Carried

I must confess I've been acting like a five year old this week as it pertains to God. There's been some foot-stomping, some finger-wagging, some pleading and screaming, some silent treatment, and much crying in His arms. I am arrogant in my ignorance of His plan--I have learned from the best on how to act when things aren't going how I want them. My teacher is a girl named Ella--one sweet, sassy, stubborn little thing--she reminds me so much of myself in many ways, I just hide my strong will better than she does.

We have dear friends going through devastating loss and unthinkable pain--we are crushed by news that has come since last Thursday . . . a precious friend who lost twin baby girls at 26 weeks after losing  two other babies last year; our neighbors of 15 years who lost a husband/daddy to melanoma; and our close friends whose 12 year old daughter is battling cancer and they are running out of options for her treatment. Our whole family is heartbroken for those we love. I've gone about my days with a lump in my throat. It takes but a whisper of a little voice asking why I am sad and the dam of tears breaks into sobbing.

I can't remember a time I've been this broken since our own loss of our son (that I shared about in my last post) and then weeks later the loss of my mother to cancer.  Perhaps being "acquainted with grief" I have appointed myself some kind of safety-patrol of pain and I'm not liking the answer God is giving these families. But God is teaching me to surrender and to trust--this lesson was taught to me again this week in a hospital room.

When we adopted Ella, we knew her medical needs were significant. I remember our first appointment with the spina bifida clinic shortly after coming home from China. The nurse asked me if I had a medical background--she was trying to make sense of our decision to adopt a girl with special needs. She probably pondered "why else would anyone choose a life of surgeries, therapies, of disabilities?" She seemed alarmed to learn that I was an English major, I still chuckle at the look on her face--some days I too question placing myself on this high dive as I look down into a pool deep with diagnoses I can't pronounce or spell. But you see, we chose Ella, not her medical needs. I think it probably takes adoptive parents who are naive enough to make that leap of faith and know whatever is ahead God will equip us for. We love her exactly as she is and as her mom and dad we are just trying to give her the best quality of life possible.

At every doctor's appointment I brag about her--I tell the doctors that she has already exceeded expectations of what we were told she would be able to do. I share about how strong she has gotten with PT and show how quickly she can move with her walker. I pull out my phone to display photos of her climbing the rock wall at the playground. They humor me and then burst my bubble: "But you do know what her future holds, don't you? As she grows, her upper body will not be able to be supported by her lower body. She will most likely need a wheelchair to get around." The only words I hear are "most likely" which I translate into "we don't know what we are talking about" and in my mind I am determined that my girl will prove them all wrong.

But I do listen when my daughter tells me her short list of big dreams: "I want to run like everyone else on the playground, I want to wear pretty shoes like the other girls,  . . . I want a cell phone." That last one will have to wait, and I do cram those leg braces into modified Mary Janes and fur trimmed boots as best I can, but haven't yet figured out how to make that first request happen. And that makes me feel like I have failed her.

And so a couple months ago her sweet neurosurgeon explained there was one more surgery they could do to help her walk. Her tibia bones rotate out at a 45 degree angle thus causing her feet and hips to compensate for the improper alignment. Without surgical intervention she would never walk with a normal gait. He explained that they would saw the bones under the knees, position them correctly, then reattach with metal plates that would be taken out in a year or so. And as any responsible parent would do, I Googled this procedure to make sure he wasn't making it up and we decided to proceed.

So this past Monday we checked into the hospital for her tibia osteotomy. She wasn't the least bit afraid and announced to everyone she met that we were making her legs better. She was a trooper post surgery and handled the pain like a champion. We had some sweet mother/daughter bonding time with room service and movie night but by Tuesday afternoon we were ready to go home. As I packed, Ella asked if they were ready to take those heavy casts off. I reminded her that she would have those on for several weeks--I saw the disappointment. She had not understood the timetable and wasn't happy about it.  "But I thought I would be able to run when this was over?!" she pleaded. I did my best to put a positive spin on the coming weeks of coloring and play dough and quality snuggle time.

She pulled it together until her consolation prize arrived. The hospital had ordered a wheelchair and they were insisting that we leave in it. It was so big her legs didn't even reach the foot rests. It was black and metal and must certainly have looked ugly in her world that is adorned in pastels and themed with princesses. She has seen wheelchairs many times. Her big eyes watch them come and go at our PT appointments. She sees children completely dependent on them and didn't want any part of it--instead of her seeing the assistance it could be, she saw a huge step backwards after a year of great progress. There was a bait and switch in her mind--she didn't go through all this to leave the hospital in a wheelchair. I told her to imagine it was Cinderella's carriage taking her to the castle.  Major eye roll. Had she known profanity, room 4247 would have suddenly not been appropriate for all audiences. She instead gave me a look that spoke volumes and went into full-blown meltdown as the nurse and I put her in the chair.

I got to handle this little hospital adventure solo because kids under 12 aren't allowed during cold and flu season and Brad was home taking care of the others. I got us in the car and headed home--I was ready to have the home field advantage for the rest of the recovery. Ella drifted off to sleep with a pout still on her face. Mr. GPS guided me to familiar territory then I chose to go home a different way because I knew this time of day which roads and highways to avoid and needed to make a stop at the pharmacy. But he didn't like that I wasn't following his computerized route. He started insisting that I make a U-turn at the next light, or turn right, or turn around. I thought, "Oh great, now I'm getting attitude from an app on my phone!"

I turned the GPS off and drove the rest of the way in silence. I couldn't help but see the parallels between how I was acting toward God and how Ella had acted toward me. She didn't understand why we had put her through such pain--even breaking bones and taking her to scary places--when she was just fine before. She didn't know that it is because we love her and in the long-run it will help her--that we agonized over options and felt this was absolutely best for her. She doesn't know that although 8 weeks of casts seems like an eternity now, it will be nothing in the scope of her entire life. She doesn't know that she now has legs positioned correctly and grafted with metal--she will be stronger than she would have ever been on her own. And then I pondered my own spiritual adoption--chosen in spite of my brokenness, loved even when I am hard to love, ransomed so that I would not be subject to the consequences of my sin, and in my weakness I'm am made whole being grafted and held by God's strength.

When we returned home Tuesday night, we got the crushing news that our friend Kylie was too sick to go on her Make-A-Wish trip to New York City. Her dad's Caringbridge post confirmed it . . . it is without question the most heartbreaking thing I've ever read. We pulled our daughter Ava aside to share the news with her first--Kylie is like a sister to her and Kylie's sister Jenna has been one of Ava's closest friends for many years. I wished I had had words of wisdom. I'm the mama bird who is supposed to chew the big stuff into little bits before passing it along to the babies but the pieces were still too big for her . . . for us all  . . . to digest.

Lately I have acted less like a disgruntled preschooler and more akin to Mr. GPS. I am so sure that my ending to the story is better--that my route is in fact the best way to get from point A to point B--that I will not even consider other options. I know firsthand that His plan is perfect yet I still cry out to God begging for a U-turn, an alternative route, a miracle. I know that God does allow us to go through hard times so that we will draw closer to Him but with these families I just can't wrap my mind around a why--already such faithful believers, they had already pointed others to Him in their trials, they were already glorifying Him in their lives. Wouldn't it certainly bring Him more glory to heal a little girl of cancer?! But His ways are not my ways. His thoughts not my thoughts. But His grace is sufficient and I must rest in that. The only tragedy worse than losing a loved one is losing a loved one and not having the Almighty Comforter to carry you through it. He has been so faithful to me during my own times of sorrow, how can I question the wisdom of His plan. And yet as I type this, I still petition for his healing for this precious young lady.

Many have asked how is Miss Ella? She's doing well. Today she was playing with her toys and looked up at me and said, "I love you, Mom" out of nowhere. It took me by surprise and I needed to hear it so badly that I asked her to repeat what she said. She giggled and covered her face, acting all shy about it before repeating her "I love you." I'm hoping this means all has been forgiven. And the wheelchair? It's still in the trunk of the car and will be going back to the medical supply store very soon. She may need it in the future, but she doesn't need it now. We will happily carry her anywhere she needs to go in the coming weeks, just as I know our Father will carry our friends through this heartbreaking time. There is no burden so great, that He can't bear.

Ella--Not thrilled about the carriage, but happy to be going home!

Happy Mother's Day from a Special Needs Mom

It's Mother's Day! Got home from church a bit ago and my crew made me a very interesting, I mean, special lunch. They are taking me to dinner later tonight and but this meal will be hard to top.

I've read a lot of beautiful, poetic tributes to mothers the past couple days and didn't feel I needed to attempt to do the same. Kind of feels unnecessary to serve my picnic of peanut butter and jelly sandwich-like prose after dining on a gourmet dinner of words.

But I did think it okay to reheat an old post I wrote when we started our adoption from China two years ago (that we put on hold when we found out I was pregnant with Victoria). I reread it the other night as I was pondering what our new little girl might be thinking knowing she has a family coming to get her in a few months. I wonder if she's excited about the new life ahead of her; I wonder if she is afraid of leaving all she knows behind. 

I wonder--if given the chance to look through a hundred files of "waiting families"--if she would choose us. I wonder--if given the choice of who her new mother would become--if she would choose me. 

I am grateful that had I been given the choice of mother, I would have chosen the very one that God gave me. She died 9 years ago, but her legacy lives on. And I have been so blessed by other mothers given to me by His grace--they are known as sister, mother-in-law, aunt, and friend.

And I'm so very grateful for the 6 precious children that God has blessed me with. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't thank Him for each treasure.

When we were doing our homestudy, I had to make a listing of all the "special needs" that we would consider. Once we knew we had fallen for Xin Xin,  we spent many hours researching her condition and talking with doctors about what kind of long-term care she would need and how we could improve her quality of life.

And here's what I discovered. There was no "special need" on any listing that outdid my own "special needs." I felt that it would only be fair for any prospective adoptive child to be given the same information on this possible mother with full disclosure of all imperfections.

My file would read something like this:

She goes by the name "Kathie." She is considered an "older parent" (over the age of 40) although there are no grants available. Should you choose her, it is with the understanding that by the time you are in high school, others will think she is your grandmother.

She will need reading glasses to read you a bedtime story and may not be able to stand upright after sitting Indian style at a tea party.

She has many well-meaning behaviors that may cause extreme irritation. For example, she will take millions of photos of you but has no actual photography skills. You will have to put up with the auto-flashing and shutter-clicking, but you'll only have out-of-focus pics with your eyes closed to show for your patience. 

Small toys not put away will mysteriously disappear. She can't stand "happy meal" items that didn't make anyone happy and you should note that these items are quickly donated or discarded.

She will sing you lullabies in spite of the fact that she has the vocal range of three notes. Every song will sound like "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

She will want to dress you until you go to college. This may not be an issue in the early years, but by the time you are a teen, you will be wondering if you can escape through the air-conditioning vents of the dressing room during a shopping trip gone bad.

She will occasionally go freaky with the food she serves--going gluten-free, low-sugar, wholly whole wheat, and completely organic. You may try to trade up lunch items at school but no one will want a protein bar that tastes like cardboard in exchange for their Little Debbie snack cake. And then there are moments that she passes a Krispy Kreme establishment and the "hot donuts" sign is on. You should not call her a hypocrite if you'd like to partake of the white-flour, sugar-glazed manna that she is about to inhale.

She will often seem completely unfair. There will be movies and music and TV shows that everyone else is allowed to see and hear, and you will be the ONLY one not watching/listening. If you ask why, she will simply respond with "Not Philippians 4:8 standards." ("Whatever things are good, pure, lovely, think on these things. . . .")

When you need clean socks you will be directed to a laundry basket solely dedicated to socks who have no partner. It is your job to play matchmaker and find two that are somewhat the same size and color. Good luck.

You will be fine if you need this mom to provide help in proofing papers, annotating poetry, and diagramming sentences, but you will up a creek without a scientific calculator if you need math help past the 6th grade. The Pythagorean Theorem makes her break out in hives, any attempt to find the area of a complex polygon will reduce her to her lowest common denominator, and she would rather poke her eyes out with a protractor than check your math homework.

She is a strong advocate for enjoying God's creation. She will pull over on the side of the road to behold a sunset, a rainbow, or wildflowers growing among asphalt. She will make everyone stop what they are doing to hear the birds singing outside and make you watch butterflies instead of TV. She will insist that you run outside at night to marvel at the stars and require that everyone pose for a picture with the first flower of springtime (which will no doubt capture you not smiling and cut off part of your head).

Although she cooks with love, she also cooks using whatever she has in the pantry and with the fewest number of ingredients possible. All her recipes are named something that ends in the word "surprise" (some surprises are better than others) and it's a safe bet that these culinary creations will never be featured on the Food Network. 

She absolutely can not handle whining or pouting. If there are words/sounds/looks that even hint at ungratefulness, you will be forced to select an item from her "consequence jar." On this little slip of paper, you will read your consequence (for example, wiping down baseboards and window blinds) for attempting to voice your concern. It's her sick way of teaching you a lesson while having you do a chore that she hates to do herself.

She suffers from Broken Record Syndrome. For example, you will hear phrases such as "good behavior equals privileges, bad behavior equals consequences" repeated till you think your ears are going to be permanently damaged.

She is a cryer. She will cry at your classroom doorway on the first day of school and at your ballet recital or soccer game. She will weep the first time you get your hair cut, swim without floaties, and ride a bike without training wheels. She will wail at birthday parties, graduations, and your wedding day. (Note: We are not talking delicate tears caught in monogrammed handkerchiefs. We are talking big ugly sobbing, sometimes snorting, pass-that-woman-a-box-of-tissues kinds of boo-hooing.) She is also a hugger and a kiss blower. You've been warned.

She might have attachment issues. Every single time another child is added to the family, she worries and wonders how she can possibly love the new one as much as the others. (But she, thus far, has had no trouble attaching to the ones God has given her.) 

No matter how hard she tries, she will never understand what it feels like to be taken from your home country, to lose the only family and friends you have ever known, to have to learn a new language, adapt to a new culture, and acquire a taste for new food. 

She will often feel overwhelmed in caring for your physical and emotional needs and wonder if she will ever be the mother you deserve. She won't understand that some days you need special care and other days you just want to be treated like everyone else. 

Sometimes she gets tired, sometimes she feels stress, sometimes she loses her patience, sometimes she says things that she wishes she could take back.

She is a sinner, in need of a Savior, living in a fallen world, raising children who are sinners, in need of a Savior, living in a fallen world. And this means that she is flawed, that she will make mistakes, that she will need forgiveness. 

And this is why she often feels so unworthy to be the mother of those precious children God has already entrusted her with and why she is so grateful for every child He brings to their family. 

Hoping She Chooses My File,

Kathie

Our Big God of Little Details

I have a dozen posts in draft form and a million photos worth sharing, but life these days seems to move at the speed of a freight train and there are so few minutes to write. Things are easing up because our adoption paperwork is completely done and our dossier has been in China since March 22. I have new photos of our precious daughter waiting on the other side of the world and I will try to post soon just about our little Xin Xin. But today I want to share a story--just feel I need to write these thoughts down after a week of tragedy and heartbreak--nationally and locally. 

When bad things happen I typically hear the same comments from people who aren't Christians--usually along the lines of: "If there is a God, why did he allow this to happen?" In their minds, there are only three answers: 1) God doesn't exist 2) God exists but didn't care enough to intervene 3) God exists but doesn't have the power to stop such evil.

I've had people personally ask me those questions after the loss of our first son and then weeks later my mother.  My simple answer when my children ask me this question is: "We live in a fallen world. It started with the original sin of Adam and Eve and continues today. We have a God who loves us so much that He sent His Son to die--as a loving sacrifice for our wrongs and as a redemptive act so that we could be pardoned from what we deserve. Just because we are followers of Christ, we aren't exempt from trials. If we never saw evil--if we never felt the consequences of sin--we would never see the need for a Savior. " (A link to a great article with supporting scripture of why our loving God allows suffering is here .) 

But you may notice that Christians go through these trials in a very different manner than those who don't put their hope in Christ. It's remarkable how the same tragedy, the same loss, the same pain can cause one to be angry and bitter and fearful and the other to have peace and joy and hope. And I believe the reason is that our God loves on us in such a way during these times as if to say, "I know you don't understand why I've allowed this to happen and why I didn't answer your prayers as you had wanted, so I am going to care for you in such an intimate and detailed way that you will see that I am with you through this great hurt." 

That is my truth and my testimony. At the time that I should have questioned my faith, my faith has never been stronger. It is simply because of a million little ways that He showed me His great love.

I find it interesting that Christ's first miracle was turning the water to wine at the wedding feast. One of my "When I Get to Heaven" questions has been why didn't Jesus start His ministry with something with a bit more wow--something showing the full extent of His power like raising Lazarus from the dead or healing the blind? But I do think that first miracle speaks volumes that He cares for even our basic needs and wants. I think it also shows us that sometimes we have to wait till we are completely empty before He will fill us--that every last drop must be gone for us to fully appreciate and acknowledge His provision.

I have one such clay pot that has been bone dry for nine years. My mother's name is written on it.

When my mother found out she had advanced cancer, she had one wish--to live long enough for her grandchildren to be old enough to remember her. At the time there were only four--my oldest two daughters and my sister's two girls. Ava was the youngest of this cute quartet. My mom and dad would have "Gigi and Popo" camps with them--sleepovers with movies and ice cream and singing and dancing. My mother always loved the theater and it was a love she passed down to my sister and me and our girls. (Here's a photo of my mom with her granddaughters--Ava is in the middle.)

Her love of the stage began as a little girl. She had a hard childhood and she loved being in plays because it gave her the chance to be someone else with a better life. So when I grew up, there weren't many memories she wanted share so instead she talked about the plays she had been in. Her favorite part was playing Annie in "Annie Get Your Gun." It's not a musical you see often these days, but it is such a sweet story based on the inspiring real life of Annie Oakley. I was perhaps the only child growing up in the 70s that knew every word to "You Can't Get a Man With a Gun." (Here's a copy of the write up from her school newspaper.)

My mother battled cancer for 6 years and her granddaughters knew her well and loved her dearly. But Ava was only 4 when she died and I knew I'd have to be diligent in keeping my mother's memory alive, especially with her. There have been many Christmases and family trips to the beach that I wished we could borrow her from heaven for just a few days.  I've given birth to two children since her passing and ached to have her by my bedside. When we brought Daniel home from Guatemala I grieved that she wasn't at the airport to welcome him home. But the silly thing is, some of the times I've wish her here the most have been when the four oldest granddaughters have been in plays. (The eldest of them is currently in college as a theater major.) 

And so I thought it amazing when the auditions for Ava's school play were announced and, out of all the possible options for the spring musical, the director had chosen . . .  "Annie Get Your Gun." I didn't let Ava know when she auditioned that my mom had the lead role in that same show--didn't want her to feel added pressure and that she had disappointed me if she wasn't cast. There is such talent at her school, she didn't think she would even be considered for the lead, thus there were many happy tears when the cast list was posted and we saw Ava had gotten the same part my mother had in November of 1960. 

(These pics were taken at a dress rehearsal. No flash photography--I promise.)

The play is this week. There have been two wonderful performances already and the last is tonight. I've watched some of it from the balcony--the closest seat in the house to my mama.  I expected to be crying ugly tears throughout this very funny show--but God has taken all the bitter from this wine and left only the sweet. My cup . . .  my clay pot . . . it overflows. God has connected my mother and my daughter in a way that I thought was gone and when Ava takes her final bows I can almost hear her shouting: "Ava, I'm so proud of you!"

They will strike the set minutes after the curtain call. Within an hour the sets and costumes will be taken down and packed away. But my daughter will have shared this with her grandmother--like a family heirloom, this torch has been passed down. And she will look back on this week and never forget that her grandmother was there in spirit.

And I have once again been reminded that my Great God cares about little things like wedding feasts and middle school musicals, that He will love us through every hurt and every trial, and He will fill us till our clay pots overflow. 

He Never Leaves Us in the Valley

Warning: If you stopped by to see cute photos of my kids, get an adoption update, or read a funny story--this isn't one of those posts. But if you ever wondered about the title of my blog, this explains it.

Nine years ago. That's when it began. My love of the 23rd Psalm. My need to savor each verse and digest every word.

Nine years ago I was running errands in my comfy shoes and maternity attire. I stopped at Babies R Us to pick up some goodies for the nursery I was preparing for our third child. Finally some blue in our very pink world. We were over-the-moon excited about this baby boy due on Valentine's Day.

But I noticed that he wasn't kicking. Not uncommon when I was running around, but I went home to rest hoping to feel his mid-afternoon dancing.

Nothing.

I called my doctor in a panic. They said not to worry. He probably had shifted to a position where I couldn't feel him. They told me to drink something sweet and wait. The practice was moving to a new office, that day of all days, but they told me I could go to the hospital if there was no change and see the doctor on call. We dropped our girls off at grandparents and headed to Labor and Delivery. I wasn't interested in waiting for the orange juice to kick in.

Brad and I prayed as we waited to be admitted. I was certain I had watched too many medical dramas and everything was going to be fine and I would feel like a big ding-a-ling for running to the hospital for nothing. I was finally taken to a room for an ultrasound. I was so ready to hear that all was well and return home.

But only silence. The nurses, my husband, the ultrasound. There was none of the "woosh, woosh, woosh" of that heartbeat that I so loved to hear. A nurse ran to get my doctor, she walked in to look at the screen and started screaming, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!"  I knew what her profanity meant.

And then I whispered my own, "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus." My Savior knew what I meant.

That was January 8, 2004. On the evening of January 9th, I held my first son. And then my mother who was at the end of a six-year battle with cancer came to meet her only grandson. She held him and sang to him and we cried until there were no tears left. (She joined her Creator and her grandson in heaven eight weeks later.)

When I was alone . . . I talked to God. 

You see, I'd known pain before that day. I had experienced loss. We had had 3 miscarriages, lost multiple beloved grandparents, weathered financial hardship, had moments of personal heartbreak. But this was different. It was too much. In my spiritual immaturity I had conjured up some kind of parameters of what could ever befall me in this fallen world. This exceeded them . . . by a lot. I stared at hospital ceiling tiles wondering if my Heavenly Father was listening and screamed, "But you said you would never give me more than I could handle!"

I had my grandmother's Bible in my hospital room (a story in itself), but no strength to pick it up. It didn't matter--the room was dark and my eyes were swollen shut from crying. My only comfort would come from Scripture I had memorized. 

And one of the passages was Psalm 23. Like any child raised in Sunday school, I knew it well. I got to "even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. . . . " The tears began to flow until I choked through to the end, "goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. . . "

Then I realized the 23rd Psalm didn't end in the valley, it always ends with His goodness and mercy! It was then I knew that the same was true for those who believed in Him. I knew He would carry me through this time because He promised joy would follow mourning, spring would follow winter, goodness would follow brokenness. And He promised He would never leave me.

And He hasn't. 

More of Luke's/Brady's story is here if you'd like to empty your box of Kleenex. So much happened in the days and months after our son's loss that never for a minute did I question the wisdom of His plan. So many beautiful things happened that year (and still do today) that I could not deny His presence or His love for me.

And so this morning I awoke knowing it was my son Luke's birthday. I won't lie--nine years later there are still tears. 

But I was hugged by my eight-year-old son Brady--our gift of goodness due exactly one year after our loss. Then greeted by Daniel--our gift of mercy through the miracle of adoption. I watched my oldest blessings help the younger ones and observed Miss Dimpled Cuteness navigate through the backpacks lined up at the door. I remember how my big girls gave me a reason to get out of bed during that very hard year and I see our bonus baby who makes me wake smiling now. I have a precious daughter who waits for us in China and know my cup runneth over. 

A chorus of kids calling me mom kept me from any moments of sadness. I dropped my big kids at school and Victoria and I returned home to take on the day.

One of my favorite songs came on the radio--Chris Tomlin's "Whom Shall I Fear." Victoria likes to "sing" along (think high-pitched Gregorian chant) and we both belted out "I know who goes before me, I know who stands behind. The God of angel armies, is always by my side." We must have been a sight at the red lights as we echoed the lyrics at the top of our lungs, "You are faithful, you are faithful, you are faithful."

I was grateful to have a very normal day in the life of an abnormal family. The kids are in bed and my eyelids are heavy, but I just couldn't let this day end without thanking God for His goodness and mercy. 

There are a lot of hurting people in this world. You might be one of them. I know many have loss so much greater than mine and pain that I can't imagine. But as a mom who once thought she was too broken to be whole again, I want you to know . . . 

HE NEVER LEAVES US IN THE VALLEY.

Much Love,

Kathie

Ready

Well, it looks like our tiny baby/anniversary gift is coming tonight!

I think I have two male readers (you are brave), so I'll try not to cross the line of too much information, but . . . read at your own risk.

I had my appointment with my high risk doc at 9:30 this morning fully expecting to be told to wait another week. He was thrilled to see that she was head down but there were still some concerns about her being small for her gestational age (which could indicate a problem with the cord or placenta) and wanted to move quickly to deliver since she was finally in the right position. He consulted with my regular docs and they were in agreement to induce as soon as possible.

So I went straight to Labor and Delivery at the hospital and they immediately started the drugs to induce. Well, a couple hours later my doc came to check on me and, after an external exam, seemed worried. They did another ultrasound and discovered she had turned again. She's now sideways and the cord is again over my cervix which can be fatal for the baby if my water breaks and makes it not possible to deliver her the old fashioned way. When he called my high risk doc and told him she had moved, it was funny. There was a very loud, "You've got to be kidding me" on the other end. Apparently she wins the prize for the most active baby they have seen.

He wanted to do a C-section immediately, but Brad had just brought me a romantic anniversary lunch from Chick-fil-a and they have to wait till the food is out of my system. So we have a scheduled C-section at 8:00 p.m. I have about 4 hours till I get to meet my baby girl! I'm sitting here in my hospital gown with a mix of nerves and excitement.

The most frequently asked question these past few week was, "Are you ready?" It's a simple question and since I haven't been able to cough, laugh, or sneeze without wetting my pants for some time now, my first response is always yes. But to be honest, I haven't been completely ready.

Yes, I'm so ready to hold her, to feed her, to study her sweet face and marvel at her tiny hands. I'm ready to bring her home and love on her and watch her siblings adore her. But as my pregnancy has progressed I've had to ask myself harder questions. Losing a child at 36 weeks
has changed the meaning of the question, "Are you ready?"

I've been asking myself, "Are you ready to deliver a baby who might not make it?" With recent concerns about possible birth defects, I've had to ask myself, "Are you ready to hold her and be told she has physical or developmental needs?"

My nurse just gave me the rundown on what would happen during the C-section and with it a whole new list of concerns. That I might not be able to hold her or see her after she is born. That she may have to spend some time in the NICU because she is 3 and a half weeks premature and may not even be 5 pounds. That this is major surgery and I might have complications of my own.

This kind of reminds me of how many were feeling a couple weeks ago when that man was predicting that the Rapture was going to happen. There were many reasons that kept me from believing it was true, and yet it made me ask myself "Are you ready?"

And again my first answer would be yes. Yes, I'm ready to see my Savior's face; ready to worship at His throne; ready to be reunited with my mother, my grandmother, my children who I will get to meet in heaven, and many other loved ones.

But then I felt conviction that I didn't do more. I spent much of my life surrounded by fellow believers and gave myself few opportunities to share my faith. I've had a lifelong passion to care for orphans, but only gave one a family. I have to admit when that Saturday came and went, I found myself with a renewed commitment to live radically for God.

So I sit here in a hospital room, waiting for the hours to play out with an ending that only my Heavenly Father knows. There's nothing but the sound of her heartbeat on the monitor as I give thanks for this precious little life and ask myself, "Are you ready?"

And you know what? I am.

Thanks for your continued love and prayers.

Surrendered to His Plan,
Kathie

Contractions

Made it through another week. A great week in many ways. A stressful week in many others.

The week before last my doctors appointments went well. The baby looked healthy, no signs of distress, no issues with the cord placement, and my amniotic fluid was within a more normal range.

This week showed some new concerns. The baby is fine but continues to do her Cirque du Soleil performances in utero. She prefers to be sideways or breech which is not popular with my healthcare providers this late in the pregnancy. My fluid is again in excess and, because of where the cord is, now I'm at great risk for cord prolapse and because of her continued movement there is concern about another cord accident.

Last Thursday my regular doctor treated me like I was a walking time bomb--asking me how quickly I could get to the hospital if my water broke and making me promise that if it did I wouldn't take a precious minute to call or even grab my suitcase. He said that if we can catch her head down at any time with the cord in a safe placement, they will go ahead and induce.

My next scheduled appointment is Monday morning with the specialist and then in the afternoon with my regular doctor. Monday is our 19 year wedding anniversary, so having our new baby girl in our arms would sure be a sweet gift. (Brad, you are off the hook on a romantic dinner out. Ice chips and an epidural will be fine.) But I know the docs at my specialist's office really want me to go another full week if there are no signs of her in distress (so I'd be 38 weeks), so I won't be surprised or disappointed if they send me home to let her cook a bit longer.

One thing they track often with my fetal non-stress tests is contractions. I have lots of them and have since I was 28 weeks. Just false labor that is a pain in the abdomen.

I've done this with all my pregnancies. When I was expecting Ava, I started having regular contractions at 30 weeks. They were every 4 minutes apart and strong. My doctors were sure it was the real thing and admitted me to the hospital and put me on all kinds of drugs. When they finally sent me home I was on strict bedrest, lots of meds, and drank enough water on a daily basis to fill a swimming pool. At 37 weeks they took me off the meds fully expecting her to be born within hours and . . . she ended up arriving three weeks later on her due date.

And so with subsequent pregnancies, I've kind of just ignored them. It's just my body crying wolf, every 4 to 5 minutes. (Apparently there's a correlation between my excess of fluid and the frequency/strength of the contractions.) My husband will see me holding my belly in obvious pain and ask if we need to go to the hospital and I will simply answer, "No, but I could use a hot fudge sundae and a foot massage." (Hey, I'm going to milk this for all it's worth.)

As I have these contractions, I can't help but see how much they mirror the contractions of life.

Real contractions can be scary the first time you experience them. I remember the first time I felt those muscles tighten like a boa constrictor around my waist. It was something I'd never felt before and frankly it freaked me out. As my pregnancy progressed I realized that the contractions only got stronger and lasted longer. By the end I realized these early contractions were nothing compared to the ones that left me breathless and speechless and doubled over in pain. And it's these contractions that precede the birth of something amazing.

In the same way, I've had a lifetime of different kinds of emotional and spiritual "contractions." Small trials, disappointments, detours in life. At the time I thought they were the real thing. I thought the pain couldn't get any worse. I thought it was too much to bear. But soon I realized that this was just practice labor. That my broken heart could mend. That the sun would rise the next day. That the world didn't come to an end.

It's hard to watch my children experience "contractions." Last week my kids finished school. Our sweet Christian school only goes through 8th grade and Olivia will be starting over next year in high school. She hurts leaving her dear friends and teachers and school that has been home for so long. She's feeling contractions as she faces the unknowns of what is ahead. While I know these contractions are so small compared to what she will deal with later in life, I know they are very real right now, very uncomfortable, and very scary.

Daniel also experienced contractions last week. He came home on the last day of school and wept all over his lunch. It hit him all of a sudden that his precious teacher wouldn't be going to 3rd grade with him next year. He doesn't think his teacher or group of classmates will ever be as wonderful as it was this year and he is grieving. It was such a sweet year in his life that I wish I could rewind it and play it over for him, especially after him having so many years that I wish I could erase. He has already had to deal with contractions far worse, yet this pain is very real to him as well.

When my children experience these contractions and they tell me how much it hurts and they cry in my arms, all I can do is remind them that God is good and He has a wonderful plan for their lives. This is big talk from a woman who is having contractions--literally and figuratively. I don't like the pain of uncertainty. I have moments of worry that this baby might not be okay. I have doubts as I wonder if I can be a good mom to five children.

In my mind I know that the most painful contractions of all are the ones that strengthened my faith and poured out such blessings in my life. I remember that as horrible as it was to watch my mother battle cancer, because of her faith through that trial she left a legacy that will continue for generations. I remember that as heartbreaking as it was to lose our first son, that tragedy truly changed the course of our lives and such goodness and mercy has come from it that we would not have otherwise experienced.

And yet, I still want to walk through life with an epidural. I want to be exempt from hard times and I want my family to be as well. And that's when I have to remember God's faithfulness and remind myself that "God is good and He has a wonderful plan for my life." I surrender to that truth as I face the uncertainty of the week ahead.

It's almost Sunday here in Georgia, so I'm going to go ahead a post a "Sunday Dinner" for the week. My favorite scripture about contractions is:

"Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds,
because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. . . .

Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him. " James 1:2-3, 12, NIV

The "dessert" of song is one of my favorites right now. It's "Blessings" by Laura Story--she's one of my all-time favorite artists and sings at the church that is part of our children's school. Her lyrics so beautifully sum up what God has been trying to teach me for many years.

May you remember God's faithfulness and goodness during your own times of trials and "contractions."

Much Love,

Kathie

P.S. I'm having trouble posting comments on other blogs! For a couple weeks, when I log in to leave a comment it lists me as anonymous, then when I try to leave the comment it disappears. It seems to be a problem with Blogger. If anyone knows how to fix it let me know. Thanks!

The Goodness and Mercy of Motherhood

Forgive me for my unplanned bloggy sabbatical. All is well here. We've just been busy with life and my 40+ pregnant body has just enough energy to accomplish the basics . . . if even that. At the end of each day I have plans to write about what's going on in our lives, yet can't seem to keep my eyes open. But I have missed you all TREMENDOUSLY!

I have months of catching up to do--posting of birthday photos, Easter celebrations, poetry and ballet recitals, and everyday happenings in our crazy family. God has been so good to us these past few months. Not only is He weaving this new life inside me, He's weaving a beautiful story in our family. Perhaps the day I am the most grateful for His goodness and mercy in my life is Mother's Day.

I'll never forget 15 years ago sitting in church as they recognized the mothers in attendance. It had been a tough year. I had had three miscarriages, one after the other. A never-ending roller coaster of hope followed by grief.

The pastor asked all the mothers to stand and a round of applause followed. I remained seated--fighting back tears. Although I felt alone in my pain, I knew there were others who had a mother's heart but no children. Others who had lost children, those who were battling infertility, those who were still waiting to find a spouse so they could start a family.

I prayed for goodness and mercy to follow, in my life and in the lives of those who remained seated but ached to be standing. God answered my prayer and the following Mother's Day I held Olivia, just a few weeks old, in my arms.

Now 15 years later, I celebrate and marvel and laugh at how God has blessed us with biological and adopted children. I'm so grateful to have the gifts of my two daughters, my two sons, and this baby girl who will be born in a few weeks. I rejoice in knowing God isn't finished with us yet. And I pray for those who are still waiting for God's goodness and mercy.

This morning I sat in church, surrounded by my precious assortment of children in small, medium, and large with a fifth one doing a tap dance on my bladder during the praise and worship music. And I was grateful.

I was grateful for the children I have the privilege to parent on earth and grateful for the four blessings that I will some day meet in heaven. Grateful for the ridiculous number of handmade cards I received today and for the love that made them.

(This is my favorite because they worked on it together.)



I'm grateful for my amazing mother. Although she died 7 years ago, she still inspires and encourages me. I'm grateful for my grandmothers whose legacy of faith has been passed down from generation to generation. And I'm grateful for all the precious mothers in my life now--mothers by marriage and mothers through friendship. What a blessing you all are to me.

I hope you also had a very special Mother's Day. May you see His goodness and mercy in your life--today and every day.

Much Love,
Kathie

Sweetly Broken

We live in a world where things that are broken are worthless. In our disposable society, broken items are quickly tossed instead of being repaired. And even the very definition of "broken" is stretched to include things that don't perform as we would like or are outdated.

Sadly, the same holds true for people. Society dictates that we must be perfect. Not just healthy, but beautiful. Not just smart, but brilliant. And anyone who is "broken" must be fixed. And those who cannot be fixed should be thrown away. Thus the tragic statistic that 90 percent of babies who have Down Syndrome or other chromosomal "abnormalities" are aborted. Thus the heartbreaking reality that orphanages are full of special needs and older children who wait for families.

As we started this new adoption, we weren't sure about much. We weren't sure what country we would adopt from, what age child, what gender. Our only certainty was that this child would be, by the world's definition, broken.

We completed a check-list of needs we would consider. We talked at length with our other children about the possibility of having a child in our home who may never walk, or see our faces, or hear our voices, or live to adulthood. Needs that several years ago would have overwhelmed us are now needs that we are prayerfully considering.

We are different today because we understand the blessing of brokenness. It happened in the year 2004 with the loss of our first son then the loss of my mom. I had known brokenness before, but not to that extent. My level of hurt prior to that year rendered me "walking wounded." But the pain of 2004 completely crippled me to where I wasn't sure if I'd ever be whole again.

But that was the year that the Almighty Shepherd scooped me up and carried me upon the safety of His shoulders. Just like the beautiful illustrations I had seen as a child, I felt like that lamb draped around my Savior's neck. It was then that I was able to see that being broken hadn't brought me to a place of hopelessness, but a place of privilege.

When I think of the dearest people I know, there is usually a chapter in their life that they were carried by their Heavenly Father during a time of profound brokenness. Some of the most inspiring people who have walked the earth have endured times of trial yet glorified God through their brokenness caused by life-altering illness, the horrors of a concentration camp, religious persecution, and family tragedy. Every hero of the faith--that I've known personally or read about in history--seems to have spent much of their life in full surrender to the One who can heal every wound.

So perhaps that's why we've been so excited as we do the paperwork for this adoption and see our homestudy written to approve us to adopt a child with special needs. I can't wait to see what God has planned for the life of this child and feel honored to be able to witness His healing hand at work and His sovereign plan unfold.

The verse I'm meditating on this week (sorry I didn't get it posted in time for Sunday Dinner) is:

"The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous and his ears are attentive to their cry;

The face of the Lord is against those who do evil, to cut off the memory of them from the earth.

The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles.

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit."

Psalm 34:15-18, NIV

This week's dessert of song is Jeremy Riddle's "Sweetly Broken."

May we remember the One who was sweetly broken for us. (One of my first posts about brokenness and Christ's love for us is here.)

Beautifully Broken,
Kathie

Mom's Last Words

Okay. I'm going to fess up. Tomorrow I'm having a birthday that starts with a 4 and ends with an 0 (or perhaps that should be an "oh no"). Really, I'm handling this aging thing just fine. (It's my kids growing up that I struggle with.) I think I'm just so very grateful for every year God blesses me with that birthdays are a victory, not a defeat.

When I think about Christ's life--that His ministry didn't really begin till he was about 30 years old (Luke 3:23) and only lasted about 3 years--it humbles and convicts me that I've been granted 39 years and 364 days (hey, I'm not owning up to my new digits till it's official). What have I done and what am I doing that will really matter for eternity? I think that's my "mid-life crisis." I'm not feeling regret about the years past but urgency for the years ahead.

Today I'm going to share about an item in my Memorial Box. It's an item that represents one thing that is significantly shaping the second half of my life. It was my mother's last words to me March 10, 2004 after a long battle with cancer.

I've shared this story with close friends. (I included it in the 2006 Christmas letter and plan to eventually post them all here, but I feel kind of silly sharing December stories in June.) By the way, Memorial Box Monday was started by Linny at A Place Called Simplicity. Click on the bloggy button below to read her precious stories (the one she posted today is one of my favorites) and link to other wonderful stories of God's faithfulness and provision.








Deep breath. Here goes. (There should probably Kleenex warning with this one.)

Few things have impacted my life more than my mother's last words. In her last hours, I curled up in bed with her. I sang to her, read scripture to her, reminisced with her. It was painful to be with her--because she was in such pain and her face was so thin and jaundice that it hardly resembled the woman who had been my mother. Yet it was painful to be away from her knowing every minute could be the last this side of heaven. It had also been only eight weeks since the loss of our son (that story is here) and I needed my mom more than she needed me.

A few days before going to be with the Lord she said something precious to me and my sister. She said, "The best thing I ever did for you girls was to marry your father." This was in the midst of my dad taking care of her. He said it was a privilege to care for her in her last days so she could have her wish of dying at home. What a blessing it was to see their love for each other right to the end.

But it was what she said to just me in those last hours that were life-changing. She was barely able to talk at this point and I knew these golden moments with her were few. I'll never forget she turned to me and--although her voice was barely above a whisper, she spoke as if she was screaming from a mountaintop. Each word its own sentence: "Make. Your. Life. Matter!"

I didn't know what to think. Of course, in my world as a wife and mom I did my best to make my life matter, so why was she telling me this? Then I looked at her withered body and saw a tear spill down the side of her face. Then, I realized why she said it. She never thought her life mattered.

Although she was a talented pianist, she never played at Carnegie Hall. Although she was beautiful, she was never on the cover of a magazine. Although she was a hard worker, she never earned a high-paying salary. Although she spent her life serving others, her passing would not be front page news.

One advantage to losing a loved one to a long illness is that you get the chance to say thanks and I love you. We had already told her so many times what a blessing she was and, although it seemed ridiculously redundant, I knew I needed to tell her one more time how much she mattered. As I searched my heart for the right words, I thought about my Savior. I thought about how His ministry began when He was about 30 which means that most of his life may have been spent as a carpenter, teacher, a son, a friend.

Some might wonder why the Son of God "squandered" so many years doing such everyday things that there's little record of His life between His birth and His baptism. But maybe it's those years of "growing in wisdom and stature and in favor with God and man" (Luke 2:52) that make our life matter and prepare us for greater things. And by Christ's example, we should understand that a life of surrender, service, and uncelebrated sacrifices is more important than a life of great achievement and recognition.

Then it occurred to me that my mother had not missed her calling. Her piano concert hall was our church's sanctuary. Her audience of dignitaries was a dozen elderly people at the nursing home calling out their favorite hymns for her to play each week when she visited.

She was never more beautiful than when she was bald--refusing to let her cancer rob her of her radiance--never more triumphant than when she walked down the runway for a breast cancer survivor fashion show. She was the CEO of making others feel special, of making every day feel like a party, of being the first to meet the needs of others and the last to take credit for it.

And so I did my best to articulate to her how much she mattered to me, to others, and to her Heavenly Father. But I knew my words would soon seem trite, for in just hours she would hear her Creator say, "Well done, good and faithful servant." With tears flowing down my face, I ended our last conversation with: "Don't ever forget that there's a difference between a life wasted and a life given."

That was not only the day that my mother told me to make sure that I lived a life that mattered, but it was also the day that I really understood God's definition of what that truly meant.

So I have this in my Memorial Box.




Next to this.



Words spoken by my mother. Defined by my Heavenly Father. Lived beautifully, perfectly, sacrificially by my Savior.

Thank you, Merciful Father, for every day granted. May I use each moment to glorify you.

Thirty-Something for a Few More Hours,
Kathie