someday when I would have enough experience to be allowed to talk about it. Because right now, I’m not qualified.

Mommy-love. That insane, overpowering love that all women supposedly feel when they first hold or behold their tiny new infant. That tigress, mama-bear, would kill with my own two hands to protect this thing, love. It’s a love that only moms feel. That only moms talk about. That only moms are allowed to understand.

Being infertile means you get left out of a lot of things. You can’t talk about being sleep deprived because you have no idea what that even means until you have a child. You can’t talk about messy houses, or difficult car trips, or any one of a million things without encountering this kind of mom-superiority. God forbid if a few moms get together and begin discussing babies, children, etc. You certainly can’t understand the love. And as an infertile woman, you’re stuck in this place where you are absolutely dying to be allowed to join in, but it also rips your heart out to overhear it. You begin to hate people who talk diapers and wipes and nursery decorations and pregnancy symptoms. You begin to silently despise women who complain about anything to do with their children. Because how dare they? How dare they not savor every single solitary moment with their precious little one. Especially because they have the love. The sacred love that only moms have.

Why don’t they put it to better use?

Of course I’m being hyperbolic. Of course moms can’t possibly feel loving all the time. It’s about the actions, not the feeling. I came across this article written by a mom who had lost her daughter at five days old. She talked about the love and how it kept her going. How she didn't want it to just go away again, so she poured it out into her life. She began using that love to reach out to others and try to somehow make the world a better place because her daughter had been here. That article really struck a chord with me.

I've been so unable to explain to people why I do what I do. I get a lot of credit somehow because I am infertile and I work in a crisis pregnancy center. I meet with moms or pregnant women and try to help them through. People stare at me with some kind of confused awe when they ask me how I can stand to be there with all these moms and unwanted babies, many of whom choose to abort what I so desperately desire.

I used to kind of shrug my shoulders. I dunno, I’d say, but somehow I just don’t feel those feelings when I’m there. I attribute it to the Holy Spirit, which I know is where that strength comes from. And I feel uncomfortable with the awe and the pats on the back. Because it honestly isn't hard. And while I was reading that article, it struck me:

This is the love.

The love is why I do what I do. I’m not left out of anything. I have that love, that mother-love that I so sacredly esteemed and so jealously desired. I have it. It was in me all along, and I am doing the only thing I can do with it; I’m pouring it out on a hurting world. I’m taking that energy and love that I want to be pouring into my child and giving it to hurting women and broken families.

I’m starting to believe that we all have that love inside of us. It’s the love that Jesus talks about that lays down its life for a friend. The love that brought Him down to earth and led Him up onto the cross. The love He told us to have for each other. This is loving your neighbor.

This love isn't just for moms. Maybe I’m going to make a lot of moms mad by saying this, but they don’t have a corner on love. Humans have loved each other ferociously for centuries. Men have given their lives on the battlefield to protect their comrades. Strangers have run into burning buildings to rescue someone they’ll never know. Love, overwhelming, unafraid, feisty and complicated has been the motivator for acts of desperation and glory throughout our entire history. It’s the climax of every story, the truest need of the human heart. Maybe moms feel it in a different way, but they don’t own it. They can’t. Because the love belongs to everyone.

The love has always been here inside me. Inside you, too. Sometimes I have felt the love, and it was a frightening thing. It’s been stuck inside me, yearning to get out and pour out into a child, and it has turned bitter and horrendous and scary. It has been in me, trying to escape, and it has overwhelmed me with grief and loss and a strange, horrible sense of beautiful rage. I don’t know how else to explain it. The love is in me, and it must get out.  Do you feel it in you? Are you holding it in and allowing it to fester and change into something it’s not?

Let it out. You have love, beautiful love, inside you, and with it you can change the world.

{non} Mother's Day

Mother's day is really hard. 

It's such a delightful celebration of mothers and motherhood. And such a horrendously painful reminder, year after year, that I am still not a mom. 

I am so blessed to have such a wonderful mother and mother-in-law. I love them dearly and am so grateful for them. I'm glad there is a day to remind me to be especially thankful for such dear women in my life.

Last year I got to spend Mother's day in Albuquerque. I celebrated with my mom and sister, who are both really great moms and fill my life with so much joy. But unfortunately, all I remember about the day is that Lydia held my hand really tightly all the way through church as I sat and cried silent tears of grief and loss.

I also very clearly remember hearing the sermon through my muffled sobs. It was about Hannah, who prayed violently to the Lord for a child and was granted her request. 

What a beautiful story. 

But for some reason it filled me with terrible sadness instead of hope. Like somehow I needed to be reminded that there are women who suffer on Mother's day. They would give anything to be a mother, but they aren't. For some reason, Hannah's story honestly makes me mad. It seems like so many other women are given the gift of motherhood, or even have it rather surprisingly thrust upon them, and yet Hannah had to bargain with God before her request was granted. She had to promise to give her child back to the Lord? She desperately wanted a child, and then she couldn't keep him? It's unreasonable, I know. That's not what it's really all about. But still, the story bugs me. 

This year we're home in Denver and won't be able to be with either of our moms. Our church is planning to have infant dedications during the services. I've already learned to sneak quietly out to the bathroom during infant dedications. But this time, I'm just going to stay home to avoid it all.

I've planned a small brunch with our dear friends who are also struggling with infertility. I'm making huevos rancheros, pico de gallo, baked french toast, and frozen strawberry mimosas. Cooking is soothing, apparently. I should probably also lay low and avoid social media: pictures and posts galore of happy moms with their children, flowers, cards, and joy. 

There is so much hope in this season, so much to be grateful for as I watch the Spring come and the Lord make everything new.
If you think about it on this day, please take a second to remember those around you who are struggling. Remember the women, precious in His eyes, who are facing the raw pain of a past abortion. Or the aching loss of a miscarriage. Or carrying the heavy burden of empty arms.

"The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."
Psalm 34:18

{the trouble with fiction}

It's been one of those weeks where nothing makes sense.

Everyone says that when we look back, we'll see the method behind the madness. Maybe it will all make sense in reverse. But maybe it won't.

I'm getting ready to do some really hard things in the next few days. But first I'm going to spend this day in restfulness and calm. 

I hope you have a really great weekend. And I hope, for you, it makes a little bit of sense.

So your friend is infertile: What {not} to do.

1. Please don't bring up my infertility loudly and in front of a large group of people. It's a very private thing, and I don't necessarily want to share my deepest hurts and desires with all those other people. Conception is very closely related to sex, and my sex life is MY business. Also, #1 can directly lead to #2....

2. If I don't personally tell you about or share my infertility with you, you don't need to bring it up just because you heard about it. For some reason, I'm not yet comfortable sharing that part of my life with you, and you bringing it up can be really painful for me! You may think you're being sensitive, but you're not. If/when I want to talk about it with you, I will.

3. For the love of all that is holy, please stop telling me stories about random people you are related to, know, or heard about who "had infertility" and then got pregnant. These stories DO NOT HELP. I already have to face all the women around me getting pregnant. I have to smile and congratulate them and, although I am truly happy for all pregnant people, it still hurts. I'd rather you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it, than that you tell me that more and more people (who I don't even know!) are pregnant. When I hear you say "I just want to encourage you" followed by a story, piece of advice, etc,  I just want to scream. I'm terribly sorry, but generally I am NOT encouraged by your story. Just because it happened that way for someone else doesn't mean it will happen for me. 

4. I don't really want or need your advice. Just today I was told to a) look up mandrakes in Genesis 30, because they are good for conception, and b) try standing on my head for 15 seconds during sex. Unless I directly ask for your advice (or if you're my mom. moms get free reign. deal with it.) then you can just go ahead and assume that I've already heard of that drug, herb, technique, etc. Either it hasn't worked or I've ruled it out as something I'm uncomfortable with. I'm a big girl, I can research, talk to my doctor, and seek advice on my own. 

5. Please don't try to come up with reasons why this is happening to me. Trust me, I ask God "Why?" a lot, but I'm pretty sure that, should He choose to answer, that answer will be directed at me, not you. If you think I'm infertile because of sin, health, or even because I just can't handle children, you can keep that to yourself. Go ahead and believe whatever you want about the reason, but I really don't want to hear it. 

6. Even with other women who struggle with infertility, I really try not to say that I know exactly how they feel, what they are going through, etc. There is no way that I can have experienced that exact pain, and so I try not to compare. But if you have never gone through infertility, please don't say "I know how you feel. I really wanted children" etc, because chances are, you have no idea what this feels like, and I might resent you for pretending like you do.

Of course there are a million ways to be a good friend to someone with infertility! Pray for us, please! If your close friend is infertile, and she talks to you about it, you really don't need to be afraid of saying the wrong thing! I personally do want to hear about your pregnancy, to hold your baby, etc. I also appreciate you sensitively knowing when to stop talking about babies and change the subject. If you are close to someone with infertility, she'll probably tell you when she wants to talk, and when she doesn't. 

Listen as best you can, offer advice if asked, and just be there for her. If you really must say something, "I'm sorry" is a good go-to! You can also try "That sounds hard/awful/scary/etc." As humans, we tend to feel the need to always relate, to say something, to have our own comparable story to tell, but that's really not helpful to a friend in any kind of crisis. I'm not going to relate to your child birth pain/story. I can only sympathize and remind you of how brave you have been. And you can do the same for me. 

{to mourn an absence}

The English language lacks the words to mourn an absence. For the loss of a parent, grandparent, spouse, child or friend, we have all manner of words and phrases, some helpful some not. Still we are conditioned to say something, even if it is only “I’m sorry for your loss.” But for an absence, for someone who was never there at all, we are wordless to capture that particular emptiness. For those who deeply want children and are denied them, those missing babies hover like silent ephemeral shadows over their lives. 
Who can describe the feel of a tiny hand that is never held?

Laura Bush

Slightly upset

This is an awkward post, and I don't really know how to write it.

This blog has evolved a lot, and I know it's often a lot more about me and my life than it is about decorating, fashion, or anything else I pretend it's about.
But sometimes it's so easy to hide behind the internet, to show only the good or funny parts of my life, to be an edited version of my whole self.
I think editing is good. I don't think everyone should just explode with all their thoughts and feelings on the internet for everyone to see. That could be painful, hurtful, irritating, and inappropriate.
But I feel like, if you're actually still here reading this blog, you probably either know me, or care about me, or are at least a little interested in what I have to say. Goodness knows why, but you are, right?
I've avoided talking about this stuff on my blog, because I don't want to bring you all down. I don't want to get too serious all the time, to dump my personal problems on here.
That being said, I think I should write about this. So I am.

Infertility.
They define it as a couple regularly trying (and failing) to get pregnant for at least a year.
Apparently, I've got it. Because it's been a year since Phillip and I started trying to get pregnant. And so far: nothing.
I've been trying a natural planning method since November. It involves taking my temperature every morning as well as charting a lot of other stuff. The method makes me feel good, and powerful, because it's taught me a whole lot about my body, how it works, what it's doing, and why. I like knowing what's going on inside of me, it makes me feel like I have more control. And if you know me, you also know I'm way into "natural" medical stuff.
But the truth is, I also feel completely out of control. Every month, when I feel like I've done everything right,  and I start my period anyway, I go through denial, anger, bargaining, depression, all the stages of grief, in one day. I'm trying, really trying, not to let it affect my mood. I'm not obsessing about it on a daily basis, I'm not depressed about it all the time.
But I do have moments of grief, moments of anger, that other women get pregnant so easily, so quickly, so often when they don't even want to, and I seemingly can't. There are times when my heart aches, and other times when it feels numb. I experience moments of extreme joy and also pain when I hear that another friend is expecting, another baby has been born.
Basically, this is a roller coaster. If you've been here, you know. If you are waiting, waiting, waiting for anything in your life, you know.
I have experienced these intense moments of pain and frustration, but I have also experienced comfort. Comfort from my dear family, from sweet friends, from strangers, even. But most of all, comfort from God.
I have been convicted and uplifted by the idea that I am equipped to handle this challenge. I see everywhere in scripture that God does not give us any trials we cannot handle, any challenges we cannot face, and that He will never leave us to face them alone. I am equipped to use this situation to bring Him glory. If He didn't think that I was capable, He wouldn't even ask.
Not only am I completely capable to face this, I am going to be used because of it. Someday, in some way, I will be able to use this experience to comfort others.
"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort which we ourselves are comforted by God."
2 Cor. 1:3-4
So if you think of it, pray for me to be comforted, to grow, to use this challenge to change and shape my life. And I will pray for you, if you too need patience and comfort. Really, please let me know what it is I can pray for.
I have a lot of tests, a lot of decisions, ahead of me. I am only willing to go so far towards pursuing pregnancy medically (see, natural healthcare freak), and I don't want to go too far. I want to step forward in faith, knowing God can and will make me pregnant if it's His will. And if it's not, He will give me a great reward to fill my heart and my time.
Thanks for reading. I'll be back to regular, random posting soon.