Dear Preemie Mom

Dear Preemie Mom:

I see you. I see you, scared and confused, as you have to leave your baby behind in the hospital because he was early and he needs a lot of help. I see you taking notes as the doctor explains all the machines and sounds that surround your tiny, sweet baby. I see you trying your hardest to take it all in - all the medical jargon, all the dates and times and schedules - but your eyes keep wandering back to your baby in her isolette as you wonder when you will be able to hold her.

I see you driving to the hospital day after day, determined not to miss a second with your little one. I see your shoulders slump as you prepare yourself for another long day of visiting your baby and then leaving him behind once again.

I see you as you get to take your baby home - a time filled with such joy and excitement, and also a little bit of fear. You wonder if you will be able to take care of her like the doctors could. You wonder if you will be enough.

I see you a couple months down the line, rejoicing over having your baby with you at all times but becoming frustrated that your baby needs so much attention all the time. Doctors, specialists, therapists - it seems like your life now revolves around when the next appointment is and how long it will take you get there. You try to remind yourself that you should be grateful, because your baby has had to fight harder than most to even make it this far. But that doesn't always help your frustration. Sometimes it even adds to it. Why did your baby have to fight so hard? Why did this happen to your family? You ask yourself these questions every day but no answer seems right.

I see you at the birthday party for the child of a friend, a child who was born around the same time your own child was due, before they came so early. I see your smile, which is genuine, but it isn't the same smile it used to be. Because while you are happy for your friend and her child, it hurts to see how behind your own child is, and what a long way he has to go.

I see you crying late at night, wracked with guilt and worry and anger. If only you had been able to keep your baby inside a little longer...if only you had insisted the doctors take a second look at the scan... if only you hadn't had so much caffeine or sugar or whatever else you think could have contributed to your baby's prematurity. I see you blaming yourself, wondering what you can do to right this terrible wrong.

I see you decline invitations to playgrounds, to lunch, to so many places that first year. You're so afraid of your little boy getting sick. The doctors told you that this first winter was crucial, that you should not go out unless you absolutely had to. So you sit alone with your baby, knowing that it will all be worth it in the spring.

I see you carefully pack your diaper bag - yours isn't always like other people's diaper bags. You need a lot of hand sanitizer, extra oxygen tanks, some masks that keep germs away. You venture into the grocery store like a soldier approaching a battlefield - assessing risk, wondering how quickly you can finish your task, praying that when you leave, everyone will still be healthy.

I see you stammer and flounder when someone asks you how old your baby is. You know if you give the real answer that there will be so many questions, and you are tired of questions. But to you, giving any other answer feels like a disservice to your child, like you aren't acknowledging all of the hard work she put into coming into this world. So you split the difference - sometimes you tell people the real age, and sometimes you don't. It changes every time you are asked.

I see you wondering if you are the kind of mother your baby really needs. You think that someone else would be much better suited for all of this. All of the therapy and special arrangements that have to be made - you think you aren't cut out for this. You don't know how you will make it through. You look back to the life you had before - maybe you used to work and now you have to stay home. Maybe you want to stay home but you have to work. Either way, it is not the life you planned for yourself. It is not how you imagined having a baby would be.


I don't have answers for you. I wish I did. I want answers for me, too. But I want you to know that I see you. I see you, and you are not alone.

Sincerely,

A Preemie Mom

MOPS

This weekend, I had the honor of speaking at a meeting for MOPS, an organization for moms with kids ages birth to kindergarten. It was such an amazing experience! I had a great time there and everyone was so welcoming. Special thanks to Hannah for asking me to come! A few people asked me to share what I spoke about here, so this is me, doing what you want. Enjoy.

And if you thought this post was going to be about cleaning...No. I don't clean.

Let me ask you a question: What do a dictionary, my favorite pair of boots, and a box of baby wipes have in common? They are all heavier than my son was when he was born.

On February 22, 2013, I woke up to what I expected to be an ordinary day. The first thing I did was shower and shave my legs, which should have been a sign that this day was going to be a weird one, but I didn't think much of it at the time. I was 26 weeks pregnant with my first child and was heading to my monthly check-up at the OB's office. We knew were having a boy, and we knew we were naming him Joshua Michael. Michael, after both our dads and my husband, and Joshua, because that is one Biblical dude you don't want to mess with.

I drove to my appointment, hoping it wouldn't take too long so I wouldn't miss too much work. I was saving up my vacation days for maternity leave that I was supposed to start in June and didn't want to waste any time. Plus I had leftover chicken fingers in the car that I was planning to eat on the way to work because that's how I roll. However, Joshua had other plans. After I arrived at my appointment and had been examined, the nurse realized that I was developing pre-eclampsia, a condition that is dangerous for both pregnant mothers and unborn babies. She sent me to the local hospital. I called my husband on the way there, trying to act like it was no big deal and that he should only come if he reeeaaally wanted to. He really did, so he and my mom met me there.

When I got there I was more annoyed than anything. I knew everything would be fine and I just wanted to get to work. And my chicken fingers. But everything wasn't fine. They checked on Josh and realized he was barely moving, he was too small, and he wouldn't respond to anything. So I was sent to another hospital, one that specialized in helping premature babies. At this hospital, they found that not only was Josh small and unresponsive, he was rapidly growing worse. A doctor came in and did an ultrasound and explained to us that it seemed like the umbilical cord was not giving Josh the nutrition he needed - basically, it was only working about half the time. They said I would have to stay in the hospital and they would need to check on him every day for a while. I didn't understand part of the scan and asked the doctor to show me again. And while he was explaining it to me, he noticed that now the umbilical cord had stopped working altogether. Unless Josh was born that night, he would not survive more than a few hours.

Have you ever gone down the steps and missed the very last stair? It's so surprising, so unpredictable, and a jolt of fear goes through you that is so deep and sudden that it takes you a minute to recover, even though you are okay. That's what I felt like. When they told me Joshua would be born that night, it felt like I was missing stair after stair and no one could catch me.

I was rushed to the operating room for an emergency c-section. It was so surreal. I felt like I was watching my life on a movie screen, like I wasn't really even part of it. At 7:08 in the evening, my son Joshua was born. He weighed one pound, seven ounces, and was 12.5 inches long. He was smaller than this Beanie Baby. I could have fit him in my shoe. But the doctors advised against that. The doctor brought him to me, told me I could give him a kiss, and then took him away to the NICU, where they would work for hours to save him.

My son was in the hospital for 115 days. He had dozens of blood transfusions, was on a ventilator for several weeks, and had a level two brain bleed. During his time in the NICU, he developed a blood infection, had both of his lungs collapse multiple times, and stopped breathing on several occasions. I didn’t get to hold him until he was two weeks old. It was a terrible, difficult time in our lives. But God is good, and on June 17, when he was four months old, we finally brought our boy home. Today he weighs eighteen pounds, is trying to walk, and has the biggest ears I have ever seen.

The first few months with Joshua at home are still sort of a blur. He needed to see a pulmonologist, a cardiologist, a physical therapist, an audiologist, an optometrist, and basically any other doctor that ends in “ist.” He was on oxygen at all times and we had to cart his tank and monitors with us wherever we went. And let me tell you, there is no graceful way to unload an oxygen tank from a minivan. None. Don’t even try it. Just accept that you will look ridiculous and move on.

At night, Josh had to be hooked up to a machine that monitored his heart rate and oxygen levels. My husband and I were regularly heard asking each other if we had remembered to plug the baby in. It was stressful, but we didn’t know any other way. We just did what we needed to so Josh would be happy and healthy. And after a while we fell into a routine that, while not exactly easy, was at least doable.

When Josh first came home, my husband and I decided we would wait for several years before discussing any more children, if we even decided to have another one at all. That was the plan that we thought we best for our family. But have you ever heard the saying "We plan and God laughs"? Well, God is still laughing over what happened next. When Joshua was barely seven months old, we found out that we were expecting our second child. We were floored. I took about twenty tests just to make sure I hadn't gotten it wrong. It turns out it's pretty difficult to mess up peeing on a stick and we determined I was indeed pregnant.

I was not excited. This was not our plan. At this point, Josh was still on supplemental oxygen and monitors and saw a specialist of some kind about once a week. I had been laid off from my job just before Josh came home and we had moved in with my parents. We were barely keeping our heads above water. Long story short, another child was not ideal for us at the time.

I know I sound cold. I promise I'm nicer to my kids when I talk to them. Most of the time. But I was panicked. With Joshua, everything had gone wrong. What if the same thing happened again? What if this baby was born even earlier? What if she needed oxygen and specialists and was sick? I didn't think I had it in me to do all of that again. Everyone around me told me God had it under control, and I knew that He did, but I still worried about what that meant for my family.

We found out we were having a girl this time. After a fairly uneventful pregnancy, our daughter Jenna was born on May 29 of this year. She was perfectly healthy and we were able to come home after only a few days in the hospital. Just like with Joshua, I fell in love with her the moment I saw her.

But Jenna also kind of scared me. Not like she was scary-looking or hid in my closet at night with a Freddie Kruger mask; just that she was so totally, completely…normal. There was no monitor attached to her so I could check her heart rate. She didn't need to see any specialists and had no breathing problems. My entire experience with babies until Jenna was born had consisted of hospitals and cardiologists and oxygen tanks and physical therapists. To be able to take her with me to the grocery store, to not have to worry if someone got too close to her at church, to put her to bed without taping a little monitor to her foot - this was all brand new territory for us.

And then the comparisons began. I want to state first that I love my kids equally. I am so proud of both of them. Josh has a pretty significant developmental delay but he works really hard to catch up. And Jenna smells like strawberries, which I appreciate. But it was hard not to separate my children into a "failure" and "success" category. I never realized how behind Joshua was until I saw what Jenna could do. When she grabbed for a toy at two months - something Josh hadn't done until he was almost a year old - I called my husband and told him our daughter was a genius. I tried not to compare, but with every milestone that Jenna met, I would mentally put her in the "success" column and then wait for Josh to do something so I could put him the success column, too.

And after a while, I started to resent Joshua. I know. I am the mother of the year. I was just so tired of dealing with everything. I was tired of explaining our lives to people. I was tired of smiling politely while people informed me that my son was a little small for his age, and they wondered if I was concerned about it. I was tired of working so hard for the tiniest victories that other people got to take for granted.

Are you familiar with Debbie Downer from Saturday Night Live? She was a character that always brought down the mood of whatever room she was in. Any time someone would say something happy or encouraging, Debbie would counter it with something incredibly depressing and ridiculous. Her statements were accompanied by a sound effect that went something like wahhhh, wahhhhhhhh.

I always loved the Debbie Downer skits. But even though the skits were funny and not meant to be taken seriously, it felt like Debbie Downer was following my family, waiting for something good to happen so she could bring us all down again. With every issue Joshua faced, I heard the wahhhh, wahhhh in the back of my mind. He finally started babbling! Yay! Except he should be saying at least ten words by now so we should focus on that. Wahhh, wahhh. He finally learned to hold his own bottle! Wow! Except by now he is supposed to be using sippy cups and we need to take the bottles away. Wahhhh, wahhh. You get the picture. I was so frustrated that he was still behind after all of his hard work, and I started to be angry with him for not catching up faster. And then I compared him and Jenna more and more, to the point where I would write down when Jenna reached milestones just so I could compare to when Josh met the same milestones. It was like a I was keeping a scorecard of my children’s accomplishments.

It took me a while to realize that I was even doing it. And then it took me even longer to realize why I was doing it. Why did I feel the need to compare my children? They are so different in so many ways it would be like comparing an ostrich to an alligator.  I knew that comparing was pointless and would ultimately only hurt me and my kids, but I still felt the need to keep score. I think a lot of us are familiar with that feeling. As moms, we are constantly surrounded by people who are judging our choices and making us feel like we can't even blink without causing permanent damage to our child's psyche. Just look at the arguments between mothers, more fondly known as the mommy wars. We argue about eeeeeeverything. Whether it's where our babies sleep or what kind of surface they will poop on, we find a way to make sure that everyone knows how wrong their choices are. And when we run out of things to argue about, we rehash the original arguments over and over again.

Isn’t that crazy? Just look at how angry we get with people we barely know. Half the time it’s people we have only talked to on the internet. And I am as guilty as the next person of getting sucked into a good cloth versus disposable diaper debate. It’s funny because before I became a mother, I swore to myself I wouldn’t get worked up about stuff like this. I only had a vague idea of what parents did. Feed child, clothe child, try to keep child from beating up other children. But I was sure I could rise above such petty and insignificant arguments.

And then I crossed over to the Other Side. No, not Narnia. The Other Side of the gap that separates parents from non-parents. The side filled with tiny onesies and 800 sets of plastic keys and dogs that whisper "Hug meeee" at four in the morning when you're walking to the bathroom. You can look behind you and see the non-parent side for a little while. Then Dora the Explorer asks you to help her find her map and before you know it the non-parent side is nothing more than a distant memory. And the next thing you know, you’re typing in all capital letters on Facebook to some idiot who thinks that people who use strollers are turning their kids into serial killers while your husband begs you to just walk away from the computer because you’re starting to turn red and the children are scared.

Don’t pretend it hasn’t happened to you. None of us are immune to the mommy wars. It sneaks up on you suddenly, usually over something you didn’t even realize you cared that much about. I remember one time I was in a debate on Facebook over the cry it out method of sleep training. I was halfway through typing a really long paragraph when I suddenly wondered why in the world I gave two flips about which sleep training method a stranger from Canada was using. I couldn’t think of a good answer, and it dawned on me that maybe I was arguing just for the heck it.

Which brings me back to my original question: Why? Why do we do this? Why do I compare myself to other mothers? Why do I worry about what my friends think of the way I raise my children? Why am I online at three in the morning making some poor girl cry because we disagree on which brand of formula is best?

I thought about this for a long time. I felt like the answer was right under my nose but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. And then it came to me: Guilt.

I don’t know about you, but I have never been less confident in any decision I’ve made than I am in the decisions I make as a parent. Every little choice causes me to worry. For example, my son has recently gotten into the charming habit of throwing his sippy cup off his tray, a past time I’m sure many of you are familiar with. Every time he does this, I wonder what I should do next. It’s like my brain suddenly kicks into overdrive with all the possible responses I can give and the possible consequences they can have. If I get angry at him for throwing his cup, he’ll know it’s bad and he will stop. And then he will resent me for yelling at him and never be able to make friends and he won’t do well in school and won’t get into a good college and he will have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

Or I could ignore him when he throws his cup and he will see that misbehaving does not get him attention. And then he might try even harder to get my attention because he feels so ignored and he will start lighting dog poo on fire and leaving it on people’s doorsteps and then he will vandalize the school gym and won’t get into a good college and have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

Or I could pick the cup up and give it back to him, showing him that he has a second chance to do the right thing. And then he will probably learn that none of his actions have consequences and he will never learn manners and will disrespect his teachers in school and won’t get into a good college and he will have to live on the street in a refrigerator box.

See what I mean? I know this struggle is something we all deal with. It’s silly but it’s also serious. My kids are so young that right now I have ultimate control over their lives. I decide what they wear, what they eat, where they go, who they see. And while the control freak part of me likes having that security, the worrying part of me finds it overwhelming and terrifying. I am far from perfect. And honestly I find myself wondering why in the world God would give me two children, one of whom requires a lot of special attention.

And because I feel so unworthy and unable to make these decisions, I look to other mothers to see how they are handling it. That’s how the comparisons begin. I see that Sally Smith is using cloth diapers and I read about how they’re better for the environment and better for babies’ skin and I start to feel really guilty because my own poor kids are in disposable diapers and if I am going to use those I may as well just dress my kids in garbage bags because it’s basically the same thing. And then I start to resent Sally because who is she to tell me how to diaper my kids? My kids are very happy in their disposable diapers and they have pictures of Mickey Mouse and Big Bird on them and those guys have educational shows so I am educating my kids by putting them in disposable diapers. And before I know it I hate Sally Smith for her judgmental ways and for making me doubt myself and for her stupid opinions on her stupid diapers.

That might be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever said. In the scenario I just described, no one judged me. No one tried to make me feel guilty. It was my own guilt, my own insecurity, that turned a simple observation into an argument.

And please hear me - I am not trying to shame you or blame you for feeling bad when someone judges you. I know that some people are just itching for a fight and go to great lengths to make others feel bad. I know there are bullies in the world who just want to hurt other people and more likely than not, we’ve all run across at least one.

I just think that mothers are easy targets because we are already constantly second-guessing ourselves. And that’s truly where I think the mommy wars come from. The worry that we are not enough for our children, and the guilt over not giving them our best. Even the bullies that have hurt you or told you you’re a terrible mother because of a choice you made - I would bet that they are feeling pretty lost and insecure themselves and just want reassurance that they are doing okay with their own kids.

But I’ve got some good news. It won’t sound like good news at first, but trust me; it’s good news.

We are not enough. And sometimes we won’t be our best. But we serve someone who is always enough and who only gives His best. It isn’t up to us to be perfect. God has promised us that though we will mess up, He will be there to guide us back on the right path.

That can be a scary thought. But it can also be a relieving one. It isn’t up to me to be the best mom on the planet. I don’t have to worry that because I made the wrong decision my child will be permanently unhappy. Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t it so amazing to know that the very creator of the universe is investing His time into our children, and that he is allowing us to be part of that?

Don’t get me wrong - I am not giving you permission to stop raising your kids. When little Timmy asks you for some breakfast, I am not suggesting that you stay in bed and tell him that God will be along to butter his toast in a few minutes. God has placed with us the task of raising our children and teaching them and loving them. But he didn’t just drop these kids off on our porches and run away. He is there with us, protecting us, redirecting us, showing us that though we are still sinners He still desires us.

When Hannah asked me to speak today, at first I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t think I had much of a story to tell. But over the last few weeks God has shown me so much truth that has set me free. I still struggle. I am still tempted to keep a scorecard for my kids. But now that I know the reasons behind it, it’s not so scary to deal with. I am able to enjoy my family more and rest in God’s promise of redemption for me as a mother, daughter, sister, and so much more.

And now I can compare my kids in a much more wonderful way: I can look at their different personalities and gifts, not as a way to decide who is doing better, but as a way to celebrate their unique identities. My son Josh is a thinker, like his father. He never does anything without deliberate consideration and planning. But he likes to giggle. And he loves people. He would sell me online in a heartbeat if someone gave him a hug and a pop tart. He likes to pretend but he is too excited to keep it up for very long so any games of pretend usually dissolve into giggles pretty fast. He is my strong boy, a living example of the way God works all things together for good. My daughter Jenna, though only five months old, is already much more of a drama queen. She feels every emotion with all of the power her little body can muster. She is impulsive and moves from toy to toy, trying to gather all of them in her hand at once. She is slower to give a smile but once she does, it’s always worth the wait. She is my passionate girl, a living example of God’s faithfulness to His people.

Those are the comparisons I want to focus on. Those are the things I want to remember in twenty years when my kids are in school (or living in a refrigerator box) and I am reflecting on their lives. Those are the things I want them to remember when they have their own kids and struggle with wondering if they are doing a good job raising them.

I will make mistakes. You will make mistakes. It’s inevitable. But I can sleep easier tonight knowing that our Heavenly Father makes no mistakes, and that He loves my kids even more than I do.

The Question Game

As you have heard before, I went to the illustrious Berry College (LETS GO VIKES) for two years. Since there isn't much to do at Berry besides count deer and go to church, we had to find other ways to entertain ourselves. So my friends Marcy Jo and BFF Jen invented a game for us to play. I actually can't remember who came up with the game but it definitely wasn't me so it's gotta be one of those two.

We called our game the Question Game. It's exactly what it sounds like: One of us asks a question and we all answer. Not complicated. It's like a really tame version of Truth or Dare without the dare. We played it pretty much every time we went out to dinner. Marcy Jo always had awesome, deep questions that made us search our souls. Jen's questions were always exciting and fun. My questions were along the lines of, "If you could be a cloud, would you be a fluffy cloud or a REALLY fluffy cloud?" Real thought-provoking stuff. But it was fun and we enjoyed our game so much that we still play it when we get together (hint hint, Marcy Jo!). We even have a book that has questions in it for when we get lazy. We are SERIOUS about our fun.

It had been a while since the last time I got to play the question game, so a couple of weeks ago I explained it to Daniel and asked if he wanted to play. It was easy for me - I cheated and used the questions I'd been asking Marcy Jo and BFF Jen for the last eight years. Daniel played very well in spite of the many physics questions he asked me before realizing that was a dead end.

Then one of us - I can't remember who - asked what was by far the most interesting question of the night: If we could change what had happened over the last few months, would we?

I thought I knew the answer to that one. I was ready to say yes, absolutely, of course I would change it, no question about it.

But as I thought about it more, I realized that wasn't true. I wouldn't change it. I hated it. But I wouldn't change it.

I believe God has a plan. I have always believed that. But over these last few months, I started to wonder how this could be part of any plan. Why did it happen to us? Why did we have to stay for so long? Why did God allow our baby to go through so much?

I still don't know the complete answers to any of those questions. But I still believe things happen for a reason. I believe in God's plan and while I might never understand why things happened the way they did, I know it was part of a purpose. Jeremiah 29:11 says, "'For I know the plans I have for you,' says the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans for a hope and a future.'" Hebrews 11:1 says, "Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."

Those two verses really say it all. God has a plan. I have faith in His plans. That doesn't mean I can comprehend them or that I even like them. I wanted to make the plans myself; I wanted to tell God how things would go and then let Him make it so. But faith doesn't work that way. True faith is understanding that you probably won't ever understand, but the only things you have to know are that Jesus died on the cross for you and God has a plan for a hope and a future for you.

The funny thing about this whole experience is that I never thought Joshua would die. It crossed my mind and it freaked me out, but at the end of the day I knew he would live. I realize now that that is how I kept my faith. Even when I couldn't pray, even when I thought God had abandoned us, He was still giving me peace and comfort without me knowing it. He was faithful to us. Joshua is home. He took a long and winding road to get there but he made it. And I can't look back on this experience and think it was coincidence or bad luck or anything other than God's sovereignty being shown through these struggles.

And now, I wait. I have waited a lot for the last few months but this time it's different. Now I am waiting to see how God uses what happened to us to reach other people, to show that He is still God even when things are bad.

So here's the deal: Jesus died on the cross for you and for me. God sent His son to take sin from us so we could worship with Him forever. If you don't know that Jesus is your Savior, don't wait any longer. Talk to a pastor, talk to a friend, talk to me if you want. God has incredible plans in store for you - don't miss out on them.

Goodbye, Third Tri

First things first - Josh is doing well the last few days! He is working hard to get fat and I have been humming different themes from Star Wars to him to make him smart. The next goal is for him to go off the regular vent and onto the CPAP. Basically that means he would be breathing on his own and the CPAP just provides oxygen to pressurize... something. The lungs, maybe. Someone help me. He is also increasing the amount of milk he gets with each feeding, so that's cool.

And he broke free from baby prison for a while on Friday and I got to hold him!!! It was fun. And terrifying. But mostly fun. I held him for over an hour and he snuggled with me. I loved it. And he told me he loved it, too.

Enough about that baby. Time to focus on more important things... like me. Just kidding. Well, no, I'm serious that the next part will be about me. But Josh reigns supreme on this blog (and he knows it).

Lately I've been trying to identify what exactly I am sad or stressed or mad about. It helps me to pinpoint what exactly is bothering me because it seems more manageable then. One thing I've noticed recently is that I feel cheated that I never got to finish my pregnancy. I never even made it to the third trimester. That sucks. I feel like I need to mourn the loss of the third trimester.

Please understand - I know my experience is in no way comparable to someone who has lost their baby or child. I don't want to disrespect those mothers or their feelings by saying it's similar. I'm just trying to think of the best way to explain my own feelings and this is the best I've come up with.

I do not have a lot of experience with babies (as if that information will surprise anyone). I don't even know that many pregnant people. But the ones I know (or knew, if they already had their babies) always talked about how they could make their baby move inside them by drinking orange juice or eating a candy bar. They knew how their baby was positioned and they felt their baby get hiccups. They could see the little outlines of footprints or handprints. It sounded amazing. And I wanted to experience that so much. But for whatever reason that wasn't the plan for me and Josh.

I feel a little disconnected from Josh. I know that makes me sound like the mother of the year. But I missed out on getting to know him for three months. I am still learning things about him and I feel like I am playing catch-up because now that he's here I want to know everything about him. I just missed out on that bonding time of the third tri. I love him with all my heart but sometimes it feels like he's a stranger, like he could be anyone's baby. The bonding will come with time, I know; it's just hard to connect with him from the other side of a plastic baby prison spa.

I think as I get to hold him more and learn more about him it will get easier. I know I'm blessed to meet my baby earlier than most. And at some point I'll even be glad he arrived early because I will have gotten to spend so much time with him before he goes home. That, like every other part of this, will just take time, I guess.

So that's that. Thanks for stopping by. Your reward is another cute picture of my baby!

Ten days

I really need to come up with more creative titles for these posts. Pretend this one is called Octopus Socks or something. It's a good thing octopi (right?) don't wear socks because it would get expensive to buy so many. Plus octopi live in the ocean and I hate it when my socks get wet. This post is taking us in all sorts of deep and philosophical directions.

So, onto the good stuff - my fantastically cute baby. Josh is doing well today! He's actually had a great couple of days. He's just chillaxing in baby prison while people fawn over him. I see why he wants to stay until June. Overall he's improving. The big goals for him this week are to continue the feedings, lose some of his excess fluid, and stay steady on his super-special ventilator.

I finally spoke to God. It was weird because it was really hard. It's never been so hard before. It came out kind of disjointed and confusing but I think He got the message. It was actually a relief. I'm still angry and I still hate all of this. But it felt good to pray.

My perspective on prayer has changed throughout this. When I tell someone I will pray for them I really do mean it. But I don't feel the urgency that I should. Sometimes I just add it into my daily prayers and don't spend time really considering who or what I am praying for. But after seeing the many prayers being lifted up on Joshua's behalf, I've realized that if I'm really going to pray for someone, I can't do it casually. Prayer isn't casual. It isn't a way to pass the time or fulfill my Christian duty. It is a powerful way of connecting with God and it's important. I'm glad I've learned that. I hate how I learned it but it's an invaluable lesson.

Another thing I've learned through this is how incredibly blessed Daniel and I are with friends and family. People are praying for my baby boy worldwide. Even more amazing is that strangers are praying for him. People who have never met us and never will are going before the Lord to ask for strength and healing for Josh. That's unbelievably amazing to me. It's so encouraging. When I read that a friend is praying, when I get a card in the mail, when a family member travels thousands of miles to be with us - those times are when I feel the best. When I know that while the road ahead won't be easy, it can at least be traveled. When I realize that no matter how lonely I feel, God has not abandoned me. Or any of us.

So thank you for praying. Please keep praying. And to those who have sent hats and cards and notes and messages, thank you so much. Everyone has been so selfless and generous and I cannot tell you how grateful Daniel and I are for you.

We can do it. Well, God can do it :) Grow, Joshua, grow!!

For Joshua

This week has been a sad one. I know a lot of people who are hurting.

Ever since I found out I was going to be a mom, I've looked at things with a new perspective. I know that perspective will change even more when I get to meet my little guy. I'm looking forward to that because I think this new perspective is for the better. I think it's good to remember what's really important in life. And I think it's good to teach our children what's important in life. So I decided to write a letter to Joshua, the littlest Eleveld-to-be. I will read it to him and print it out and put it in his room. He will get sick of looking at it but it's important and I want him to remember it.

Dear Joshua:

As you grow up and go out into this big world, I want you to remember some things. These things won't guarantee you a perfect life or keep you from feeling sad or angry. I wish that they could but that isn't how it works. Sorry, kid. But these things will - hopefully - help you keep the right perspective, focus, and priorities as you grow up and become your own person.

1) Remember that your dad and I love you. A lot. We might get mad at you and we might ground you and we might not buy you every single thing you want. But we love you. We will love you forever. Grammy and Grandpa and Papa and Nana love you, too. Your aunts and uncles and cousins and great-aunts and great-uncles and great-grandparents and your great-GREAT-grandmother love you with all of their hearts.

2) More importantly, remember that God loves you. He created you for a specific purpose. You may feel like you don't have any talents or gifts when you grow up. But that isn't true. Grammy used to tell me that I could be ANYTHING - and she believed it. I believe you, Joshua, can be ANYTHING. I really do. Just keep Christ as the center of your life and He will lead you to great and wonderful things.

3) Nothing is as bad as it seems. I know it's hard when you're sad or confused. I know people will betray you and I already want to beat those people up (and you're not even born yet... oh, dear). I know no one's life is perfect all the time. But listen to me when I tell you this: I have been there. I get it. I know it's hard. But, as the saying goes, this, too, shall pass. It might take an hour or a day or a month or a year or a decade. But everything will work out.

4) Don't start fights for yourself. It isn't worth it. It won't solve anything. But if you're fighting for someone else, stand up and be brave. Defend the little guy and the boy who seems weird and the girl who gets teased for her looks. Speak the truth and don't be afraid to do the right thing. If you're anything like your dad, I know you will learn this and take it to heart very quickly :) It's scary to stand alone. But I believe that if you stand up for what's right, you won't be standing alone for long.

5) Love with your whole heart. Trust the people who love you. Make fewer friends if it means they are that much closer to you. Sometimes that can open you up to heartbreak. But it also opens you up to love and friendship and joy.

6) Don't beat yourself up over mistakes. What's done is done. But don't forget them - learn from them. Use them to shape the person you want to be.

7) Be respectful. Offer to help a busy mom who has three kids and seven bags of groceries. If someone tells you a story that you think is boring, listen anyway. And really listen - don't just pretend. If you're over 18 and visiting someone's house, their rules still apply. And thank the soldiers you see in the airport. They are fighting especially for you.

8) When you say you'll do something, do it. When you say you'll be somewhere, be there. I guarantee that as soon as you agree to seeing a movie with a friend over the weekend, a party will come up for the same time and you'll really want to go to that instead. You're better than that. Go to the movie. And if you offer to pray for someone, pray for them. Don't forget. It's important.

9) Volunteer a lot. It's good to remember that there are people around you suffering. It's even better to do something about it. Donate your clothes, toys, time and prayers to those less fortunate. Serve lunch at a homeless shelter. Help build a house for a family in need. You can make a huge difference in someone's life in just a few hours.

10) Forgive completely. It's hard to forgive; I know that. But it's harder not to. We forgive because God forgave us, and if your dad and I have done our jobs, you'll know where to find that verse in the Bible :) People will mess up. Dad, me, your friends, your teachers - all of us. Forgive them, even if they don't say they're sorry. And ask for forgiveness, even when it's hard. Even when it's not your fault. We all need to be forgiven, and thanks to Jesus, we can be forgiven forever. Remember that when you're angry with someone.

11) Remember that you never know what someone else going through. Grammy and Grandpa used to tell me that all the time, and it drove. me. insane. But now that I'm older, I'm starting to get it. Sometimes people are mean. But sometimes they're mean because they're hurting. The bully on the playground might be bullied at home. Stand your ground, but always do so in love. It may be you one day who is hurting and who needs a friend like you to help.

12) Above everything else, love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul and all your strength. I put this last not because it's the least important, but because if you remember nothing else, I want you to remember this. Love God. Serve God. Read your Bible and pray every day. I know that getting up early to do your quiet time is hard. I know that the Bible can be confusing, especially when you're young. You're lucky because your dad is a walking Bible encyclopedia, thanks to Papa and Nana. So ask him questions. Ask your pastor questions. Ask your friends questions. Make it your goal to walk with God as closely as you can.

That's all the wisdom I have for now. I love you a million times over. I can't wait to see your little face.

Love,

Mom

Where was God?

Yesterday our nation watched a terrible tragedy unfold. There is no situation in which watching a gunman open fire on a school would be easy. But to hear that the victims were young children and people dedicated to educating those children makes it worse. It sharpens the hurt that much more.

As a Christian, whenever I think of tragedy, I think of the story of Job. That is the quintessential Bible story to talk about sorrow and hardship. The story is of a man named Job and his family. We know a few things about Job: He has 7 sons, 3 daughters, a wife, and lots of livestock. The livestock is the best-behaved group in the bunch. Job is described as a righteous man who prays fervently for his family to turn back to God every day.

One day, Satan goes to God and tells Him that Job is only so faithful because he has such a cozy life. He's well-off, has a huge family, and never wants for anything. If he had none of this, Satan argues, Job would turn away from God just like everyone else. God tells Satan he's wrong - he can take away any of Job's things and Job will remain faithful.

So Satan does it. Job literally loses everything. His children are tragically killed. All of his livestock dies. His health deteriorates. His friends turn away from him and his wife tells him to give up. Job has nothing. And he mourns. He grieves and cries for days, talking with God and trying to make sense of his life now.

But there is one line in the book of Job that stands out, that seems almost confusing considering the circumstances. Verse 21 in chapter 1 of Job is when Job says these simple but powerful words: "The Lord has given, and The Lord has taken away. May the name of The Lord be praised."

May the name of The Lord be praised. I have to be honest and say that might not have been my first reaction in these circumstances. When I read this story growing up, that part made me mad. I was angry on Job's behalf - how could God allow this?

As I re-read these verses today in light of the Connecticut tragedy, however, a different perspective came to mind. That verse isn't giving a suggestion of how Job should react. It's not a commandment. It's a direct quote from Job. He lost everything and still remembered who his Creator was.

Job was a wise man. He realized something that very few of us understand: Nothing is ours. It's all God's. Every last thing. Our homes. Our friends. Our children. We may not like it and we may not understand it. But it's true.

Since yesterday, many of us have asked "Where was God?" I can only think of one answer. God is right where He has always been: waiting for His people to return to Him and welcoming those who already have. God called those children home where there is no suffering, no sorrow, no senseless murders. We mourn them and we pray for the families who mourn them. But they aren't lost. They're perfect now. May the name of The Lord be praised.

We Remember

Did you know that when God forgives our sins, He not only forgives them, but erases them forever? Isaiah 43:25 says, "I, I am he, who blots out your transgressions for my own sake, and I will not remember your sins." So not only are we forgiven, but God's grace stretches far enough to completely eradicate our sin, as though it never happened.

I want to be able to forgive this way. I want to truly forgive and forget and move on.

But I can't.

I can forgive, and even move on for the most part. But I can't always forget. I am only human. That doesn't mean I sit at home dwelling on the wrong things people have done to me, or that every time I do think of it that it even affects me. But because I can remember, because this occurrence in my life made such a lasting impression, I can never truly erase that wrong. Not like God can.

When I was a junior in college, I was taking anti-depressants and seeing a therapist. It was a really difficult year. One of my roommates went through my make-up bag to borrow something one day. My medicine was in there, and when she found it she stole it from me, looked it up on her computer to see what it was, and proceeded to tell every single person on our hallway that I was crazy and I would probably try to kill myself one day, so they better watch out for me. After that, no one would look at me. No one would be friends with me. This girl had ruined my entire year at college in a matter of hours.

It took me a long time to forgive her. Eventually I did. But what she did affected me for years. I lived in fear that someone else would find out and react the same way. When I met Daniel, it took me months to even tell him about that experience, and even then I told him while preparing myself for him to break up with me, because I knew he would think I was crazy, too. And writing this now worries me just as much that the parents of a child I teach at church will see this and want their child pulled from my class as a result. Ridiculous. And yet I have managed to forgive this girl (through God's grace alone) and live my life normally for the most part. It's only when I hear certain words, see people that remind me of her, pass through the GSU campus when I'm downtown that those memories come back to me.

I think tragedy works the same way. On this day, September 11th, many people wish they could forget. Not even to forgive, but just to move on. To get on with their lives as they know they could if they could only stop remembering. If a song on the radio commemorating those who died in the towers didn't bring them to tears. If every time they see a picture of the New York skyline it didn't evoke an emotion that is inexplicable, even to themselves. If they could just erase all of these memories from their heads, they could go on with their lives and not look back.

But they can't.

So what does that mean for these people? Are they stuck forever in this never-ending cycle of trying so hard to move on and almost succeeding, only to be stopped at the last second by something seemingly trivial, like a picture or a Facebook status?

No.

I think the key here is not the ability to move on from a tragedy, but to accept it as something that will always affect you. That sounds ominous but it doesn't have to be. If the effect is that you now look at time spent with your family with a greater appreciation because you know life is short, that's a good thing. If you strive to perform your very best at work because you have seen that the ability to complete a job in a time of crisis is critical, that's a good thing. If you wake up extra-early to do your quiet time because you realized that these times of crisis would pale in comparison to a world without Jesus, that's a good thing.

The bad things are there, too. They will always be there. You can't forget them because it's impossible. But maybe you can learn to accept them, to understand that while you will eventually get to the point where you don't even know that September 11th has come and gone, you will always remember those moments on that day because they have changed you.

Remembering the events of one of the most terrible days in history and struggling with those memories doesn't mean you haven't moved on or that you never will. It means that though it may be hard, you're a different person now. Someone who has seen the worst kind of history in the making. Someone who will never forget and who maybe doesn't want to because of the lessons you learned.

In my case, though my experience was nowhere near the scale of September 11th, it can still be a struggle when I think of that roommate. But every day I am freer from the binds of my fears and memories as I learn to accept them and give them to God. Only He can give me the ability to stop giving that experience power over me. That was a little thing and it has taken me several years. For a bigger thing, it could take even longer. But that doesn't mean you are weak or don't trust God. It means that you are human, that adjustments take time, and that every year it will get a little easier to accept what happened as you approach this day and these memories.

So on this day, September 11th, we do not forget. We can't. But along with remembering the horror, we can remember the lessons we learned, the life changes we have made, and the blessings that have come in spite of the sorrow. We can remember that grieving isn't a science and that it can take time, and that it isn't a failure when we struggle. We can remember that we serve a holy God who does not judge us for our struggles, but asks to take them on Himself to help us through the difficult times. We remember 9/11, and we move on, carrying our memories with us.

Come and Worship

I, Kristen "The Great One" Eleveld, have a confession to make: I don't like singing praise and worship songs. That's right. I said it. I said and I meant it and I'm here to represent it unless it made you mad.

It's not the praising or the worshiping that I dislike. I just don't really get into singing. I feel bad about that because every good Baptist is supposed to sing (but not dance). But I missed the gene somehow. I'm not what you would call a "good" singer or "talented" or "someone who does anything but mouths the words most of the time." I mean, I'm not Scuttle. I'm just not Ariel.

Don't look at me; I've got nothing to do with this.

But any time I try to explain this to anyone, I get the Look of Abject Horror. You know the one: Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, sharp intake of breath. Occasionally their hands go to their hips, or, worse, their chest (which in Southern means, "Ohhhh... I'll pray for you."). They sometimes take a step back. A head shake is almost always present. The top three responses are as follows:

1) "Oh, but you're such a good singer!" I'm not saying I'm good or bad. I just don't happen to like it regardless. I am also good at algebra. But I don't do it for fun.

2) "But it's praise and worship. The songs are about God. How can you not like them?" If not liking a song about God is enough to get me in trouble, well, then, don't get me started on 104.7 The Fish (The Fish Atlanta dot coooommmmmmm). It's not the content of the song. It's the singing.

3) "Maybe if you thought about it this way, you would get something out of it." Ahh, so I just need to rethink my strategy. ... ... ... ...nope, still don't like it. Look, it isn't what I am singing or why I am singing or how I am singing. It isn't the praise and worship team or the song choice or the key. I just don't enjoy singing as a form of worship.

Some people will never get that. It's hard for "music people" to get that while I can listen to the words of the song and believe them and worship in my own way, I just don't like to sing that much.

I'm not a total heathen. I get a ton out of other forms of worship - writing, reading my Bible, dramas. For some reason, the writing and the dramas tend to get left by the wayside. Not on purpose and not out of malice. But it's never the praise and worship time that gets left out of church weekends. It's not usually the band that has to worry if all their hard work is for nothing. I hope I'm not sounding judgmental because that is not my intention at all. I just think there needs to be a balance. I think the kids who want to be in the youth program who can't sing should still feel like they can still be a part of something. I want to be able to read the words on the screen or in the hymnal and worship through the lyrics in my own way, even if I am mouthing the words. I want to be able to tell someone I get more out of watching skits than I do from listening to music without getting one of these:

Bless your heart. 

I am definitely all for people who love to worship through singing. My BFF Jen loves to worship that way. My sister-in-law is all about singing and I know she gets so much from it. Sometimes I wish I did, too. But I am content with worshiping in many of the other ways that are just as wonderful to God.

So how about you? Singing or no singing? No judgment either way. Unless you're wrong.

Spot the Savior

My family is not big on traditions (unless you count avoiding Monopoly like the plague), except at Christmas. We have a very specific way of doing things at Christmastime. One such tradition has forever remained a special place in my heart, glowing like a little cartoon flame and filling me with untold joy. That tradition is the one where we sing a song together read the Christmas story tell each other how much we love each other mercilessly mock other people's Christmas lights. 

There are only a few rules:

1) No blue lights. They are ugly. If you have blue lights and you are reading this... sorry. But heed my words.

2) No big lights and small lights mixed in on the same bush/tree/door. Pick a side, people.

3) All bush lights must cover the visible part of the bush - not just the top, one side, or the bottom.

4) Symmetry is key. If you have one half of the porch lit up but the other half is drooping into the yard because your dog enjoys the thrill of being shocked by Christmas lights, that is major points off.

5) Don't put too many blow-up creatures in your yard. Especially if they have nothing to do with Christmas. That is my mom's favorite rule.

The final element of the evening is counting how many Saviors/nativity scenes we can spot. Our record is around 8, I think, and that was after 10 neighborhoods and several crying sessions from everyone.

So last night Daniel and I continued the tradition. The results are below.

We'll start with the good ones*:

*Some of the good ones may break one of the rules above. This is because Daniel is new to the game and liked some things that I would have burned down. He'll learn soon.

Okay, enough of that. On to the good stuff:

SANTA IS DOWN! REPEAT, SANTA IS DOWN!

That is a flamingo. Stuffed with lights.

Even with no neck, Rudolph was determined to shine brightly for the kiddies.

Spongebob. Apparently we weren't the only ones who didn't care for him.

AHHHH MY EYES

"Gee, Carol, you wanna put all the lights up this year?"
"No, Jim - let's just shine a big one on the house. That'll look just as good."

These people even have blow-up items on their porch. They are very dedicated... to the crap in their yard.

These next few are from the same house. A house that had so many Christmas lights I thought I might spontaneously develop epilepsy and have a seizure if nothing more than for the sake of doing anything but staring at the yard with my mouth open.

And, so, friends, that brings us to the real event of the evening: Spotting the Savior. We spotted two real ones and one Woodstock one from Peanuts, so we're calling it 2.5.

Woodstock Jesus is a little washed out.

So there you have it. The good, the bad, and the holy. I do hope you enjoyed the tour of Christmas lights this year, and be sure to join us after the new year for a special edition of Christmas Lights: The Post-Christmas Droop.

Merry Christmas!!

Deep thoughts by K-Veld

Fair warning: This is about to get deep. Like, deep. Okay, maybe not deep enough for italics. Read it, and if you think it's deep enough for italics, let me know.

Ahem.

I have been struggling with something lately. Between my mom going in and out of the hospital so often for awhile, and my friend passing away earlier this year, and just the general stresses of life, I have gone through a very... unprayer-ish time in my life. I felt like praying to God for anything was kind of useless, because it seemed like He was going to do whatever He had already planned on anyway. I felt like I was blaspheming by thinking that, and I wanted to stop. But I couldn't get it out of my head. I wanted to pray, and to keep up the faith that I had known all my life. I have been a Christian for 16 years - I should be able to get over this bump in the road. But I just couldn't do it. It got to the point where I would start to pray, but I felt so defeated that I just got a few words out and then stopped. Daniel would pray for both of us, me telling him what to pray for in the hopes that God would hear Daniel even if He didn't hear me.

Then I began to wonder if I had done something to make God not listen to my prayers. Was I not faithful enough? Had I not prayed enough? Maybe He was mad because I didn't read my Bible enough. I tried to fix all the things that I thought could be the problem, and I tried to pray again. It still didn't work. I felt so far from God, and far from everything I knew. My whole life is based on my faith. If I had a question before, I just asked my parents or my pastor and it was answered. But now, I couldn't even think of the right way to ask the question, let alone find an answer. This had never happened to me before. I wasn't the one who questioned her faith. I was the one with answers, with the ability to show people the silver lining, the one whose beliefs weren't shaken even when her mom got cancer or her dad lost his job. To have that taken away from me was so completely terrifying and confusing that I didn't even know where to begin to return to my previous way of life.

I finally sought counsel from a very wise friend of mine. We shall call her Q. Her name doesn't begin with Q but I think it's mysterious and James Bonds-y and I like it. I told Q all of these things, and we talked at length about what I had been praying for. I was waiting for her sympathy, a pat on the shoulder, maybe a violin or two playing in the background while a sad kitten walked by. Instead, she thought for a moment, and then asked if maybe I was being selfish with my prayers.

I was completely stunned. And offended. I was ready to walk away and never speak to her again. But we were in Starbucks, and I hadn't finished my drink yet, so I stayed. I <3 Starbucks. I argued with her, asking how praying for my mom to be well, for my dad to find a job, for my friend to recover could be selfish. Those were prayers for other people. And I wasn't asking Jesus to give me a pony, or to make it so my husband got a 1000% raise just because it would be nice to have extra money. These were legitimate, life-and-death prayer requests. I didn't expect God to say yes to every single thing I asked for, but I thought maybe He could give me a couple of these.

Q then gave me some invaluable advice: God doesn't see things the way we do. You can go ahead and let out a "duh" if you would like to. We rate things: kicking a dog is bad, stealing is worse, murder is even worse, lying is not so good, punching your friends is mean, and streaking is discouraged. But God doesn't see sin as bad, kind of bad, or worse: It's all the worst. Sin is sin. Whether that means you tell a lie to your boss or shiv a guy in prison, sin is always sin. I have always known this. I think all of us do, even though we forget it. But here comes the part that I totally did not think of: The same goes for prayers and prayer requests.

When we pray to God, He hears us. He hears every prayer. We pray to do well on tests, or for someone to get well, or to get a promotion. And none of that is bad. But, once again, we rate things: In our minds, praying for a friend to be cured from cancer is probably one of the most important things we can pray for. It was to me. I thought that surely that was something God had to say "yes" to. But as much as it hurts us to lose someone, and as much as God hurts when we hurt, He doesn't rate things like we do. All of our prayers matter to Him. But not all of them get a "yes," no matter how much it would mean to me or to a friend or family member. I wanted my friend to get better because it was sad and painful to see him go - but him staying was not what God had planned. My prayer requests were for earthly things, even though it didn't seem like it at the time. That's the thing about all of the requests we bring to God: If they don't work for His good and in His timing, they don't work. This is something that we as humans can't always wrap our minds around - some things will just always hurt us worse than others, because we can't see the big picture. Losing a friend will always hurt worse than stubbing my toe. And not having a prayer answered the way I want will always be hard to deal with. But if I take things to God in prayer and leave those things with Him, instead of taking them back to fix myself, I don't have to deal with the hurt and sadness and confusion by myself - God is fighting that battle for me.

I'm not saying we shouldn't pray for sick friends or people in need. Praying is how we communicate with God. We should continue to speak to Him, thank Him, and come to Him with our requests - remembering that He loves us too much to say yes to whatever we ask for. Does that make it easier? No. Seeing a loved one hurting will never, ever be easy. That is one of the sad parts of this world. But God is so far above and beyond this world that once we get to heaven and see how the plan all comes together, we will rejoice over the times He told us no.


Happy Thanksgiving!

Being Ugly

When I was about 7, I played soccer. I can wait here for a moment if you want to recover from the shock of that sentence, but it's true - I played soccer voluntarily and I have the awkward pictures to prove it. My favorite year was when I on the Purple Cobras team - besides having an awesome name, we were actually pretty decent. We were going to be able to go to the playoffs/championships/whatever happens in soccer if we won just one more game. We tried our best, but we could only tie, and in the end the other team had had a better season so they got to go to the next round (for the love of all that is holy, someone please tell me what it's called in soccer).

We were so disappointed, and I remember some of the girls on the other team had not been the most gracious winners. This prompted a time-honored tradition: a bunch of girls talking smack about the girls that wronged them. The highlights of the conversation were how the other team had obviously cheated and how they had probably only won because they had stupid ponytails.

I was getting a few good insults in when my mother broke away from the group she was talking to, pulled me aside, and said only, "You are being ugly." Before you call retro-active DFACS, my mother was not commenting on the rockin' shade of purple we got to wear that year, or the matching, perfectly round purple glasses I was sporting. She wasn't even talking about my giant hairbow, which I think would have been acceptable because that thing was pretty gross-looking. That was my mom's way of telling my siblings and me that we were being mean or rude, and that we were to stop it.

I grew up with that phrase being said so often that it never occurred to me to think about it - it always equated in my head with "Don't be mean" and that was that. But I think there's more to it than that. Or less, depending on how you look at it.

When I am mean, I am ugly. When I disrespect my parents, I am ugly. When I cut someone off in traffic or gossip about them or break a promise to them, I am ugly. When I judge someone and silently thank God that I am obviously so much better off, I am ugly. When I am doing anything but living for Jesus, I am ugly. I am ugly and there is no way to hide it. We all hear that beauty comes from the inside. I think the same goes for ugliness. Because it doesn't matter how many great things we've done in a day, or how often we deign to be nice to someone we don't really thinks deserve it - without Jesus, we are ugly. Even with Jesus, we can be ugly (see soccer story above...) when we forget to show His love to others. And it seems almost silly to say, because even as I'm writing this it just seems so obvious. But for something so obvious, I sure do have trouble living it. Being ugly is easy. Being pretty is hard. But I think it's worth the effort.

Anyway. I just wanted to share that. And to, you know, call you ugly.

PS Shout-out to Miss Thelma, who is definitely not ugly and who a) called me perfect today and b) told me she actually reads this... thanks, Miss Thelma! If any of you see her at church, give her a high-five and some candy.

No Hablo Espanol

Apparently I look Hispanic. While normally this could turn into an excellent opportunity to mess with people, the joke is on me, because my faux-spanic looks usually backfire.

For instance, these cute little old ladies go around our neighborhood, inviting people to church. I'd seen them around but hadn't ever spoken to them. One day, they knocked on our door! Even though I like the church I attend, I always enjoy talking to other people about different churches, so I was excited. I opened the door, and they start speaking to me in Spanish. They got about two sentences in before the confused look on my face clued them into the fact that I had no idea what was going on. One of them asked, "Do you speak Spanish?" I said, no, sorry, and they both straightened up and looked around uncomfortably. "Oh," she said. "We're only inviting people who speak Spanish. Sorry!" And with that, they turned around and walked away.

Okay, I get it - they were starting a Hispanic church and if you didn't speak Spanish, you might not get as much out of attending. But they were literally holding a Bible in their hands and didn't once bring up Jesus. I mean, I already know Jesus, but did she know that? Nope...I felt a little cheated.

Another time, I was working retail at the mall. A man came up to me and asked if I spoke Spanish. I said no, but our manager did, and did he want me to find her? He then looks at me carefully for a very long time, and says that he's not sure if he should report me, since it's clear I speak Spanish and am lying about it.

So now I am put in the very awkward position of trying to prove that I am in fact as white as it gets (if only he could have seen me dance to "Total Eclipse of the Heart" - then he would have known for sure), except the customer is always right, but in this case I really, sincerely cannot help him. I managed to convince him I don't speak any Spanish, and he seemed to accept this. But then he kept popping up around the store, as if he was going to catch me talking to myself in Spanish or talking to a customer about the silly man I tricked earlier. He eventually left me alone, probably off to stalk some poor other girl who only spoke one language.

The last instance that comes to mind is a job I used to have with a boss who, shall we say, wasn't the sharpest tack in the drawer. She had asked me previously if I spoke any Spanish, and I was sure to tell her no, no, no, no, nooooo. So fast-forward a year when I am still working for her. She sends me an email asking me to take a call from a client later, because I have the "right skills" to interact with him. You can all see where this is going. The client only spoke Spanish. And if communicating with someone in person while speaking different languages is hard, the phone is really hard. Downright impossible, in fact. So I had to sit there on the phone and try to communicate, while the poor customer is probably starting to wonder if we're recording this conversation for a game show, until finally I remember my friend J works with me and speaks Spanish! Yay! I emailed her and she came to my rescue, and while I'm sure the client thought we were nuts, he still liked our company anyway.

So, if any of you are interested in speaking to me in Spanish, let me make it clear: If you do not want to discuss:

~your favorite color;
~how tall you are;
~how your mom is;
~where you are from;
~how nice it is to meet me;
~ or what color your hair is...


I can't help you. However, if you do wish to discuss any of these things, call me! Please be advised that this phone call will take approximately thirty seconds. Hasta luego!