August

   I call you August, because that's when I found out about you. I call you by a name, because to me, you were a person deserving of a name.

   You may have only existed for a brief amount of time, but your memory is forever etched within my heart. You have changed the way I love; taught me what it means to love someone you never got to meet. 

   One year ago this week, I came to know of your existence. Your growth had only just started, but you were already making yourself known. You were safe. You were loved. Even for that brief period of time. But then, you were gone. Stolen away too soon: before the nerves had settled, before the shock had worn off. Before I even had a chance to tell your brothers about you. For 4 blissful weeks I had carried you. A beautiful secret that only God and I knew about. 

  On this, the one year mark, you are ever on my mind. I feel your loss every day; the vacancy in my heart never wanes. The heartbreak may have healed, but the hurt is ever present. I still wonder about you; imagining myself holding you. I try to imagine what our family would be like if you were here; what you would look like. Who you would be. How I wish I could've met you and held you. To tell you how loved you were. Instead, I carry you in my heart forever, my precious little one. 

  

   However brief  your existence was, doesn't change the hurt. A mother's love is instantaneous and lasting.  I will always love you; always remember you. My August. My 3rd baby. 

Birthday reflections

 Here's to 30 years around the sun.

  Being out of my 20's feels weird. On paper, the age says I should feel old, but inside, I still feel young. This birthday was a big one. I'm officially out of my, "young adult years" and am simply an adult. It makes one reflect on their life. I hear so many adults talk about their regrets from their 20's, or the way they wasted their youth. I always thought I'd feel the same when i reached my 30's. But the crazy thing is, I don't. When I reflect on my teens and 20's, I have no regrets. I feel like a used my time wisely, and made the most of those years.

  I graduated high school a year early and went straight into the mission field. Spent the next year fundraising and traveling back and forth to Africa. At 19, I settled down in the US and started working 3 jobs to keep me busy and pay the bills. I spent the next 2 years, working 40hrs a week and getting plugged into our church. I served in every area I could, to ensure good stewardship of my single years. We moved to Idaho when I was 21, (where I met Dan soon after) and I immediately got a full time job. Dan and I started dating at 22 and got married at 23. I quit my job and got pregnant at 24. At 25 I became a stay at home mom. At 27, we added Everett to the family; and of course, at 29, we built a house together. Throughout it all, I kept busy as a SAHM, tending our home and family. We were even able to go on 4 good family vacations in that time, building core memories together.

  All in all, I'd say that was a good decade. I feel very blessed to have been able to make such good use of those years, and feel I have a lot to show for it. A whole lot of love and laughter, and stored up memories; besides the handsome husband and precious boys I've been gifted. I'm thankful that God chose to answer my childhood prayers, but did it His way. His way truly is the best. Now, here's to my 30's and making the most of them. 

   April 21st, 2024. A date I've tried valiantly to forget, that my heart won't allow me to.

  In a perfect world, I'd be 39 weeks pregnant right now: preparing for birth, eager to meet my baby. But it's a broken world; and instead, I find myself with an empty womb and a hurting heart. What should've been a week of joyful anticipation, is instead a week of mourning my child, and reflecting on the, "should've haves."  I want to honor my baby, but I don't know how. I have nothing to commemorate them, except the hurt inside and an ornament in a storage bin. The day that should've been their due date, will go unnoticed and forgotten by everyone...  but me. I will remember. I have to remember. The memory of what should've been their day is all I have left.

  Baby August was almost the best surprise of our lives. An unexpected- but most welcome, gift. Now, he/she will live on in my memory, the hurt keeping them close. While I grieve the could haves and the missed memories, I'll forever be thankful to have the knowledge that they existed. I'll cherish their memory, and cling to the hope that one day, I'll hold them in my arms before the Savior.

The walls that sing

  If these walls could talk, this house would tell you the story of how God intervened to get us into this home. It would whisper the intimate details of our first night as a married couple; how an awkward pair of newlyweds dined on cheese and crackers, while watching Ironman. It would reflect on the moment a scared couple rejoiced in the news of their first pregnancy, and of all the newfound joys and firsts that followed. These walls have seen the tears and prayers of a scared father, as he paced the halls two days into his wife's labor; fearing for her life and the life of his unborn son. They'd tell of that baby's first breath, of his hesitant first steps down this hall; of his excitement over being a big brother and his growth from infant to big kid.

  These walls have seen that toddler become a big brother as the new baby took his first breath amidst fears and breathing troubles. They have been terrorized by the rowdy antics of these two brothers. The floors bear the evidence of bike races and car race tracks; each dent and ding telling a story, holding a memory. The gawdy pink bathroom bore witness to our heartache, as the floor held my weeping body after our first loss. The bedroom walls listened to my sobs in the middle of the night, while the rest of the house slept. The living room that held the family tree each Christmas, now observes my healing. 

  And now as we enter this new season, this sweet home bears witness to the hopes and dreams that are coming true; the excitement of two boys as they watch their new family home coming together. The exhaustion and stress of their father as he fights to give his family the home he's always wanted for them. And the long days of the mother as she tackles family life and moving prep. Yes, if these walls could talk, they would sing of all the memories they hold within themselves. This house became a home the day we became a family, and as that family grew, so did the love within these walls. If these walls could talk, they'd tell the story of that love: the story of our family, of our beginning. 

But God.....

 When I think back to the 18yr old me -the me before life hit me upside the head, I'm reminded of a child: young, innocent, naive, and pure to the realities of the world. I had confidence in who I was, I had a childlike faith, and I looked to the future with excitement; eager for the unknown, with a head full of dreams.

  But that was before... before I went head to head with the enemy. Before almost losing the lives of myself and my son in birth. Before the lost friendships; before the relationship changes and challenges. Before losing our baby in miscarriage. Before life happened. 

  If the 18 year old me could see me now, I doubt she'd even recognize herself. I'm not the innocent, naive girl I was back then. I feel broken inside; hurt and grieving; battle scarred within from the trials of life. I've seen the dark side of humanity and the terrors of the spiritual realm up close and personal. Laying in the dark at night, as a talk with God and listen to my husband's soft snoring, I often reflect on the seasons and moments that have made me who I am now. In those moments it feels like I've got the weight of the world on my shoulders. But God...

  He was there through it all. Walking before me, walking with me; preparing the way for His plan to be accomplished. Preparing my heart for the growth that would follow the pain. I may not be the girl I was at 18, but in the midst of the broken is beauty.
The woman I am now has a much stronger faith; a clear awareness of the evil we are fighting, and a deeper dependency on God that draws me ever closer to Him.

  I wish I could go back and tell that scared teenager that it'll be OK. That one day, it'll all make sense and you'll see that, like Joseph, what the enemy meant for evil, God used for good. When I feel broken, God reminds me of all the good that has came out of the trials; all the growth, the faith, and the testimony that has enabled me to encourage many other people in their own trials. God has shown His face to me and revealed His power in my life. I'll never be the same because I'm being renewed every single day. God's plan is mysterious and strange, and oftentimes frustrating to our human minds. But it is beautiful, and amazing to see what He can accomplish in our lives when we allow Him to use us. 

  So I'm not broken. I am restored. I am loved. I am a new creation. My past does not define me, but it has made me who I am today.  For that, I am truly thankful. I am thankful that God saw fit to use me in His story, and that He has pulled me from the fire and refined me.

What is your, "why?"

 "Everyone has a reason for believing what they believe. What's yours?"

   Someone recently asked me why I believe the things I do. When you're raised a certain way - be that, catholic, Christian, muslim...etc. doesn't matter - it's hard to know whether your belief is your own, or simply as a result of having been taught that religion your entire life. For many, when we become an adult we start to wrestle with our religious identity. Who are we outside of how we were raised? Do we really believe the stuff we've been taught our whole lives? Then come the big questions. WHY do I think I believe this? Has there ever been a confirmation that this belief is real? I'm not here to try to change someone's mind, or to pound my belief into you. I am just here to share my story. This is my WHY.

  Growing up in a conservative Christian home, I was taught about God from a young age. My young mind tried to comprehend everything I was being taught. I didn't understand it all, but I knew that I wanted to know this God Who loved me to the point of sending His Son to die for me. I accepted Christ as my Savior at the age of 4. Just a typical American upbringing. But then, when I was 10, something happened that changed my entire outlook on my religion. I heard a sermon about spiritual warfare and how Christians in America tend to push it under the rug, and ignore that warfare is a reality in our lives. That night I asked God to reveal to me the spiritual battle in my life. Then came the dreams.

  I dreamt that I was standing in a dark pit under a dark dark moonless sky. In front of me was a haunted, deserted town. Behind me blank nothingness. To my right was a dark, hooded figure. I couldn't see his face but the evil that was pouring off of him, terrified me. I knew he was after me. As I knelt on the ground, covering my head to hide from the darkness and fear, there was suddenly a light to my left. When I looked up, Christ was standing there. He looked at me with His kind eyes, and He held out His hand and said, "Fear not, My child. I am with you."  As I reached for His hand, the shrieks of the demons subsided and the devil cowered back.  Waking from that dream, I had a knew awareness of the battle that I was facing ever day as a Christian; the battle over my very soul. It became like a 6th sense; this intuition when something wasn't right spiritually.

  As a teenager, I often babysat for a family whose house was haunted. I would hear footprints when nobody was there, and hear things that weren't actually happening. I felt something walk up behind me once, and breath down my neck. It fled upon hearing me pray the name of Jesus out loud. It was in this same house that I "saw" the enemy for the first time. My sister and I were babysitting overnight for this family, and I had been up and down all night because the "baby was crying, " (she was in fact, fast asleep. It was not her crying.) At one point, as I was walking down stairs, I felt a presence come up behind me. I heard it walk down the stairs behind me and pause in the doorway as I climbed into bed. As I turned to look, the entire doorway was filled with a darkness, as if there were a dark figure standing there. With the darkness came this bone deep chill and fear. I closed my eyes and prayed that Christ would be present. All at once, I felt a different presence take up a stance beside my bed. The fear was gone and I was able to sleep peacefully the rest of the night.

  All of these occurrences continued to confirm for me that there is a literal battle again darkness in the world, that Americans are ignoring. But the clincher for me was my trip to Africa. There is a whole different relationship between the spiritual and the physical in Africa. They both acknowledge and accept the spiritual as a reality. And as a result, the enemy is not shy there. The warfare is obvious. It is common. And it. Is. TERRIFYING.

  The enemy tried to get to me while I was in Zambia, but the Lord prevailed and my life was saved. But the enemy wasn't done. Upon my return from Africa, the heavy presence in my life increased to the point of chronic, traumatizing nightmares for years. At first, I chalked it up to ordinary fear. But then, the visits started. I would often wake from these nightmares to a dark presence in my room. The room would feel cold and unnaturally dark, with a sense of evil so thick you could almost feel it in the room. And then I'd see him. Sometimes standing in the corner, other times by my bed. Always watching. Always terrifying.  I would immediately start quoting scripture and praying aloud and the darkness would flee. One time, I woke to the feeling of something pulling at my blankets, upon waking, I saw the darkness launching itself at my bed. I shrieked the name of Jesus and it recoiled.

  I know many of you that are reading this, are probably thinking that I'm coo-coo. And that's fine. We live in a time and place where people don't want to acknowledge that such darkness and blatant attacks are possible. But for me, I've stood in the battle and have felt the very claws of evil reaching out for me. I have witnessed first hand, the reality of our battle, and the might and power of our God. The answer to my "Why?" is that I have see the enemy vanquished before me. Not by my might, but by the power and the name of Jesus. I prayed a prayer years ago to see the battle in my life, and I have lived the answer to that prayer.

  I may have been raised Christian, but my experience with the spiritual is what makes my faith real to me.
There is a spiritual realm at work in this world; a never ceasing battle around us for the souls of God's people. No matter how hard we try to ignore it; to hide it or downplay it. It's here and it's happened every day around us. The world tells us this is a lie. Our culture tells us it's an idea more than a reality. But my experience has proved it to be horrifyingly real. Our only hope in this midst of this battle, is that God Himself is here. He is real and He is powerful. And He is ready to fight our battle for us. " The battle belongs to the Lord."

  I have found my "why?." 

So now I ask you friends: what is your "why?"

" For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, 

but against principalities, against powers, 

against the rulers of the darkness of this world, 

against spiritual wickedness in high places." 

Ephesians 6:12

Joy in motherhood: 2023

 

  JOY. I see this word scattered across my house, tucked into the Christmas decor everywhere I look. A raging reminder of my need for joy. My lack of joy. My deep and utter longing to reclaim the lost joy in my life. To return once more to that gleeful, child-like woman I used to be, not too long ago.

    When they say that parenting changes you, nothing can prepare you for just how deeply and inexplicably, you change. When you hold your baby for the first time, your whole world changes. Nothing else matters but that tiny human. Before too long, you lose yourself in a wonderful world of hugs and diaper changes, and slimy hands that want to hold your unsuspecting face. You don't even see it coming, but suddenly, you don't recognize yourself anymore. You have lost your sense of self to this thing called motherhood. And I think- in it's own speciel way- that it's beautiful. Motherhood is supposed to redefine who we are and what we think we can do. It challenges the very essence of our strength and fortitude, stretching us to our breaking point. Yet somehow, we push past the fatigue and the emotions, and dig deep into the ocean of love that we have for our children. It's that very love that inspires us to get up each day and start again, faceing all the meltdowns and the tantrums, and the dirty diapers: to once again, find the joy and fulfillment that motherhood offers.

  When we find ourselves stuck in the rutt of exhaustion and negative emotions, it can be hard to redirect our minds. It can often feel menial and monotonous. But even on those days, one can find fleeting reminders of why we chose to be a mom in the first place. It's those small- seemingly insignificant- moments, that make us who we are as mothers. The love that we have for our children, and the joy that we feel in the fulfillment of our God given purpose, alters our very beings, as we morph into the mother our children need.


  The past couple months I've been in that rutt. Ever since Everett weaned, I've been struggling with finding joy and finding a new sense of purpose in who I am. I've been nursing and/or pregnant for nearly 4years. Even though I never particularly enjoyed nursing (rough nursers both times!), I loved that I was able to do that for my children. It made me feel like a successful, worthy mother. When Everett's nursing journey came to a fairly abrupt (and unpleasant) end, I felt like I had failed as a mother. It's been over a month now and I'm still struggling with that feeling of failure. I'm frustrated and sad, and frequently feel overwhelmed with life. All of which is robbing me of my joy.

  But God. God was not done yet. 

  God is not done working on my heart, or bettering me for my children. He has been speaking to my tired heart, whispering that it's time to find that joy again: HIS joy. "The joy of the Lord is my strength," shall be my song. My word for 2023 is: JOY. With the help of the Almighty, I want to retrain my mind to let go of this feeling of failure. My son is strong and healthy. That's all that matters. I want to focus on the joys of motherhood instead of the struggles. Motherhood IS a blessing. My children are GIFTS. I am choosing to walk through life accordingly, with that in mind. Keeping my eyes on the Lord, to live in JOY.