Chesed

2020

By Michelle January 6, 2020 life 4 Comments

I often wonder why I don’t just walk away from this space. There are so many things I’ve kissed goodbye in the name of motherhood. There just isn’t time and space and discipline and enough brain cells to do it all. But I can’t quite let go.

Maybe because even though it doesn’t translate through my fingers, the words still run through my head, begging for release. Sometimes to help me process thoughts. Sometimes simply to remember this life we live.

And before that paragraph was even finished, Harrison cried. An air bubble interrupted his nap and his little hands reached for me, the symbol of comfort. We rocked back and forth as the sun set. Two big baby burps erupted into the cozy air of the bedroom as his body lay snuggled between the blanket and my chest.

And that is why there are half a dozen drafts in the folder. Just like this one, I have no idea where they were going. Paragraphs giving me vivid memories of the days they were written. The unwritten paragraphs and the life that prompted them lost in the abyss of rocking, feeding, diapering, and settling squabbles.

I wouldn’t trade these snuggling moments for the world.

Zuppa Toscana

By Michelle January 5, 2020 recipes 1 Comment

This has become one of our family’s favorite soups to eat. Coupled with an Olive Garden style salad (don’t forget that freshly shredded Parmesan), and crusty artisan bread dipped in herbs and oil, it’s a regular feast. I love that I can easily make it dairy free by substituting coconut milk for the cream and that I can get an enormous amount of kale into our bellies without complaint. David and the boys love that it has bacon in it. Basically it’s a winner all the way around. It’s so flavorful and comforting which is just the perfect thing for those winter nights that leave you feeling a little cold around the edges.

Zuppa Toscana

1/2 pack bacon, cut into bite size pieces

1 lb Italian sausage

1 T. minced garlic (or more if you’re like me)

1 large onion diced

4 medium yellow potatoes, diced into bite size pieces

4 c. chicken broth

1/2 tsp crushed red pepper flakes

1 tsp salt

1/2 tsp pepper

1 T red wine vinegar

1 tsp dried parsley

1 tsp dried basil

1 pinch dried oregano

1/2 bunch kale (remove stems and chop)

3/4-1 c. heavy whipping cream OR 1 can coconut milk

Fry the sausage and set aside to drain. Fry the bacon, onion, and garlic. I keep some of the bacon grease to add flavor, but if the bacon you are using is pretty fatty you will want to drain off some of it. Return the sausage to the pot and add the chicken broth, potatoes, vinegar, and seasonings. Cook until the potatoes are soft. Add the kale. Stir and simmer just until wilted. I like when it still has a touch of crunch, but if I want it to slide down the girl’s throats without complaint I cook it until it’s soft. Add the cream or coconut milk whichever you are using and turn off the heat.

Lift your spoon to your mouth and feel your whole body exhale. It’s actually that good.

Our Precious Baby

By Michelle March 23, 2019 baby, Harrison 18 Comments

03.16.19

I’m sitting here with a precious baby boy sleeping in his Moses basket next to me. It’s hard to fathom that exactly a week ago I was in so much pain and discomfort I got desperate enough to take castor oil and headed downstairs to play ping pong with the boys in hopes that we could somehow get to see this sweet child’s face. After my disastrous and highly nonprofitable results with Adam I’d vowed I’d never, ever touch a bottle of castor oil again. Turns out I had no idea how to take it back then.

The ping pong was pretty much a failure on ping pong terms. Did you ever try to play when you pretty much can’t walk, are having mild contractions, and the bathroom is upstairs? I didn’t win. I bet that surprised you.

The first dose of castor oil made me feel hopeful. I walked and walked around the house, went up and down the stairs as I could, and walked some more. The second and third dose were a bit meh. And by 6:45 that evening I realized it wasn’t going to work. Aside from the fact that my uterus felt much more toned and baby felt a bit lower, I couldn’t get any positive action. I was sad, but resigned. I mean nothing else had worked. Not eating six dates a day for six weeks. Not eating an entire raw pineapple. Not any of many things. I was exhausted and had turned into “that woman.” You know, the one who really has to have Noodles and Company right now; but it’s too far away and so she compromises for a chicken salad croissant from Jacks Shop Kitchen. I don’t envy David his role in this gig.

I gave the girls baths and helped them get to bed. The boys asked hopefully yet again what percentage of chance he’d come that night and I said less than 50 because there was zero action. At 11:30 as I was crawling into our bed I got hit with three contractions that were harder than the ones in the afternoon and I waddled around the bedroom hopefully with no luck. So I crawled into bed and fell asleep. At 12:30 my water broke and I got hit with a hard contraction. David sat up with a shot and I went to the bathroom only to feel quite uncertain. No more fluid. A few puny, irregular contractions. I voxed my doula… just in case … and David started grabbing the last two or three things we needed… just in case. We’d been packed for weeks. Literally. I’d been living out of my cosmetic bag because when labor hits, there is typically no time to pack. Looking back I keep wondering why I was so worried about an incredibly long labor because of his position and simultaneously preparing for a fast one? I was packed. I stayed in touch with our sitter a lot. I even thought through what to wear to go to the hospital in case I delivered in the car and kept old receiving blankets to take along in case it happened. So strange. I’ve never done either of those last two before. I was terrified of a roadside delivery with the girls because of how far we lived from the hospital. Maybe having a thirty-five minute drive helped me believe it wouldn’t happen this time. Maybe I wasn’t worried because this time our entire route would only be minutes from emergency help as opposed to stuck on a barren interstate. But I was super worried about the fact that David is working far from home and it would take him an hour to get here once I said the word.

So there I was trying to figure out if this was labor or just prodromal stuff like usual for ten minutes. It definitely seemed like amniotic fluid but there wasn’t much of it (he had a tiny pocket of fluid in front of his head and must have blocked off the rest after that broke) and it had some mild staining. Ten minutes later I was pretty sure we were going in so David took things downstairs to load and called the doctor. My doula said she was heading in to meet us. By the time David got back upstairs there was no question I was in active labor. I said I couldn’t get dressed. He is the most cool, calm, collected person I know; but goodness can he find his bossy voice when I’m in labor. In no uncertain terms he said, “Yes, you can get dressed.”

By the time I was dressed I could hardly move. He went to wake the boys to let them know what was happening and Liam happily crawled into our bed so Bella wouldn’t find it empty in the morning while I leaned over it Gregorian chanting, “Help me, Jesus,” through the hardest contraction yet. We walked out into the hallway and I took one sinking look at the flight of stairs. This baby was coming sooner rather than later and we all know what happens when you walk down steps. I made it 2/3 of the way down and had to sit through another one. A few steps more and we were in the dining room.

A few more steps. Another contraction. A stare down at the van. It was forty degrees and raining. David reclined the seat and I crawled onto it on my knees hugging the seat back with my arms. He took off and drove as fast as he dared. The rain made it unsafe to push things too far. The curves on the first road were almost unbearable. After that it was a straight shot, but we must have hit half the lights red. I couldn’t see because I was riding backward; but finally said, “You’re going to have to blow through those red lights.”

“I’m trying,” he said, “but there are cars at some of them and I can’t.” Those were excruciating. The baby was moving down so fast and every time David would accelerate at a light it threw my body backward the same time my body was trying to push a baby forward. Three fourths of the way through our twenty-two minute ride I said, “he’s coming.” Then another little pocket of fluid popped and I screamed. “Breathe, dear,” he said as he kept racing. I couldn’t even talk to tell him it wasn’t the contraction but just the crazy intensity of the moment. From then on instinct over. I started prepping. The contractions were insane even though they gave me space between them and I could literally feel my cervix stretch two to three centimeters during one of them as his head pushed through. At some point David said, “Do we need to stop?” but I said, “Just keep going.” I started pushing a little and then questioned myself. What if I wasn’t fully dilated? I tried to blow through the next one and then let go and decided to trust my body. What else was there to do? It was totally taking over anyway. I felt him crowning. David swerved up in front of the emergency room doors and threw the van into park.

The instant his door slammed I got the mother of all contractions and my body pushed his head three fourths of the way out while I let loose the most primal scream on earth. I felt myself feeling sorry for the baby’s ears; but I was powerless to stop. It’s a strange thing, the way birth takes over and you feel everything so acutely and simultaneously feel like a spectator to your own body. The contraction was over and when it stopped I felt so sorry for him being in such an uncomfortable place that I gently pushed his head the rest of the way out. I reached down and held it. I’ll never forget that moment. It was so perfectly shaped and wet and warm and I could feel his head full of hair. I wondered if the cord was wrapped around his neck? There was nothing to do but trust my body and his and God. There was no knowing.

Meanwhile David had rushed in and told the security guard his wife is having a baby. “Can she use a wheelchair?” the guard asked. “Uh, I think she’s having the baby in the car.” The guard looked highly flustered so David ran on in and said, “My wife is having a baby in the car.” That got some immediate action!

David pulled open my door and I felt the rush of cold air. “Close the door,” I heard myself saying, “the baby is going to get cold. Get in on the other side.” This is where I wish I could change the script. I wish so much I’d have had the presence of mind to tell him to grab the blankets behind me. He could have caught the baby and that would have been THE coolest story ever. But I was in full baby protection mode and didn’t have a single other thought in my brain. All I could think was that there was a very wet baby’s head and that air was going to freeze him to death. He closed the door and seconds later it opened again as an entire crowd of ER staff crowded around.

A doctor with the most gentle voice I’ve ever heard put her hand on my back and said, “Good job, Mama. You are doing this perfectly.” The strangest feelings ran through me when she said that. One, I realized it was the first moment since David held my hand walking to the car that I’d felt human touch. I hadn’t realized I felt alone until that moment. David is the best labor coach; and this time he was equally present and involved but we ran like parallel tracks. Both of us super focused because our roles were so intense and important. We were together, but apart. It took me until four days later to realize I missed that feeling of togetherness and the way it bonds you to fight through those layers of pain together until that moment of victory when they lay a wet baby on your chest and your eyes meet with laughter and tears. Two, who in the world looks at that mess and crazy timing and says you are doing this perfectly? She does. In the past few weeks women from all over have reached out hands and words in the most incredible support and it has stirred something deep inside of me. It feels as though I’ve been given a vision of what it looks like when women really support each other. It’s so incredibly beautiful.

“The head is birthed. I need suction.” I handed my huge fuzzy blanket out the door behind me and heard her ask, “What do you want me to do with that?”

“Keep the baby warm.” Apparently I’m even bossy with ER staff.

“We have warm blankets,” she said in that same calm, gentle voice.

And just like that the next contraction hit and the rest of him slid into the world. It sounds like a long time when I’m writing it; but from the time she opened my door until he was out was probably thirty seconds. I never knew until the next day if he hit the van seat or she caught him because I wasn’t prepared for the force of his ejection and my hand didn’t begin to catch him. Exactly one hour and five minutes after my water first broke.

I didn’t hear him cry. I just heard her saying, “Did someone bring a scissors?” I was still in full on homebirth have to get a list of supplies for the midwife mode and caught myself answering no before I realized she was talking to the rest of the staff. I saw the top of that same sweet, black haired head. I watched her do a tiny sternal rub. I saw her standing in the forty degree drizzle and I just kept saying, “Is he ok? Keep him warm.” I heard him cry just a little.

They cut the cord, rushed him inside, and I walked to stretcher, cord still dangling.

It felt like an eternity until they brought him upstairs but was really only a few minutes. And still, all I could see was the top of his sweet little head as his tiny body tried to get warm under the lights. My doula was waiting for me and I’m still sad she missed the birth. If I’d have thought to let her know we’re going in through the ER she’d have been able to jump in the van with me the second we got there.

So many what ifs. And yet, it all feels strangely perfect. I look back in awe at the fact that after the months of crippling anxiety, I was able to birth completely without fear, even though it was so far from what we expect birth to look like. (I credit this largely to the many, many prayers for me and in particular a small group of women who really became the voice of intercession for me.) Because my pregnancy was so much harder, I fought the belief that my body must be too old to do it well and assumed maybe it wouldn’t be able to do labor and delivery well either. Obviously that wasn’t an issue! Back when I first got pregnant and felt so incredibly overwhelmed, I kept hearing God say, “You are capable of more than you think. I believe in you.” And now in retrospect, I see that same message in his car birth and the way I was completely alone in the toughest moment of a delivery. There are a million feelings surrounding this child and this birth; but the ones that make me weep are the ones that showcase the way God has used his coming to heal places in my soul I didn’t realize were broken.

I often think about the verse that says “she shall be saved in childbearing.” I wonder what all God meant by that, especially because not every woman gives physical birth. But I do know that childbearing has been a deeply spiritual process for me. It redefines your soul in the days and weeks of reshaping your body.

Late Sunday afternoon the same ER doctor came up to say hello. She was as lovely as I remembered from the night before and it was such an incredible gift to ask her more details. She stroked Harrison’s head as she told me her side of the story. “You were so quiet,” she said. “I put my hands down and just like that he was out.” I found it so comforting to know he landed in someone’s hands and not on the seat; but I completely dissolved into tears with her next sentence. She smiled down at his little body cradled in her arms and said, “I told him I loved him. When I got back inside to the triage nurse I looked at him and said, ‘I love you’.” I can’t think of a better way to be born than to fall into the hands of someone who knows the language of love.

Harrison Chan, your story has felt remarkable from the beginning. I’ve called you my kingdom baby from the time I knew you existed. I can’t believe we get to be the ones to love you and call you our son. You are so loved. So wanted. The most delightful surprise gift from God we could ever imagine.

Today’s Prayer

By Michelle March 1, 2019 baby, life 3 Comments

It’s almost time. I can feel it physically and in the restlessness.

Thanks to a few sweet friends who have spoken powerful words of blessing over me I’ve been trying to visualize what I would love for labor to be like and to pray for them to come to pass.

I long for

strength

peace

worship

a profound sense of God’s presence

along with the typical minute by minute prayers for God to keep baby and I safe.

You would think that by the fifth time this would all come so naturally; but it doesn’t.

I’m also trying to remember everything my childbirth instructor said almost fifteen years ago.

What do you do to prepare yourself for labor? Any favorite tips for before or during?

When I was thinking about the words I wanted to identify labor the other day, God gave me this verse. I’ve been repeating it to myself almost hourly ever since.

She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come. Proverbs 31:25

Custom Onesies

By Michelle March 1, 2019 baby, life, Works For Me Wednesday No Comments

Etsy is full of the most adorable little printed onesies. With the girls, I discovered this was one of my go to outfits. They’re so easy to put on, soft and comfortable, and they can be paired with little leggings for the cutest outfits. Unfortunately, the custom ones can run you $30 a pop depending where you shop and that’s not even including shipping. Obviously you could just wear a plain white onesie. There is something so classic and precious about a newborn in a simple white onesie. And probably in thirty years they’ll be the pictures with holding powers because you know how trends look in twenty years.

But if you want to have a little fun like I did, here’s a heads up on how to do your own. I made a few simple designs in photoshop elements. Any program that lets you do design will work. I love word art so most of mine are words or include words. Or you could download free printable designs online to use.

Once you have the design completed, print it on iron on transfer paper. One of the most important things to remember is to flip the design! I can do this when I’m printing but if you can’t you will need to reverse your words in the design otherwise it will read backward!

I found the ironing instructions to be a bit overkill and scorched a few things before I figured it out. The paper comes with instructions and they’re important. I learned the hard way! I had my share of designs that peeled right off and scorched little items so if you don’t get it the first time keep trying! A few tips, listen when they say not to use your ironing board. It’s not hard enough. I use my kitchen island since it’s granite and can tolerate heat and throw a pillowcase on top. You could also use a cookie sheet on top of your counter. Make sure there isn’t any water in the iron so there isn’t any steam.

Because the designs are small and my iron is really hot, I didn’t need as much time as the instructions said. I did more like six to seven second passes instead of 20 seconds and didn’t iron for as long total as they suggested. The iron should be really hot and you want to use lots of pressure. When I did some for Bella I didn’t use enough pressure and they cracked almost right away. Let it cool for one minute and peel and wa la!

They’re so much fun! I even printed out some big sister decals for the girls.

I’ll be really curious to see how this batch holds up. I had trouble with Bella’s when I needed to soak them. Not great when you have spitty babies. Have you tried these? Any tips to share with the rest of us?

Happy nesting, mamas!

PS: Did you know the reason for those envelope type shoulders are so you can pull the onesie down instead of up over their heads? How did I not know that until I had the girls????? My babies have so many blowouts that go up to their shoulder blades and I always cringed at pulling it up over their heads!

Quips and Quotes from the Girls

By Michelle February 23, 2019 Bella, Girl Quotes, Zara No Comments

There are so many funny things the girls say right now and I’m going to wish I’d have written down way more of them! They’re in the sweetest stage of a growing vocabulary and growing understanding of the world coupled with some big brother influence that should make a parent’s eyes grow wide.

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The boys love to see which of them can most quickly identify a song and the artist so it shouldn’t have come as such a suprise one day when Bella popped up and walked toward the iPad. “Dat’s Tis Tomnin,” (Chris Tomlin) she said. Funnier yet, she was right!

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Another day she looked at me and said, “I stubbed my toes.” I poured on some condolences and not two minutes later she said, “Not weally. I was dust faking.”

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At dinnertime she wanted to pray and began with this, “Dear Dod, fank ‘ou fo’ me and me and me.” I can’t think of a better way to describe her current world perspective. 😉

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Another day she emphatically announced. “Some daddies have bea’ds. (beards) But our daddy doesn’t have a bea’d. Dust a tin (chin) and ‘pots (spots).

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Zara was sitting on the diaper changing pad observing the print on it’s cover. “How did they make such a perfect triangle?”

Bella: “God did it with wood.”

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One day we found the cutest blankets at Target. “Oh, Zara,” I said, “Wouldn’t these be cute for our baby?”

Zara: “Oh, I just can’t resist!”

Completely taken aback by her choice of words I burst out laughing.

She looked a bit puzzled. “What does that even mean?”

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My Valentines ideas all fell apart because I simply couldn’t physically bring them to pass. David saved the day and picked up takeout and brought everyone a little gift. The girls were so, so thrilled with their balloons! But what I most want to remember about the day is the way Bella deliberately wrote out her “Happy Lemontines Day” cards and played with her “Happy Lemontines” balloon.

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Zara and Bella were both in bed with me one morning and wiggling and crawling all oooooooooover the place.

“You need to calm down. I’m afraid you will fall out of bed.”

Zara: “Oh, Mama, we don’t fall out of bed. We’re experts.”

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Bella is tolerating dairy like a champ by all appearances, but every once in a while her digestive system can produce some gas that would rival jake brakes on a semi. One night at the dinner table as a particularly long rumble happened I queried, “Bella, do you have a poo poo?”

Bella: “No. Dat was dust my diape’ talking.”

Blessed Be Your Name

By Michelle February 22, 2019 baby, life 12 Comments

These are the days I hardly know how to put words to.

The last few weeks have been so hard. So, so hard.

They’ve been excruciating physically; but even more, they’ve been a mountain emotionally.

In retrospect, I’m choosing to look back and call them weeks of healing instead of weeks of anguish. What essentially fleshed out as sky-high anxiety that morphed into deep, can’t get out of bed, can’t stop crying depression also fleshed out as serious soul searching and an uprooting of deeply seated shame.

I am forever grateful. For my sweet friend, Jeannine, who met me in the Target parking lot to do a quick drop off. Our interaction should have taken two minutes and instead, she took one look into my eyes, hugged me, and prayed over me. When she finished she said, “Michelle, is this physical or emotional?” And suddenly all the words I’d not been able to utter to anyone came tumbling out. She didn’t say much. She just listened. Spoke a few powerful words of deep truth and direction. And then she hugged me again and sent me on my way, but the cycle to healing had been set in motion. Outside in a parking lot next to the clothing drop off bins. You never know when or where Jesus is going to work through His people.

A few days later my sister asked me how I was doing a bit more insistently. She’d been asking. I just hadn’t answered and circumvented the subject. But that day was the darkest of the dark and she didn’t quit. I typed between sobs and finally got to where I could talk.

That night David and I decided to switch from our current home birth plan with a midwife to an OB/GYN and hospital birth. I was not feeling safe and realizing how much the anxiety was stemming from that single factor. But it took those two conversations for me to realize truth.

I made the decision to home birth for a few surfacey reasons (one of them being able to hopefully avoid antibiotics for group B strep) and for a much deeper, shame based reason I never told anyone. But mostly, I made it because I was running away from something, not toward something.

It ended up being a terrible fit for me. But instead of realizing it, I kept trying to power through. I thought the anxiety was my fault. That God was trying to teach me how to let go of control and trust. I was convinced if I could just give up my need to control, I could learn to trust Him and it would all be fine. But instead of me being able to work through my fears, my anxiety skyrocketed.

God kept giving me words like, “I shall not die but live and declare the works of the Lord,” as I lay in the darkness. Over and over I read verses like, “When you walk through the fire, I will deliver you.” I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was up against something life threatening. I was terrified of losing our baby even though most of the verses seemed to be about my life. Finally one morning I was convinced I just needed to get out of Isaiah so I randomly flipped to Psalms expecting to see words of praise. Instead the words were so similar it was uncanny.

That week as we talked it over and decided to transition, the anxiety began to fade away like the morning fog when the sun burns through it. Over and over, I caught myself letting out enormous exhalations and the muscles in my upper back loosened.

The only problem was, I was 35 weeks gestation and when I called the office where I’d delivered the boys I couldn’t even get past the receptionist. The next office said I should send records for them to review and they’d call me back if a dr approved me (they never did). Had it not been for a friend from nursing school who knows all the L&D people and who sent texts to my Dr every hour begging him to take me, I would probably still be stuck. She’s the biggest advocate for women I’ve ever seen and this isn’t even close to the first time she has helped me out, just because that’s who she is.

Over and over as I told people about our decision, I heard words of profound affirmation. They came from my hospital birthing friends and my home birthing friends. The one person I wasn’t going to tell was my homebirthed her four kids, somewhat anti-medical chiropractor. At the very next appointment she’d barely started working on me when she asked, “What did you decide about delivery?” Nothing like point blank. So I told her. “I’m so relieved,” she said. “Pregnant women need to listen to their bodies. You weren’t feeling safe and I felt really anxious about you trying a home birth. I told _____ (her secretary) that you are planning a home birth and I just feel really anxious about the outcome if you go ahead with it. I can see and feel the difference in your body.”

Meanwhile, baby boy moved into a better position in utero within hours of our decision.

I’ve always known our bodies and brains are connected, but the astronomical difference was mind blowing. I started sleeping most nights instead of spending most of them awake. The intense fear of death and the constant verses about walking through fire ended. And even before I told anyone about our decision, friends started pouring out blessing after blessing on us. I looked at David in disbelief. “Where is all of this coming from? It feels as though God simply opened up the kingdom of heaven to confirm his approval. Because probably if this would have happened earlier, I would have been sure it’s a sign I should keep pushing through.”

I’ve learned so much in these past few months. While I wish our sweet baby would not have needed to be privy to the cortisol load coursing through my body, I refuse to feel shame for being such a slow learner. As my chiropractor would say, “Don’t read that script.”

I’ve learned (again) that my default can be to assume the toughest option will always be what God wants. I know exactly where it’s coming from; but it’s taken a lot of healing and rewiring to realize He is a God of so much grace, love, and mercy. While it’s true that we are always needing to learn more, He sees me as valuable, intelligent, capable of making a good decision, and worthy. This is not the default script that runs through my head. I’m guessing I’m not the only one who struggles with a shame based mentality, am I right? Over and over I wonder what would get unleashed if we lived out of who God sees us as without holdbacks?

(Cannot wait to get rid of those compression hose once and for all.)

I learned that it is very, very important for women to get health care and birth where they are comfortable. This is not about the importance of hospitals, but about being where you feel safe. Feeling that level of anxiety made me understand women who feel that kind of anxiety about a hospital birth. It is a real thing. And you are not just going to mentally power through it. This may not even look the same for different births. It’s very possible that you will do one delivery one place and feel more comfortable with another in a subsequent pregnancy; but listen to your body!

And I learned again the incredible power of women speaking into each other’s lives. In the Target parking lot. Across voxer. At church. In Facebook messenger. The power of being fully present … enough to help someone understand their own heart … is the power of community. It’s where truth is revealed and healing happens.

Now here we are, a little over two weeks later.

I’m dealing with the normal trepidation about labor and delivery, but the overarching anxiety is gone.

Physically I’m so uncomfortable I can hardly walk. I haven’t been able to sit in a recliner or on a couch for weeks and even a normal chair means leaning forward because the pressure is too intense to sit against the back of the stool.

I don’t know why this pregnancy has been so difficult. Every woman who has birthed while over 40 always nods knowingly and says, “It’s different when you’re 40.” Maybe that’s it. It just feels odd to me that Bella was my easiest and I was 38. How can that make such a difference? Maybe it’s the 3 in five years in your upper 30’s. And maybe it’s just an unknown.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized it really didn’t matter. It’s hard. And that’s ok. Trying so hard to find the reason was a little like saying, “If I can just find the reason, maybe I can fix it.” Maybe my body does feel weak and broken this time and maybe it’s not, but this time is just hard.

About that time, someone I follow on Instagram posted about the demands of life and referenced an article called, “Move over, Sex and Drugs. Ease is the New Vice.” I read her words and slowly realized how much I want to run away from suffering. I don’t want pain. I hate being so uncomfortable all the time. I don’t want to think about being pregnant for another two to three weeks but neither do I want to think about labor. (Or as Adam put it, “Sounds like you’re between a rock and a concrete berm.”)

But what if suffering is not something to shy away from, but an invitation? It is through suffering that we come to understand the depths of grace. In our weakness, the most simple acts of care and kindness feel like angels of mercy and the pouring out of the heavens. And it is only in suffering that we come to know how very much our God can carry us through. We come to know these truths in direct proportion to the depths of our suffering.

So rather than running away, I need to pray for strength to walk boldly, willingly, and voluntarily into what we know is every woman’s personal Gethsemane.

This song has become my mantra. Because really, this “suffering” is due to the biggest gift and blessing on the face of earth. The gift of life. Unspeakably precious. Undeserved. But so loved and cherished.

And so I sing,

Blessed be Your name

On the road marked with suffering

Though there’s pain in the offering

Blessed be your name.

Every blessing you pour out I’ll

Turn back to praise

When the darkness closes in, Lord,

Still I will say

Blessed be the name of the Lord ….

Because I can still hardly comprehend the fact that God is giving us this treasured gift of life. Suffering always ends in redemption when God is part of it. But rarely does it also include such a beautiful, incredible, life changing gift. I hope this sweet boy knows how fiercely, intensely, enormously he is loved. And how grateful I am for the gift of healing I experienced because of him.

February Fun

By Michelle February 16, 2019 homeschool 2 Comments

Last school year I started realizing how much I craved adult connection and in particular, connection with other homeschool moms. Most of the moms at church also homeschool, but it’s hard to have a great conversation when you’re trying to get bites of food into a kid’s mouth or jumping up to make sure they’re ok. Plus, the noise level after church is enough to make you forget half of what you might want to talk about.

I’ve always been a believer in making things happen instead of sitting around wishing for them. We can spend so much time feeling deprived because it would be so nice to have _______ in our life. We wish we were invited to the party when really, we could make our own! So I looked my whiny self in the eye and shot level. Why can’t I start one?

But what if people don’t come? What if no one else wants this? What do I even have to offer? What if it’s a bust?

Yeah, what if? Does it matter? If it turns out to be a bad fit for everyone else, does that make me wrong? We miss so much when we hold back out of insecurity and fear. Don’t ask me how I would know.

So I invited all homeschooling mamas to join me once a month. No agenda. Fully disclosing that it would probably evolve as it went.

I can’t even tell you how much I’ve enjoyed it. The camraderie of other moms doing the same thing has been a huge support to me, even in the weeks between our meetings. Probably what surprised me most was the way God used this not only to give me the gift of adult interaction, but also to grow me in some of the areas I felt most insecure.

We’ve had times of sharing how things are going, swapping tips on motivation, shared laughter and prayer. There are two moms who come support us, not because they are homeschooling, but because they DID and they simply want to show us they’re behind us. Just seeing them is like an IV of courage because it’s a reminder that it’s possible. Their kids are happy, well adjusted, intelligent adults who are sitting in the group because they’re now teaching their own kids. We’re even lucky enough to have one mama with a teaching certificate who happens to be currently staying home to teach her kids and does some tutoring. Her advice and perspective is spot on, and I doubt I’m stretching things when I say the favorite night for most of us was the one where she talked to us about teaching Creative Writing.

A few months ago we all talked about our why for homeschooling. What our own school experiences were, how we got started, and what our reasons are. In a group, it’s so important to know that background because of how it shapes our responses. If someone gets really bogged down and things aren’t working but they are passionate about homeschooling, then we need to figure out how to support them. But if someone is doing it because they feel like they don’t have other options and they get bogged down or it’s not working for whatever reason, then maybe we need to help them explore whether it was for a season and what their options are.

During that meeting, one of the things that surfaced was a wish to give our kids a few opportunities that aren’t so easily replicated at home, like public speaking. It’s not too nerve wracking to give an oral book report to your younger siblings! I kept thinking about that and this month instead of getting together as moms, our families got together and all the kids had a chance to perform.

It was so much fun seeing the variety of things they came up with and I was blown away by how well they did! Most of these kids have never gotten on stage to present something alone, but they all did it and did an incredible job of it! One of the fun parts about homeschooling is that it really is a family affair so we had presenters from 2 years old to 14! I was so proud of Zara who had been so incredibly excited for weeks. When the moment came, she was terrified to tears but pushed through and said her poem with clarity. This is true bravery. Courage doesn’t mean being fearless. It means walking into and through even when you’re shaking in your shoes.

That shy, little Bella girl of ours claimed the stage and shocked me to bits by actually singing her song!

It all culminated in a grand ice cream party, and I got a chance to talk to the kids to see what they thought. I’d heard a little about jitters before the evening started, but around bites of ice cream they all said, “It was so much fun!”

Today when I was talking to a friend who is involved with education she said, “I so applaud educating a well rounded child. Everywhere I go I hear people say, ‘We don’t have Sunday School teachers for our women’s classes because no one feels as though they’ve learned how to study and present publicly.’ This is how we change that. From the ground up. Working with children.”

Who knows what all God will do when you shove your insecurities into the back seat and follow a nudge. Even if you initially think it’s just for you.

All Life Matters

By Michelle January 25, 2019 life 18 Comments

All life matters.

Or does it?

The recent abortion issue in New York is making me so sick I can’t even read about it. I sit here watching my preposterously swollen belly shift in waves as a little boy repositions himself. Sometimes he pushes his little bottom out so hard I can cradle it in my hand and it almost feels as though I’m holding him. Occasionally he’ll stick a heel out in a funny little bulge. These are the side benefits of pregnancy number five and an abdomen that has little muscle tone left.

I stare at his most recent ultrasound picture and want to kiss his perfect little mouth. I feel his hands bumping against my pelvis and his head bouncing as he gets hit with the hiccups.

And then I see the flashing headlines … both from people who feel as though they’ve won a great fight and from people talking about abortion in the gruesome terms it is and my soul feels as though the suction and clamps will squeeze the life out of it.

I hear people outraged about abortion for convenience and how long will it be until we’re allowing people to kill babies who have already been born because moms deserve a choice. I hear it and I tremble. Euthanasia and early abortion has already told us that life is not sacred to all of us and I tremble at how many more lives will not be considered worthy.

These are alive, beautiful babies being murdered.

It is so wrong. So evil. So horrific.

But there’s an equally disturbing fire in my soul and I don’t know how to wrestle with it well.

Somehow this all feels so much more complex and the questions circle around in my head.

It is right that this new approach deserves a loud outcry, but why has it stirred so deeply for us? Is it because more babies are being killed or because it is harder for us to look at a full term baby being aborted than it is to know the morning after pill is a common thing or because we’ve kind of gotten used to the fact that first trimester abortions happen? And if it’s the latter, do we really believe that all lives matter equally?

I hear the outrage about women’s choice and how it’s all selfish and bring the baby to me. I’ll love it. And this is where it gets a little raw and vulnerable and I realize I’m a lot safer without the pregnancy induced insomnia where the words that bang around like “wrecking balls inside my head” stay inside instead of coming out in midnight blog posts. I remember in nursing school before I had kids when they were talking about being on the lookout for child abuse injuries and I heard stories about people throwing their babies against the wall and I literally could not fathom. Then I had a baby myself and for a few weeks he cried and cried and cried and cried some days like newborns do. I was completely exhausted. I couldn’t even go downstairs to eat or get a drink of water and I felt as though I would fall over and still he cried. And in that moment when I could not bring myself to lay him down in his crib and let him cry for a few minutes to care for myself … because I just couldn’t even though I was falling apart physically and emotionally… I thought back to that long ago lecture and realized I finally understood why parents got to that point. Never in a thousand years would I have considered it, but what if I hadn’t been taught what babies need? What if I had hard days like that without resources on and on for days on end? Tonight with the horror of that ruling like a black cloud of death above America, I bent over double from round ligament pain complicated by baby’s position, breathing through the pain as I helped the girls brush their teeth and get their pajamas on and tucked them into bed. And I wondered, what would it be like to be a single mom needing to get up at five tomorrow morning no matter how I sleep and get my kids to daycare so I can go to work instead of listening to the boys finish up the dinner dishes as David roasts coffee beans. Tomorrow morning I’ll sleep when my body lets me. I thought about the nights when I toss and turn in misery or feel raw fear that I’m not going to be able to do this upcoming labor and delivery and the way David wakes up and holds me to pray rest over me and I wondered about that mama who hits the proverbial wall and just can’t do it anymore and there is no one to help her. Somehow the words, “Bring that baby to me, I’ll love it” sound like hollow, echoing, painful arrows and I wonder why no one is going to them and supporting and loving them through a long, hard nine months? Those babies matter so very much. But what about their mamas? Have you ever been in a really painful situation and it felt like no one wanted to get their hands messy to help you?

I agree that there is politics and greed and horrific motivation behind this.

But something inside of me always wonders, if Christians were actively loving, would this be happening? What if instead of being incapacitated in horror we would ask ourselves what is abortion offering these women that they can’t find anywhere else and is there a way that we can help to offer that so they can be empowered to choose life?

Maybe it’s not possible. Maybe this is all a battle of good and evil. Maybe it’s us expecting that people will act in moral, God honoring ways even when they are not Christian and that’s not realistic. Maybe I’m completely missing what drives most women to this point and it’s far more heinous than I can comprehend. I don’t know the answers to any of these questions.

I can’t even fathom how much God is weeping over these babies. Sometimes I wonder, is it possible that He is also weeping over us?

You know how sometimes people talk about the way it’s easy for Christians to love the story of Jesus in the manger and the story of the resurrection, but it’s a little harder to look deeply into the story of the Cross? Is it possible that we look at the story of third trimester abortion and selectively see the preciousness of a fresh 48 hours … the scent of amniotic fluid lingering on soft baby skin. The tiny squirms and the weight of seven pounds of pure perfection swaddled in a blanket. Do we also see the babies who weren’t aborted and are now eight and in care and burdened with trauma we hardly know how to speak to? Do we see the kids who come from difficult home lives and when they act out do we see their personhood and thank God that they are alive and full of potential or do we only see their disruptive behavior? What about the woman who sometimes seems on the level of a twelve year old who wasn’t aborted but given up for adoption and now has attachment / abuse issues that you will care deeply about but on some days want to give up because it’s so hard? Do their lives still matter just as much now that they aren’t vernix covered and innocent?

I hope we never, ever lose our anger and our grief about the babies being murdered. I hope we never stop valuing our own babies and the precious, miraculous gift of life. But I hope this drives us to more than posting gorgeous pictures of newborns in our safe, privileged, oh so loved environments. I hope it drives us to question, do all lives matter? And if the answer is yes (it is, resoundingly so), than how are you and I showing up and living as though it’s true?

Can We Please Have Spring Now?

By Michelle January 24, 2019 life 2 Comments

This year I had full intentions of keeping up the cozy vibes at least through January, bare minimum. We took the ornaments off the tree and left it up as our “winter tree.” I kept all the greens on the stair rail and outside on the front porch and for a few days I pretended it was just so cozy and wonderful and winter.

Well, no one really needed to pretend it was winter. Virginia is so unpredictable. One winter it’s so mild you wonder if you will even get one snow. One day it’s twenty-eight degrees and two days later it’s sixty-two. But this year we’re definitely having winter. Two big snows already and a few days of sub-twenty temperatures.

But the cozy factor started failing before we even hit January 15. Suddenly the house seemed too full, too overtaken by falling needles, and too much everything.

It’s still winter outside, but we’ve reclaimed empty space and whites and neutrals and it feels like I can breathe again. I’m pretty sure hot chocolate tastes just as delicious with tulips on the table!

Do you decorate for winter or get rid of Christmas decor within days after it’s over?