Motherhood: Expectation vs. Reality

While scrolling mindlessly through Facebook this afternoon I came across a share from a friend.  It was a link to some “fails” where parents tried to recreate those cute, magazine worthy photos of their kids.  You know, the kind with the baby tucked sweetly into a watermelon all cute and cozy.  Only life got in the way and their pictures reflected the fact that babies don’t actually enjoy laying naked inside a scooped out watermelon.  Who’d have thought?  The heading was Expectation vs. Reality.  As I stared at the words, I realized this heading could apply to so much more than failed parental experiments.  For me, it really could apply to life across the board. 

See, I’ve arrived at a conclusion that has taken me years to absorb and accept.  In this season of life, I’ve realized that my expectations are many times not my reality, and that’s OK.  It’s not that I’ve given up or shut myself down.  It’s not that I don’t still dream or indulge sometimes.  It’s simply that in this season of life my expectations sometimes have to die so that I can ENJOY my reality. 

I’m not saying that my expectations are bad.  In fact, I don’t think hope and expectation are very far apart and without hope I think my heart would die.  I have just come to realize, that in my season of motherhood, my expectations are unrealistic, and those unmet, unrealistic expectations were stealing my joy.  I don’t want to live that way. 

My house is not going to look like a magazine.  My last minute, on a whim adventures aren’t going to fly with a 4-year-old who hates transition.  My body is not going be bikini ready for the summer (or maybe ever).  So I’m letting go of many of my unrealistic expectations and taking life as it comes – raw and outside my pretty, gift wrapped box. 

Someday maybe life will shift and I’ll indulge in more of my crazy expectations.  Someday maybe I’ll shift and more of my crazy expectations will fade away.  Personally I think I’m hoping for the latter.  Either way, this is a very short season in light of eternity and I want to enjoy it. 

So, if you stop in at my house on a whim and you have to wade through remnants of my kids latest creative project just to get in the door, please know I’m working on enjoying life.  It’s going to be a process, but I’ll get there.  It just may be my craziest adventure yet. 

There is a God

This testimony took place in February, a little over 12 years ago.  I was 7 months pregnant at the time.

The phone rang.  It was 6:15 and I was still sleeping.  I ignored it.  Then it rang again.  Groggily I answered it.  It was Joey on the other end, “Ashley’s been shot.  I think she’s dead.  All the windows are shot out.”  Then silence for a moment.  “I’m calling you from the ambulance phone. I have to go to the police station.  I’ll call you when I need you to come pick me up.”  Click.  What!? 

My brain was still slowly waking up, trying to put the pieces together.  I knew Joey had gone in early to the gym that morning.  Ashley was part owner of that gym and would arrive early to open up.  Was this a mass shooting inside the gym?  What windows was he talking about?  What had my husband just witnessed?  I plopped my sore, pregnant body into the bath tub and began to pray.  My prayer was, “God, whatever he’s just witnessed, give him peace.  Protect his mind.  No flashbacks, no nightmares.”

It was hours before he called me again.  I drove down to the New Holland Police Station, hands shaking on the wheel.  When I got there they directed me to Joey.  There he was, sitting on a chair, a bible in his hand.  He was pretty scratched up and his shirt was bloodied, but he wasn’t hurt.  In fact, he looked calmer than I felt.  He told me later that he had been somewhat in shock until he arrived at the police station and asked for a bible.  The minute he began to read it, a peace washed over him. 

After a little while, we drove home together.  It was then that I got the whole story.  That Monday morning Joey had off work.  He wasn’t sure if he was going to head into the gym at his normal early time, but after a quiet time that day felt like he was supposed to.  He arrived at the gym that morning like he did several times a week, turned up his music and waited for Ashley to arrive and open up.  Minutes later he heard what sounded like paintball shots then a scream.  The windows to his car began to shatter.  He ducked (which due to Joey’s excess muscles looks more like a slump and a head tilt).  When the shots stopped for a moment he looked up in his rearview mirror only to see a man with a shot gun in his hand moving from the back of his car towards the front.  More shots, more shattered glass.  He grabbed his keys and quickly threw them into the ignition thinking either he was either going to get out of there or hit the man on the side of the car.  As soon as he began to reverse the man ran, hopped into a van and drove away.

Joey got out of the car, joined another member of the gym next to Ashley, who was now laying in front of his car, and prayed.  A minute later the ambulance and police arrived.  The EMT’s explained that Ashley had died instantly.  There was nothing Joey or the other gym members could have done for her.

Later that day we went back to the police station where I got to see Joey’s car for the first time.    They estimated that approximately 15 bullets went through the car.  There were bullet holes everywhere – through the ceiling, headrests, dashboard, and every window but one.  Joey’s dad took one look at the car and said, “Son, there is a God.” 

It wasn’t until that night, when I laid my tired body down next to his that it fully sunk in.  Joey should have died.  I should have been a pregnant widow, alone in that bed, our 4 year old asleep in the next room.  It hit like a ton of bricks. 

Joey never had nightmares or flashbacks.  Instead, he was able to pray with most of the gym members who happened to be there that morning and struggled with what they had seen.  He knew that God had directed him to be there that morning so that he could be someone for others to lean on during such a difficult time.  He was there to be a light in the darkness. 

One month later I delivered a beautiful baby girl.  Joey was there to hold my hand and kiss his new daughter.  Two days later we drove her home in our bullet ridden car, which my Aunt Lydia appropriately named the “God Mobile.”  I don’t know why God protected my Joey while others have had to walk the path of loss, but I am forever grateful.  “For the Lord is good.  His unfailing love continues forever, and His faithfulness continues to each generation.”  Psalm 100:5 (NLT). 

... but God

I sat beside my husband Joey as we sped into the hospital.  My water had never broken on its own before.  In fact, with all my other biological children the midwife had to break my water and a half hour later I’d be holding new life in my arms.  Because of this, the Doctor had advised us just 15 minutes before to get to the hospital and get there fast.  I was petrified.  I was sure I was going to be the woman who delivered her baby in the freezing cold along the side of the road.  I can’t explain the fear, but it was overpowering, stealing joy with every mile we drove.  This whole process was completely outside of my control.  It wasn’t until we got to the hospital and I was told I was only 2 cm dilated that the fear began to subside.  Seven hours later I held my 5lb 9oz miracle.  A month early, he decided to make his debut on Valentine’s Day.  Little did I know that the season the we were walking into would be the most difficult one of my life. 

I sat in the bath tub, fan on, trying to drown out the screaming.  Ten minutes of peace, relaxation and relief was all I wanted.  Every facet of me was exhausted and at the end of my rope.  Joey appeared through the door with our sobbing babe.  “Nothing’s working.”  Everything in me wanted to quit being a parent, but that’s not how it works. 

I sat across from the Pediatrician as he informed me they found blood in the diaper sample.  I was advised to cut out soy on top of the dairy I’d already cut out.  If that didn’t work we’d go down the list of allergens until we saw relief.  A week into it things weren’t getting better so I cut out all 8 top allergens.  Still nothing.  My diet was cut back to 10 foods, then 8, then 5.  Nothing.  No substantial change, only more hopelessness.  On top of it all I was convinced that I wasn’t producing enough milk on such a limited diet.  He always seemed hungry, but with all his presumed allergies the only formula option was a hypoallergenic one and he wouldn’t take it (after tasting it myself I completely understood why).  The anxiety covered me like a heavy fleece blanket on a 100 degree night.  I wasn’t sure how much more of it I could all handle. 

I sat next to my mom who had come over to hold our 2 month old and give me a much needed nap.  This was probably the 10^th time we had tried over the past couple weeks, but I couldn’t sleep.   I was exhausted beyond anything I’ve ever experienced, but the anxiety tormented me and I couldn’t rest.  I felt like I was stuck in fight of flight mode 24/7, only I couldn’t run away from this.  My body was shutting down. 

I sat on the porch swing rocking back and forth, babe in my arms.  The swing on the porch, hidden under the shade of our large maple tree had become my refuge.  As the breeze would blow over us both I would worship, cry, war, and call out to the Lord.  God continued to be faithful and meet me, blowing little pieces of hope into my heart and spirit.  There was new manna for each day.  I knew that there was a purpose for the season.  God was doing something in me.  I was being pruned, tested and put through the fire.  It hurt.  I wanted it to be over. 

I sat across from Joey and listened to him tell me that this was the hardest season of his adult life.  It made me feel a little better, like it wasn’t just me.  It wasn’t all in my head.  It just sucked and there was no way around it.  Kind of like that kids book about the bear hunt.  “Can’t go over it.  Can’t go under it.  Got to go through it.”  Shit. 

I sat across from the Midwife and listened to her tell me that within 2 weeks I should see a difference on the antidepressant she was prescribing me.  I knew she was right, but I also had an eerie feeling that things were going to get worse before they got better, and they did.  That Thursday, when I woke, the first thought that came to mind was, “I need to commit myself.  I can’t do this anymore.”  As I woke up a bit more I realized 2 things needed to happen:  this child needed to learn to sleep and I needed to put him on formula so I could distance myself from it all a bit.  Everything in me felt too shattered to do either of those things, but I knew they had to happen.  I called my parents who came and picked up the middle 3 children so I could focus solely on Israel and teaching him to sleep on his own.  That day I pressed in like I’ve never pressed in before.  Every time I put my babe down for a nap I worshiped and fell apart on my living room floor.  Never have I been so raw, so depleted, so desperate.  I paced the floor back and forth.  All the anxiety, fear and adrenaline wouldn’t even allow me to sit.  I felt like I was crawling out of my own skin.  As I listened to my sweet baby scream through the monitor I laid all of me out before the Lord.  As the Lord met me I felt Him say, “You’re crowning.  Three more days until the birth.  Give me your little and I’ll make much.”  

I sat with the Lord, well more like paced with the Lord, every chance I could over those next couple days.  I had finally come to a point of releasing all that I was.  I wasn’t fighting the process anymore.  I was too tired to fight anything.  The Lord was speaking many things to my heart.  One of the things He spoke was that our family was to make a prophetic act and march around our house 7 times, giving up a shout to the Lord after the 7^th lap – just like the Israelites did when they took Jericho.  It sounded crazy.  We did it anyway.  Something broke that night, the 3^rd and final night of the birthing process. 

I sat with the Lord again that next morning as He spoke to me about my healing, Israel’s healing and the healing of our family that was to come.  He told me that there would be a 6 week postpartum healing.  In the coming days I found myself grateful for that revelation.  Healing did not happen instantly.  It has taken time, but there has been definite healing. 

Today I stood at the front of our church, babe in hand, family by my side and dedicated Israel David to the Lord – an act I had already done more than once throughout the previous season in private moments.  It also just so happened to be the last day of our 6 month postpartum healing process, a strategic merging of dates that I believe to be orchestrated by the LORD. 

Through it all I have learned that God is God and I am not.  He is forever faithful and good, my shelter in the storm.  He will do what He says He will do.  His joy is my strength and when I have nothing left HE will fight for me.  People will politely say, “God will never give you more than you can handle.”  I don’t buy it.  This past season was a storm I could not handle.  On my own I would have sunk.  …. But God. 

What Ferguson has taught me...

OK, so let me first start out by saying that this perspective is from that of a while, middle class woman.  I’ve been privileged all my life.  During my single-mom-in-college days I navigated my way through some of the welfare system, which was an interesting venture, but that’s as “unprivileged” as it gets for this girl.  I’ve never had to worry or wonder if I was being targeted simply because of the color of my skin.  I’ve never had that fear for my children.  I acknowledge that. 

Over the past weeks I’ve read numerous articles, blog posts, interviews, facebook status updates, etc. about the Ferguson tragedy, and the conclusion, the only real conclusion that I’ve come to, is that we as the American people like to pick sides. 

We pick a side and then we find evidence to fit, even if unintentionally.  I have yet to read or hear anything that doesn’t feel like it invites you to one side or the other.  I feel like we become so focused on our own perspective that we forget about the people.  Sure we use their names as the face for our cause, but are they truly our focus or are we driven more by innate fears and biases that lie beneath the surface of our own hearts.   A perfect example of this is those who have used the local death of a beautiful teacher by a young black man to perpetuate their perspective (which in my opinion is so out of context and is motivation behind this personal rant). 

Honestly, I still have yet to figure out where I stand.  I don’t know if I’ll truly ever know.  I feel like I’m stuck in some weird, middle ground, no-man’s land.  My heart breaks for Michael Brown’s family, for a mother who will never get to see the hopes and dreams for her son realized.  That hits home for me.  My heart aches for Darren Wilson and what he has had to and will have to deal with in these coming years.  Such a tragedy does not end well for anyone involved EXCEPT by the grace of God.

And so that is how I pray.  That’s God’s grace would sweep this nation.  That what the enemy intended for evil, God will use for HIS glory.  That all who are wounded by this tragedy, and tragedies that have taken place this season, would have an encounter with the God who heals all wounds and brings HOPE. 

Without God, I do not believe this nation will see the unity and love that it deeply craves.  We love because HE first loved us (1 John 4:19).  So I pray for my own heart, that God would bring the fears and biases to the surface.  That I will be able to receive God’s love so that I can love others as He has loved me.  I guess that is my stand.  God help me.  God help us all.

When Someone Else's Child Becomes Your Own

"A child born to another woman calls me mommy.  The magnitude of that tragedy and the depth of that privilege are not lost on me."  Jody Landers.

March 20th was a beautiful, long awaited day.  It was the day that we "officially" welcomed our beautiful son, Daniel, into our forever family.  It was a day that we had longed for, prayed for, and desired with all our hearts for over 18 months.  It was glorious, and it's all still sinking in.

What is it like to desire with all your heart for someone else's child to become your own?  What is it like to sit in the same room with the mother of that child and see her tears, her desires to be a mother, and still desire for that child to become your own?  It's complicated.

I am forever grateful to this woman, this other mother, for choosing life, for loving our little boy, and in the end for trusting us with such a precious gift.  I pray for her joy and peace.  In those moments when her heart and arms ache to hold our little one, God, comfort her.  May she know that she is loved and cherished by a Heavenly Father who will not wrong her like her earthly one.  May everyday hold a piece of healing for the heart that longs to hear our little one call her "mommy." 

And when that little one calls me "mommy,"  may I never forget the privilege that comes with those words.  The beautiful and heart-wrenching privilege of someone else's child becoming my own. 

A Second To Spare

Every year as I ponder Christmas, I ask the LORD to make it more real to me.  I don’t want to get caught up in the hustle of bustle of trying to perfect things that, in reality, don’t make much difference.  I mean, I love Christmas lights and buying gifts, but my outdoor display of Christmas spirit will not be the piece of Christmas that truly changes a persons’ life forever. 

As I ponder this year, the thought that keeps coming back to me is how life can be forever changed in one short second.  I mean really, isn’t that a HUGE piece of what the Christmas story is about.  In one short second the world was changed for eternity, never to be the same.  OK, don’t get me wrong.  I know that child birth takes more than a split second.  I have been there, 3 times, but there came a second, one amazing second, where the Christ child was thrust into this world, took his first breath, and changed the course of history.  It got me thinking.

What do I do with my seconds?  If a split second is all it takes, then what can one do with that second?  Here are a few things I came up with:

   - Say “I’m sorry.”

   - Choose to forgive, even after years of holding a grudge.

   -  Buy the person in line behind you at Starbucks a coffee.

   - Tell your children or someone in your life that you love them.

   - Give someone a hug.

   - Choose a kind word instead of an angry one in a heated situation.

   - Let someone merge into your lane, even when you’re in a hurry.

           

Anyway – there’s many more, but you get the point.  The choices that we make in one second have the power to change another persons’ life and our own.  We may not always feel like it, but we all have a second to spare.  What will you do with yours?

Sowing Seeds

When you have a child at age 15, it adds some messy dynamics to your life.  When you get married 4 years later and terminate parental rights of that child's biological father, things get even messier, in a sense.  It was easy to go on with life, and forget the past, but it wasn't just my past to be forgotten.  What goes on in the mind of a small child when the father figure they once knew bails and a new one takes his place?  What happens in their heart when those ties are broken, even if for their own good?

It's not like we never talked about it with our son over the past several years, we did.  We asked questions like, "Do you think about him?  Do you have questions about him?" and made sure he knew that he could always talk to us about his biological dad.  It was just never really anything of importance, until a few weeks ago.

It is a strange thing when our past invades our present and makes things, well, messy again.  I received a request from our sons biological father to begin writing to him.  I was conflicted.  I could feel the mama bear rising up in me, wanting to protect our son from any harm, and at the same time the realization hit that this man is his past too.  He is becoming a young man and there are areas of his heart that need healing and reconciliation from that past.  It was not my decision to make, it was his.

The first letter came last week.  I opened it, of course, and read it.  There was true recognition of the hurt and pain that was caused and a deep repentance.  It was genuine and real.  I watched as my son read it (after he rolled his eyes at me for opening it first- however, in my defense I would have had to wait 4 hours for him to get home from school and open it).  His face was serious as he read through then folded it up and put it in his back pocket.  "I'm keeping this so I can read it again," he said.  I could tell it was precious to him.

A few days later he came down the steps, carrying his own letter.  I read the letter.  I cried.  Were these really the words of my 13 year old son - the same kid who had pummeled his little sister and left his dirty clothes all over the bathroom floor?   There was forgiveness and a genuine desire to get to know the man on the other end of that letter.  There was encouragement through scripture, Psalms 32:5 and Isaiah 43:18-19, “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.  See I am doing a new thing!" and a call to continue to press on.  Misspellings and all, it was real, it was genuine, and it flowed from a heart of love.  I could not have been more proud or humbled in that moment.  


So, we begin a journey towards a messy reality and choose to believe that it will be one full of healing and life.  "See I am doing a new thing!  Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?  I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.”  Isaiah 43:19.  AMEN!