Stormy Octobers

One year ago today, I awoke after what was probably the scariest night of my whole life.  Hurricane Michael had been snaking it's way up the coast, and though it was a tropical storm (or maybe even weaker) by the time it got to us, here's what it did to our home:



Honestly, that was when I knew our time here had run its course.  In the middle of the night, those trees had come crashing down, thundering on top of our roof as my oldest daughter woke up screaming, the deafening smashing coming from directly atop her bedroom.  As you can see, the trees completely blocked our door, and it was only by the grace of God that they didn't smash through the glass storm door and enter our house, where my then-two-year-old had fallen asleep on the couch.

I spent the rest of the night on the couch with her, unable to sleep, wrapping her in my arms and staring out the windows at the tall pines bending back and forth, wincing every time I heard another creak or crack under the howling wind.  We'd been considering moving for a while before that, but for me, this was the final straw.  I didn't feel safe here anymore--how could I?

We were very blessed that we weren't hurt.  A year later, there is still damage to the shingles above our doorway.  The trees have been removed from atop the roof, but they are still cut up and scattered around the yard--both the two that fell directly on our house as well as a third that fell over our driveway, lodging itself against yet another tree at a thirty-degree angle, creating a terrifying limbo-like situation that I had to drive under in order to get to work one year ago today.

My husband spent the day calling around for estimates to clean everything up.  The best one we got was over two and half thousand dollars before a friend from church helped us out for a fraction of the price.  Still, the stumps littering our yard remind me of that horrifying night.  They have every day since then.

When I was home from work that day, after discussing the situation as calmly as I could with Rashieme despite the fact that I felt a desperate need to move that day, we agreed that we would take steps to buy our own home, and if that was going to be too time-consuming or unrealistic for us, we would find a way to rent until we were ready.

Then I went inside and took a pregnancy test.

There was a very, very, very faint positive--one of those lines you could barely see.  I remember staring at it in disbelief, because though we'd been trying for a few months, I couldn't imagine that now, after all the chaos of the day, after my demand that we move, that now  we would find out we were pregnant for the fourth time (our third living child, as we lost our middle daughter to stillbirth in 2007).

I wasn't even sure it was positive, and not just a trick of my eyes--I'd brought it to Rashieme and asked him if he saw a line, and he was as unsure as I was.  In my heart though, I thought I knew--any line was a line.

I was pretty sure I was pregnant.

That night, I remember cleaning up a little in Shay's room, and I found a picture from her Sunday School class of Noah and the ark.  The picture had a rainbow, and it stated that God kept his promises.

I remember looking at that picture, at the rainbow after the storm, at the message, and wondering if God was telling me that the rainbow was coming.  That our prayers had been answered, even if the timing didn't seem ideal.

A couple days later, I took another test, and sure enough, it was a clear, unmistakable positive.

I picked Rashieme up from work that night, parking in the "reserved for parents with children" spot at the grocery store on the way home, asking if he knew what that meant.  Even though he might have suspected it from earlier that week, he seemed totally surprised at the news, and we laughed, and hugged, and it was wonderful.

Ten days later, I remember crying over that picture of Noah and the rainbow.  On October 23, we miscarried early--five weeks along.  I was shocked, because even though we'd kept the news pretty private, knowing that miscarriage is fairly common in the first trimester, I didn't really expect it to happen to us.

Not after we'd already buried one child I'd carried for six months.

It just didn't seem fair.

I wondered what about October was.  October 29 was Jasmine's due date, so every year, when the leaves change, I find myself thinking about what she would have been like.  How different my life would have been had she lived.  What she would want to be for Halloween that year, and if she and Kaliah would be close, or if maybe they'd argue all the time, being only two years apart.

Now we could add a housing disaster and a miscarriage to the list of October misfortunes.

I was struggling spiritually and emotionally, but what choice do you have except to keep moving forward?  I threw myself into my job, my family, Ravens football, church, really, anything I could find to keep myself busy... but I tried to be honest with God about my frustrations, my disappointment, my anger.

We conceived again on New Year's Day.  I'd never thrown out that Noah's ark picture, and I remember having come across it again shortly after that test turned positive.  This is it, I had thought.  This is our rainbow after the storm.  It made sense to me--because, obviously, if the first pregnancy had been viable, we wouldn't have been able to receive this new blessing.  New Year, New child.  This must have been the way it was supposed to be.

And then, on January 24th, on the exact same day as in the October pregnancy (the first day of week five), I miscarried again.

This time, "rage" is the term that most accurately describes the way I experienced the loss.  It happened at work, and I remember driving home and just sobbing and yelling.  I was done trying to rationalize.  I didn't have it in me then to be consoled by anything.  I just cried all the way home, and when I burst through the door and collapsed in my husband's arms, that was when I had told him we had lost another baby.  He didn't know we were pregnant for the fifth time--I'd ordered a onesie to surprise him with the announcement--it arrived a couple days later.

We went to see a specialist soon after that--more than anything else, it was because I didn't think I could withstand continuing to go through losses.  We wanted to make sure there wasn't a medical reason that should keep us from trying, something putting us at risk for abnormal pregnancies.

Thankfully, there was nothing terribly wrong.  Most of you know that we're now pregnant yet again--and that this time, I'm 25 weeks along (one more week than when we lost Jasmine), and everything looks good.

Here's something that's truly amazing--at least, I think it is.  Our due date?

January 24th.  The exact same day we miscarried most recently.

Some people would say that's just a coincidence.  Maybe they're right, but I don't see it that way.  One of the ways that I have consistently seen God show up for me throughout my life is in dates and numbers.  Case in point--out of all the possible days Shay could have been born, she shares a birthday with my late father.  The very first time it snowed after she was born?  That was the date my father passed away (or as I prefer to think of it, the anniversary of the day he entered heaven).  Here's another one--for a long time, running was a big part of my life.  The first time I ever entered a race (which I was very nervous about doing), my bib number was 316.  John 3:16 is the most well-known verse in the entire Bible:  "For God so loved the world, He gave his only begotten son, so that any who believe in Him would not perish, but would have ever lasting life."  As I was wondering what I was doing as a non-athlete who had somehow arrived at the questionable decision to show up and pay money to run against actual athletes, that number was confirmation for me that God approved of what I was doing.  I went on to run dozens of races after that, placing in the top three in my age group in many of them--I even ran a full-marathon the year I turned thirty.

Those little signs in the numbers and dates have always been confirmation to me that there is a God who loves me, that He has not forsaken me, that I am not forgotten.

Some people see that as naive.  Some people see that as weak, as needing to believe in something greater than one's self.

I agree with that second part--but given the choice, that's the kind of world I'd rather live in.  I don't want to live somewhere where I'm in control, even when I think it's obvious I know best.  I've messed it up too many times on my own to see that my track record is not enough to inspire confidence that I would run things better than God can and does--even the stuff I don't understand.  There are heartbreaks in this world, ones I've experienced and ones I thank God that I've been protected from, that I can't explain away.  But I don't think God calls us to do that.  I think He just calls us to trust Him in spite of them, to love Him in good times and bad, even when we're honest enough to admit that we're really hurt, truly angry, or hopelessly confused.

So as I sit here writing this, one year after waking up to the aftermath of a huge storm, and a metaphorical one that kept on raging for quite a while after--I'm choosing to be thankful.  Thankful for all the parts of that story, even the painful ones that I'd rather not have gone through.

We're buying our first home together.  There are still times when I wish it could have been different with Dad's house--when I wish I had the talent, the resources, the time to tame this forest and restore this home to something beautiful.  But the thing is, I tried.  I put in thousands over the years, and it was always one step forward, two steps back.  I'll miss the memories--sitting and looking out at the trees, remembering how my neighbors and brothers and I ran through the woods and jumped on the trampoline and played in the tree house.  I remember swinging on the porch on the rope swing Daddy built us, swinging in the yard in the tire swing.

But the thing is, I'm not my dad.  I tried my best, and it's just too much property for my family.  Sometimes things don't go the way you think they will.

But sometimes that's because there's something even better around the corner.

Here's a photo of Shay in her brand new bedroom:



And here's to making new October memories:  we close on the 25th of this month, and I'm looking forward to a future where Octobers are less stormy... but whatever is in store for us, I'm hoping to remain grateful.

By the way, we decided on Ivy's middle name:  Faith.

Ivy Faith McFadden.

Failed Cakes, High School, and Other Disasters.

So, my oldest daughter is officially a middle school graduate.

Don't ask me how that happened.  One minute I was this nervous expectant mother in my early twenties, unsure of what the future held, terrified of what it would mean to be a mom.

These days, I'm only slightly less terrified.

But somehow, we made it.  Through preschool, kindergarten, elementary school, and now--middle school.  The middle school days are over.

To celebrate, I baked a cake.

Now, one thing you should know about me before reading on:  I do enjoy experimenting in the kitchen, but baking is not my forte.  I make the world's best chocolate chip cookies--they're huge and soft and chewy and ohmyword delicious.  But that's all I got.

Still, this cake came in a box, so I figured it couldn't be that hard.  I read the directions.  I mixed the batter.  I baked the cake.

My daughter arrived about halfway through the process to tell me I was doing it wrong.  I showed her that I was, indeed, following the directions, and I pointed to the part on the box that gave specific instructions for using a glass baking pan, which is what I was doing.

I'm still not sure what exactly went wrong.  It may have been, as Kaliah claimed, the pan, which was square, but had slightly angled sides.  It may have been, as my mother supposes, that I used only one pan instead of creating layers (nowhere on the directions, by the way, does it claim that this is a hazard).  But here's what happened:

The timer went off.  I removed the cake from the oven.  I stuck the toothpick in and it came out clear.  I left the cake to cool.

After waiting the recommended time (fifteen minutes), I dumped the cake out of the pan and onto a cookie sheet to ice it.  Before I saw the problem, I first heard "uh-oh" from my husband, who was observing.

Turns out, the cake had not baked all the way through, despite the misleading toothpick stick.  So, the edges of the cake were done, but approximately half of the project, the half that was buried beneath the golden brown exterior, was still in a soup-like-form, and I ended up dumping a half-baked, half-battered conglomeration of gunk onto the cookie sheet.  The sea of batter spilled over that of the cake which was formed, as I gazed on in amazement.

So, what now?  I did what any good baker would do. I scooped the entire mess back into the pan and threw it back into the oven, checking it every ten minutes.

Now, I did have plans that day, plans which did not allow for an extra hour of baking time for a half-finished cake.  So at some point, I removed the cake from the oven, pressed FIRMLY on the previously undone portion with my finger to make sure it had actually turned from a liquid to solid this time, and then threw the whole mess into the refrigerator. 

In the meantime, in typical high-schooler fashion, my daughter came out to laugh at me, declared that she would not be eating any of the cake (indeed, pleaded with me not to "make her"), and then proceeded to consume some of the icing straight out of the can.

The following day, I yanked everything out of the fridge to try again, including the icing my daughter had opened.  I ruthlessly scraped all of the cake out of the pan, spatula style, mashing it down into a sort-of-square as I remolded it into a not even kind of pleasing shape.  I then slathered it with icing, which of course, was not easy to spread, as both cake and topping were cold.  Bits of cake crumbs were spreading along with the icing.  Other portions of the cake were crumbling beneath my attempts to cover it in frosting.  My three-year-old arrived to look on eagerly, stroking my arm and restoring my ego as she breathed, "Oooh!  It's so beautiful!"

Mind you, this cake was the opposite of beautiful.  This was the most unbeautiful cake that ever was.

But my sweet Shay continued to look on in awe, exclaiming, "It's so beautiful!  And you're so gorgeous!"

And at that point, I couldn't help but laugh until I was crying.  Because in my head, I still had the vision of yesterday, when the goop of uncooked batter was splattering all over the broken pile of baked cake as I stared on in horror.

But today, Shay saw only a beautiful cake.

So we continued to cover it in chunky cool frosting, and then I let Shay shower it with blue sprinkles in an attempt to further beautify my disaster.

Despite the less than smooth path to creation, it ended up tasting a-okay.

Even Kaliah said so.  And no, I did not force her to eat it.

Attitude for Days

My church has begun an awesome new series entitled "Habits of Success."  Last week, Pastor Brian spoke to us about having a humble heart, which he characterized in many ways, but the attributes that stuck out to me were yearning for continued learning, thinking of yourself less (not thinking less of yourself), and serving others.  Yesterday, the sermon addressed the second habit of success:  having a positive attitude.

This message really resonated with me because I immediately understood its importance.  There have been times in my life that I think I did a decent job maintaining a positive attitude in the face of difficulties.  Just as often (if not more often), I've blown it completely, falling easily into the woe-is-me mentality when confronted with heartache, injustice, or challenges (whether events be entirely circumstantial or caused in-part or in-totality by myself).

One thing Pastor Brian said that I thought was noteworthy was this:  "I don't believe in mind over matter.  But I do believe what's on your mind matters."

Wow.

He went on to explain that you can't control every thought that knocks on your door--but you don't have to invite them all in and give them a seat in the living room.

As someone who has struggled with depression in the past, I do believe there are medical and psychological factors at play there, too.  I used to get myself so worked up dwelling on things that were completely out of my control, working myself into a darker and darker place as I replayed situations in my mind, trying to imagine different outcomes, and blaming myself for both my own shortcomings and many of the ways other people had failed me.  Some of those negative thought patterns might have been present because of the way I was wired; some of it may have been that I waited too long to seek medical help to manage challenging life situations (I've known that I have a tendency toward major depression for years--so why soldier on alone when it's obvious that a visit to a counselor may have been in order?).

But no matter how you are wired, I think Pastor Brian is right.  We all have the ability to control, at least to some extent, what happens in us, even when we don't have control over what happens to us (I'm paraphrasing the sermon again... for a much more inspiring version, you can watch it here).  I've worked hard on trying to rewire myself to be more positive over the past several years, and those who are closest to me could still tell you without hesitation that even so, I've got a lot of work left to do!

Inspired by yesterday's sermon, I spent a few more minutes exploring scripture to find additional passages about attitude.  (There, now even if you check out Pastor B's sermon-- which I highly recommend, as it will no doubt be much more powerful than my summary--you get a bonus for visiting my page today).  Here's what I came up with:

"...whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me—practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you." Philippians 4:8-9
I love this verse.  We're surrounded by such negativity on a daily basis, but if we take the time to look around us, we can find truth and honor, fairness and purity (okay, yes, sometimes you really have to look!).  The "worthy of praise" part is a little easier for me.  I don't enjoy jogging as much as I used to (truth), but when I make the time to go and get alone with my thoughts, it's easy to look around and find, in my scenery, that which is "worthy of praise."  And while I hate running on a treadmill, the truth is, even if I don't have the sky, the coast, or nature's countless other splendors in front of me to be thankful for, I don't have to think very long to recall dozens of times that God has shown up for me in my times of need--and more than that, my blessings are pretty much infinite, even when I'm in the midst of a legitimate storm.  I'm thankful for my husband, my children, a roof over my head, a vehicle that runs, a career that I love, multiple talents and hobbies that allow me to live out my passions, and the list goes on and on... summer days!  Herrs sour cream and onion potato chips.  Chocolate.  Roller coasters.  As long as you're breathing, you can find something (even many somethings) worthy of praise.

"Do all things without grumbling or questioning, that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and twisted generation, among whom you shine as lights in the world." Philippians 2:14-15

This one's a struggle for me (I imagine it may be for most of us, at least in certain situations in our lives).  "Without grumbling" reminds me that just because I can complain about something, doesn't mean I should!  So, when faced with challenging situations in which my natural response is to grumble about factors beyond my control, I am trying my hardest to remember this verse.  I view the "questioning" in terms of questioning authority--because I do believe the God who created us loves our inquisitive nature, and wants us to question the world around us, particularly when it comes to analyzing our imperfect selves, and resulting imperfect systems.  But in situations where a supervisor tells us or a spouse requests us to do something, even something unpleasant, so long as we don't have moral objections, I believe the lesson here is similar to Nike's slogan--just do it.

"And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him." Colossians 3:17

I've heard it said before that we should have an attitude of gratitude.  And if more people believed this, imagine how pleasant our daily interactions would be!  I think it is entirely possible to continue to strive for more, to pursue admirable goals, to refuse to be satisfied with where you currently are in life... all while remaining thankful for what you do have, what you have accomplished, and even looking for the lessons in the trials you are currently undergoing, or those from the past which you will probably not ever fully understand.  I think it is a good practice to be content, but not complacent.  And that is something I strive for everyday.  What's more, if you're really working as a representative of Jesus Christ, how much more likely are you to achieve what you set out to do?

Pastor Brian began this series by sharing several popular definitions of success, including one of his own:  Success is accomplishing all that God created me to be and do.  My prayer for you this week is that you accomplish all God created you to be and do over these next few days.  And if you enjoyed this, and you're local, please join us for service next Sunday!  It's Mother's Day, so it's a great day to visit--we've got muffins for moms and free professional family photos.  :) Visit Oak Ridge Baptist's website for more info, and have a blessed week!

The Preciousness of Patience

Scrolling through my Facebook feed last night, I came across this beautiful sentiment:

And I thought, wow!  That is such a sweet and amazing gesture.

I also wished it would have been practiced at several of the weddings I attended throughout my time as a single mother (one of which, I now admit with chagrin, I straight up dove for the bouquet, basically colliding with and fighting for the bouquet with another bridesmaid.  I was proud of winning it at the time, though I banged up my knees, arms, and probably the other girl, a little).

This got me reflecting on patience.

That story to me is funny now that I am happily married.  It was also funny back then, I imagine, watching grown women battling for a bunch of flowers over some crazy superstition, which clearly has no merit (it was years after catching this supposed symbol of good luck before I finally tied the knot).

But it also struck a nerve with me, now, looking at this beautiful idea in comparison with the silly games we play at weddings (and I'm not knocking the game, really--I threw my own bouquet and enjoyed doing so--and my now-sister-in-law caught mine, so that was pretty cool!).  

It struck a nerve because I was so worried back then.  I knew while I was single that I would have to be patient, and yet, I was doing desperate stuff like tackling bridesmaids.

I used to pray for patience.  I'm reminded these days that I still need to.

Patience is an area of my life that constantly needs attention; I constantly require God's direction.  When I was with Rashieme in my early twenties, I was impatiently waiting for a proposal.  When our relationship fell apart, I impatiently struggled to adjust to single life, wondering if God had anyone for me.

It was when I stopped trying to force things to happen, took a step back, and finally decided to trust God--that was when what I wanted most of all came to fruition.  When we do allow patience--not complacency--to fill our lives, I have found that God often blesses us beyond our desires.  I thought Rashieme and I had broken our relationship so badly it was never going to be able to be repaired.  But as I prayed for a Godly man and focused on making myself into the woman I thought that sort of man would deserve to be with, God showed me that Rashieme was becoming exactly the kind of husband I'd always dreamed of.  I am fortunate enough to be married to the one I've loved since seventeen, despite all the ways I'd messed that relationship up before, when my priorities were selfish (not horrible, but definitely selfish).

I'm still growing.  I'm still selfish at times.  I still need more patience!

I have been struggling with patience in the area of my writing for several years.  I know God gave me this talent and desire for a reason, yet I have consistently run into dead ends on my journey to publication.  But I am choosing to believe that God's pauses are not "no"s.  They're just "not yet"s.  And in the meantime, I've tried to focus on what is within my control, getting back up and dusting myself off, and continuing to try, asking God to clarify how I can better honor Him and care for others in my quest.  This last part, I think, is the key.

My home is another area that requires patience.  My dad's property is the definition of one step forward and two steps back.  I get frustrated sometimes, because I knew my father would have known what to do, figured out how to prevent problems I'm currently trying to fix.  Living in over an acre of trees (it's like the lottery, guessing which one is going to fall next.  But unlike the lottery, odds are are pretty good that a tree is going to come crashing down) in a fifty-year-old home when you have little to no talent, time, or money to devote to the types of responsibilities this kind of property entails is, quite honestly, exhausting and frustrating.  But I'm making up my mind to try and do my best each day, and look to God for direction about what comes next.  I'm asking the Lord to help me be less materialistic, even as I ask Him to make a way for us to create a safe and beautiful home for our children.  And I try to worry about what is within my control, and minimize my complaining about what is not (and this is definitely an area I am still working on.  Just ask my husband, who gets the brunt of my complaints!).

I believe that God also uses the little stuff to teach patience, though.  I said this aloud to my daughter, yesterday, as we were preparing to go to Dunkin Donuts.  I love Dunkin, and I have the app (which, in my opinion, is less than amazing).  But I try to use the app every time we go, because I want my purchases to result in points, which can be redeemed for free coffee.

Yesterday, though I've done it hundreds of times before, the app was simply not letting me add more funds.  

I mean, if I went through the series of steps once, I probably did it a couple dozen times.  Hitting the same screens, typing in the same numbers, waiting...

And, nothing.

And then, randomly, on a last ditch attempt right outside the restaurant... 

It went through.

And I said to Kaliah-- "God does this stuff on purpose. He's testing me on these little annoying things, because I continue to fail."

I was half-joking, half serious.  Do I think God uses the little stuff to talk to us and get our attention?  Absolutely.  Do I wonder if the Great Almighty orchestrated a deliberate technological glitch in a Donut app to teach me patience?

I don't think God causes all things.  But I think He uses all things.

How do I know that I still need to learn how to better exercise patience in the little stuff?

Case in point--this was a couple months ago.  I call this story "The Great Fax Machine Debacle."

One day, I needed to request that an old doctor of mine fax some paperwork to a new doctor I was seeing.  Don't get me started on why they can't just email this crap by now--you can't tell me that secure servers that deliver information to someone's private password-protected inbox are less able to be infiltrated than random pieces of paper sitting in a fax machine's delivery tray.  But anyway, I digress.

Here is how I easily managed to complete the required documentation process in several simple steps:

1.  Look up old doctor's number on the internet.

2.  Call number.  Realize they are closed, even though it's only 3 o'clock.

3.  Repeat step one several days later.  Call and speak with a nice lady who tells you that before she can send info to the doctor, you have to fill out a form.  Ask her to email it; she says it needs to be faxed.

4.  While on the phone with said nice lady, email our heroic administrative goddess, asking her for our work fax number.  She answers within seconds, because she's awesome like that.

5.  Give woman on phone number.  Figure the ordeal is coming to a close.

6.  Run upstairs from your office to the office where the fax machine lives.  Successfully obtain paper that has been faxed.

7.  Fill out form.  Check document for return fax number and assume it is the number that has been printed on the edge of the paper during the faxing process.

8.  Get crash course in sending fax on this particular model from administrative goddess.  Jam paper several times.  Finally get fax sent.

9.  Go downstairs to leave for the day.  Gather up belongings in office and head for the door.

10.  Stop to answer the phone.  Find out you did not fax the return form back to the intended doctor's office, but rather, a random pharmacy whose number, during the fax process, was printed on the edge of the documents you received for no apparent reason.

11.  Ask kind pharmacist if he happens to know the correct fax number for said doctor.

12.  Learn that he does not.

13.  Call the doctor back.  This time, get referred to an answering service.

14.  Wait on hold until answering service picks up.  Tell answering service you need the fax number for the doctor.

15.  Obtain the fax number.  Write it down on a post-it.

16.  Go back upstairs with papers to be faxed and fax number.

17.  Drop post-it in hallway.  Realize you dropped post-it in hallway when an attentive colleague calls down the hallway after you, "You dropped this."

18.  Try to refrain from dissolving into hysterics as you imagine yourself ashamedly returning to administrative goddess's office to once again attempt the faxing process without the fax number.

19.  As you re-fax document, reflect on how what should have already been accomplished has, instead, taken you nineteen steps.  Jam paper several times before effectively sending the fax.  Imagine yourself flying into a rage and destroying the office, starting with hurling the fax machine across the room--but don't stop there.  Visualize yourself picking up and throwing multiple items (including but not limited to books, the desk phone, mail from office mail boxes, and the trash can) all over the room in a fit of fury.  It's a fantasy, so go ahead and imagine yourself toppling the bookcase and smashing the windows as well.

20.  Smile and say goodbye to the administrative goddess.

21.  Go home and enjoy the weekend.

22.  Return to work the following Monday and receive a voicemail from the new doctor's office, who claim that the old doctor's office did not send them your records, but instead, requested your records from the new doctor be sent to them (which makes zero sense, because you are not a current patient at the old doctor's, so why would they want your records--that you don't even have, because you are a NEW patient who has yet to even see the new doctor!).

23.  Call the old doctor's. Learn that you filled out the paperwork incorrectly, putting the new doctor's info in the old doctor's spot, and vice versa, hence explaining why the old doctor asked the new doctor for your records instead of providing the new doctor with your history.

24.  Ask politely to have records sent, rather than requested, explaining that you are no longer a patient with the old doctor, and have not been in twelve years.

25.  Learn that you must fill out paperwork again.

26.  Try not to cry.

27.  Explain that you struggled mightily with the fax machine last week and that you need the information sent before Wednesday.  Ask them to please just send what they need to via email.

28. Learn that, once again, email is not as secure as a piece of random paper.  Also learn that you have a thirty dollar balance that needs to be paid to your old doctor.

29.  Get transferred and pay balance via credit card after pleading with first person on the phone that you will re-fax everything.  Get her word that she will send documents now while you are preparing to re-fax.

30.  Realize you no longer have the fax number.

31.  Take a break from all this, because you have an actual job to do.  Go teach a class.

32.  Return to office and call old doctor.  Ask for and receive fax number.  Again.

33.  Re-fax documents and hope for best.

34.  Go to new doctor on Wednesday.  Learn that old doctor did not fax documents.

And, there you have it, folks.

Because I did not smile through these 34 steps.  Because I did not model Christianity through this process (though I also didn't cuss up a storm, which I think deserves at least some kudos).  Because I felt my hair turning grayer and imagined myself engaging in destruction of property.

Because of all these reasons, I know I still need more patience.

May your day today contain fewer aggravations than the aforementioned example.  But in the event that you are being tested, remember:  

We all are.

God uses the little stuff, too.

And I'm just trying to do everything with more patience and reflection than I would have yesterday.  The big stuff.  The little stuff.  The aggravations and celebrations.

All of it.

Have a Happy Tuesday.  May you find the wonder in this week, even if you're tested heavily, in matters large or small.

The Wild, Wild West of Parenting

Parenting is hard.

Anyone who is telling the truth will tell you that (unless they aren't parents.  Or unless they are parents, but they aren't spending enough time with their kids).

Don't get me wrong--it's worth it.  1000% worth it.  And sometimes it is easy, and sometimes everything is wonderful.

But just as often, as a mom, I'm faced with decisions I don't know how to make.  I'm stuck questioning myself after I've made a choice.  I'm wondering if I'm messing it all up most of the time.

But I've written about that before.  And in case you missed it, my great big takeaway has been that if you are trying your best for your child, then that is enough.  It has to be.

Our children don't need perfect parents--they just need parents who love them, and give themselves to their kids day after day.  Of course we're going to make mistakes along the way.  But if we're willing to admit them and learn from them, that's really all we can ask of ourselves.  Since there are no perfect people, there are no perfect parents (even if that mom down the street bakes gluten-free everything that still tastes delicious, and even if her bod looks rockin' in her yoga pants, and even if her kids are well-behaved in church each Sunday, and each child has mastered a different specialty in sports, music, and/or academics by age 12.  No perfect moms or dads out there--none.  They don't exist).

But that's not what I wanted to write about today.

Today, I want to be honest about parenting a teenager.  Because that's a topic I haven't tackled before.  But before I get started:

Full disclosure, my teenager is amazing.  She is goodhearted, sweet, and earns grades that are higher than both mine and her father's ever were throughout middle school.  She is a talented musician, an extremely gifted artist, and a helpful big sister.  She cares about people and loves animals.

Despite all her wonderful qualities, I still feel like there are times we are living on completely different planets, and I have no idea how to relate to her anymore.  You know the saying, Women are from Venus, Men are from Mars? 

They should add Teenagers are from Pluto.  Because that's how far away from her I feel sometimes.

When I became a parent at the relatively young age of 22, almost 23, I worried about the immediate:  I'd never changed a diaper.  I didn't know how I'd adjust to having a kid and trying to finish graduate school.  I worried about how my relationship with my husband (then boyfriend) would change.  I analyzed my own spiritual life, recognizing how messed up I was in terms of my life priorities, and I started rearranging my life to try to better honor God, knowing that I had the biggest task of my life ahead of me:  to be a role model for someone else.

But that last part, the role model part--somehow, somewhere along the way, when my oldest daughter was just a sweet little girl who worshiped me, who thought I could do no wrong--somehow I found myself believing that lie along with her.  I'm not saying your best isn't good enough--it absolutely is!  But for me, so much of my oldest's childhood was spent in a haze of innocence, with her not questioning or pushing me, that when it finally started happening around the cusp of adolescence, I found myself completely unprepared.

It's the Wild Wild West of parenting.

Because practically overnight, your adorable little angel who has placed you on a pedestal has realized that you're a real person who makes real mistakes and you might not belong up there.

And of course, children should still respect their parents. But as they get older and form a more complete view of who we are, with all their front row seats of the mistakes we sometimes keep confined to our own homes, I'm guessing most of them begin to realize exactly how far from perfect we are.

And this realization comes amid the new boundaries teens want to test.  It comes amid a sea of hormone changes and raging emotions.  It comes with wanting to date.  With buckling down in school because college is on the horizon.  It comes with body issues and self-esteem concerns.

It comes with freaking technology!!

I guess every parent ever has always felt that the world was changing, that they grew up in a different world than their children are being raised in, because, let's face it--it has been!  And we do all experience a different world than the generation before us.  My parents struggled to keep up with computers and the danger of the internet the same way my husband and I fret over smart phones and apps and social media.  And even before technology took over the world, talk to your grandparents:  Didn't they distrust the changes in music, in fashion, in the way young people viewed society and their role within it?

The opportunities are endless, but the dangers and missteps real.  And when I became a parent, my worry about being a role model was secondary to my worries about how do I feed my baby--breast or bottle?  How do I make sure I keep her safe from SIDS, and how do I baby proof the apartment, and what do I need to do to make sure she eats a healthy diet as a toddler?  And I'm not saying that these aren't important concerns.  I'm saying that in my naivety, I figured they would be the biggest issues.  That once I got her safely through early childhood, we would sail through adolescence and into adulthood in a smooth, sitcom-worthy way, with every conflict happily resolved inside thirty minutes.

I was and still am completely unprepared to navigate teenage life. 

And I am doing my best--I talk with my teenager daily.  I express my concerns when I have them.  I monitor her technology use, and try to stay on top of the influences that I know I can't eliminate, but should at least be aware of.

But it's hard in the Wild, Wild West.

I pray about it a lot.  I try to be a good role model, and I also try to be honest.

I'm also pulled in a quite opposite direction in daily life, as my youngest daughter is only three.  So my days are divided, schizophrenic almost, in the sense that I'm balancing the older child's hurt feelings from a teenage argument with the younger one's need to learn to share.  I'm in between conflicts over how often to practice the clarinet and guilt over whether or not my younger one is being read to enough (because she does love her iPad, and technology influences tiny children, too).  I'm taking turns playing the fashion police and negotiating with a toddler regarding administrating antibiotics.

I sometimes want to laugh at how clueless I was as to how hard this stage would be.  I think my relationship with my own mother, always close, set a false precedent for me, helped me to form an idealized view of what all mother-daughter relationships should be.  I should have known from my time teaching middle school that my own relationship with my mom was an exception, and not a norm.

And even though we were close, I was still far from a perfect teenager, just like I am far from perfect as a woman, wife, mother, and person.

So as I give myself grace for the motherhood journey, I need to remember to do the same for my daughter throughout her teenage voyage.  I need to realize she is going to make mistakes, just like I did, just like we all do.  I need to try to instill values in her to guide her away from the biggest temptations, the most dangerous choices.  But I also need to recognize that she needs space.  She needs to not feel unrealistic expectations from me.  How hypocritical it is, so often, when we realize our own imperfections but force our children to adhere to a higher standard.

I'm working on me.  Far more than I ever thought I would have to as a parent.  When I became a mom, I thought it would be all about growing up another person.

Turns out, it's about growing us both up.  And though I was young when that little voice first called me mommy, I don't think this is a lesson I would have or could have learned any differently, no matter how old I might have been before entering motherhood.

The Wild West is always going to be unknown, until you step into it.

Still

I'm no poet, but every once in a while, I like to try my hand at poetry.  This topic's been tugging at my heart lately, even though it happened nearly twelve years ago.  I call this one, "Still."

Still
You were still
No moving
No crying
Still

Still
Still I held you
Still I loved you
Still I wept
Still

Still I wonder
Still I miss you
Still I imagine your face
Your eyes, your smile, your nose
I see you in my dreams
Your curls, your hands, your toes
I remember the butterfly kicks
Would you be short, like your older sister?
Tall, like your younger one?
Maybe in between them--average height?
You were, after all, the middle sister,
My middle child.

Still I cry, sometimes.
Still I miss you
Though I never knew you--

But I knew you.

Still remembering
The hope I had
Still wishing
Still wanting
Still

Still I cry
Still I mourn
Still I remember

Still
Still...

Still I smile
Still, I hold your sisters
Still, I love blue skies and sunshine
And sometimes, the feel of raindrops
Still, I celebrate your life
Still, I thank God
For you.

Still.

On April Fool's Day, Blessings, and Hardships...

It's April Fool's Day!

Today, I'm thinking about how far my husband and I have come (no kidding).  On April Fool's Day fourteen years ago, Rashieme called his mom, and despite my frantic protests, he left a message on her home-phone answering machine (yes, we had those back then) that informed her I was pregnant.

I was, by the way.

And due in June.  And we hadn't told her yet, because we were terrified, especially me.  We were young.  We hadn't been a couple very long.  We were living together out of wedlock.  I wasn't confident that his mother liked me very much, because Rashieme had flown down to Florida to visit me for a week the previous spring, and instead of flying back home, he'd ended up staying with me, until we both returned to Maryland that fall when I got into graduate school.  He'd went home for a couple months before moving back in with me when we got our first apartment (after we'd realized I was pregnant).  If the tables had been turned, and I had been Schelita, I probably wouldn't have approved of the woman who lured her son to Florida, then stole him away to another county when he finally came back home.

I remember freaking out as I watched Rashieme record that message, and when he hung up the phone, I was beside myself.  What was she going to do when she figured out this wasn't an April Fool's joke?

Truth is, she responded the way I hope I will, if I'm ever placed in a similar situation:  She didn't judge us at all.  She didn't lecture us, aside from the fact that she scolded us for not telling her earlier.  She was in love with that baby the moment she found out about her, and she immediately got to work buying everything imaginable for Kaliah.  Clothes, toys, a crib for her house so Kaliah could spend the night.  From the day Kaliah entered the world until Madea left us, Schelita loved her unconditionally.  They had an unbreakable bond.

And it all started with an "April Fool's" announcement.

I see some women posting on social media, encouraging others not to participate in any sort of joke pregnancy announcement--and I get it.  Pregnancy is not a joke.  Some women try for years to get pregnant to no avail; others suffer one or more miscarriage.  It makes for a touchy subject, and I ,of all people, would never tell another woman how she should feel about the matter.

Our stillborn Jasmine Celine was born in 2007.  I carried her for six long months, about five of which I knew she was sick.  I held her for one day, when they baptized her in the hospital room.  I picked out one soft, pink blanket to wrap her in.  I chose her shiny pink coffin.

This didn't stop me from participating in a similar April Fool's announcement when we learned we were expecting with Shay.

It was Rashieme's idea, again--he wanted to tell his mom the same way he had the first time, ten years ago.  And I agreed, because for us--it seemed fitting.  So we drove to her house, and this time, instead of panicking that she wouldn't believe us, that she'd resent me for playing games with the truth, we eagerly showed her the photo on the my phone of the positive pregnancy test.  I still remember her smiling suspiciously, checking the rings I always wear, pictured in that photo, with the ones that were and still are on my finger.  It took several minutes of convincing, even though she knew we had been about to start trying.  I think it was a nice full-circle moment, considering how she found out about Kaliah a decade before.

We told the rest of the world that night--I'd already told my mom shortly after I found out, and we'd already informed Kaliah she was going to be a big sister.  We'd sent her on a scavenger hunt, and the last clue was a pair of baby booties, with a sign that said, "Happy Easter!  Baby McFadden December 2015."  We texted a few other people we wanted to know before I posted the photos of Kaliah's search to Facebook--one of Kaliah holding the booties, and one of that sign.  I captioned it, "We're Pregnant!  April Fools?  Or Naw?"  I added a hashtag, "OrNaaaaaw!" (it was also cool, at the time, to say that).

I still stand by the way we told the world.  For us, it was perfect.  We've always been a family who jokes.  (Schelita especially.  When I went past my due date, she wanted me to buy a realistic-looking baby doll, cover it with jelly, get in the shower, and start yelling for Rashieme.  I, of course, said no.  You have to draw the line somewhere).

But Rashieme and I have also grown a lot.  We've suffered two more pregnancy losses--both very shortly after I found out I was expecting.  I get why some women would admonish others for making any type of joke about such a situation.  So for that reason, if our announcement about Shay offended you, and you happen to be reading this--I apologize.

But if we got to do it over again--I'd do it the same way.  It's what Schelita would have wanted.  It was exactly the kind of joke she and her son shared together, often.

I miss her everyday.

I'm sure some people would disagree with that choice.  They have the right to feel that way.  For me, every pregnancy announcement I see is bittersweet--but I don't think I've ever actually had a friend who wasn't pregnant post that they were.  Maybe my friends are just more mature than most people.  Or maybe it really isn't all that common, and all the posts telling people not to do something are addressing an issue that isn't super present.  Every year I see far more posts (several, at least) telling women not to joke about pregnancy than I see actual posts joking about pregnancies (0, by my count--unless you count my own four years ago--then I'm at 1).

Back to the bittersweet part:  I'm always happy for whoever is expecting.  I pray continuously for healthy pregnancies, for healthy babies.  I don't want any other family to go through what we have.  And I am legitimately happy for friends, colleagues, former students, family members.

But every announcement also reminds me of the three announcements I didn't make.  One because we learned our child was sick before you get to "the point" where it's recommended that you tell the outside world.  Two because the pregnancies ended even earlier.

The one child I held in my arms, that I won't get to hold again this side of heaven.  The other two I never got to hold--I never even knew if they were boys or girls.

So the me that types, "congratulations," or the me who shows up smiling, gift-in-hand at your baby shower, is still the me who is triggered by memories, the me who wonders what might have been.  You know how I told Rashieme we were pregnant last October?

I pulled into the parking spot "Reserved for those with children" at the grocery store after picking him up from work one night.  He laughed, and asked me if I was pregnant, and kissed me--we were so happy.

And in January?  I ordered a "Baby Shark" onesie.  It read, "Due due due due due due September 2019."  It arrived in the mail the day after I miscarried--so rather than announcing a pregnancy to my husband, I came home from work early, crying, announcing instead that we were experiencing yet another loss.

More and more, I see women sharing their stories about their losses.  I think that is a really healthy and beautiful thing.  For every woman who does decide to share, there is someone or some couple out there who is more private--and that's okay, too--but maybe even for those who don't want to share, they can benefit from reaching out to the woman who does feel called to tell her story.  I'm encouraged by the frequency with which women have begun writing about miscarriage and infertility. It breaks down the stigma.  It reminds us that we're not alone.  And really, that is why I'm sharing these thoughts here--not because I do or don't want you to joke about pregnancy.  Not because I want you to feel badly for me.

But because there is power in our stories.

I've written about Jasmine a lot; I talk about it some.  I share some of that writing; other pieces are more personal.  Writing about it and talking about it reminds me that I had another daughter.  That her life mattered.  That it changed me (in a really powerful and positive way, actually).

I've written far less about our losses after Shay.  Having had a few months to think about them, I am grateful that God didn't decide I should carry another non-viable pregnancy to delivery--I don't know if I'm strong enough to go through that again.

They are still raw and painful losses, though they both happened even before the heartbeats could be heard.  After the first one, I burst into tears.  It didn't feel fair to me, that I should lose another pregnancy--not after burying a child.  It felt impossibly cruel.

And when it happened again?  I felt, upon discovering I was pregnant again, that I could make peace with that October loss.  That this must be the reason--that I wouldn't have been blessed with that new child, I couldn't have met that child, if not for the earlier loss--

But then, we lost that one, too.  And honestly, I just felt enraged.  I felt that my prayers had been answered and then, that answer had been snatched away.  I was at a loss.

I'm not angry, not anymore.  I still have moments where I feel the weight of those recent losses.  I still haven't made sense of it all--I'm not sure I ever will.  I'm not sure it's my job to.

But I do know that the more I've opened up and shared, the more stories I've heard in return.  We're not alone.  I'm not the only woman to have ever lost a child, and I'm not the only woman who has lost more than one, as gut-wrenching as that is.

I do know that I am blessed to have Kaliah and Shay.

I would like to have one more child, but as time moves on, I am becoming more at peace with whatever God has for me, still praying and believing that we might add to our family once more.  I don't know why we were chosen to go through so many hardships related to conceiving, nor could I guess why so many couples endure similar journeys.

I do know that I am choosing, one day at a time, to try to be better, rather than bitter.  To hold my girls a little tighter.  To take time for the little things.  To be honest about my grief and disappointment--with others, and especially with God.

I am not a perfect mother, anymore than I am a perfect anything else.  There are no perfect women, perfect wives, perfect teachers.  No perfect friends or daughters.  There are things I would do differently in this life, if I had the opportunity to do them over again.

But I will not live my life believing I am being punished for past mistakes.  Every new day is one that the Lord has made.  There is great adventure awaiting me around every corner, and like any good father, my God knows how to give good gifts to His children.

My losses are not some sort of Karmic punishment.  They do not mean I am undeserving of another child.  And whether or not I am blessed with another baby to call my own, I will live my life in wonder of the blessings I have received.

Whatever yours are, I encourage you to do the same.  Whatever hardships you face, I'd like to remind you that while they shape you, they, alone, do not define you.

Happy April Fool's Day.  Go play a lighthearted joke on somebody.  :)



From Easter, 2015. Top:  Ten-year-old Kaliah. Bottom:  Shaylin's announcment.

A Friendly Reminder

I don't have anything profound to say today--just a simple reminder to be kind.

A week or so ago, I heard about an incident that had happened between a frustrated student and a staff member.  The student had become inpatient about a certain situation, and apparently, gave the woman with whom she'd been interacting quite a mouthful.

I began thinking about how this woman had become the brunt of a verbal lashing, when really, she was just trying to do her job.  I thought about how unfair it was to the staff member, who, from my understanding of the events, had been rather unfairly selected as the student chose her as a target to unleash her irritation.

I thought about how that student had no idea what this woman's life was like outside of their encounter, which probably lasted only several minutes long.  I thought about how, if I had been that staff member, I'd probably go home dwelling on the event, wondering what I could have done differently.  I often internalize the worst events of my day, often making them worse by replaying them over and over, trying to handle them better.  I sometimes can't let go of situations that hurt me, or situations in which I worry I caused others hurt. 

The same could be said for the student, though--who knows what she was dealing with?  I've heard it said before and I think it's worth repeating:  We're all dealing with something.  Every single person you know is either in the midst of a battle (visible or invisible), or they've just come out the other side of one.  In the rare instances where that's not the case, I imagine their numbers will be called shortly for upcoming life trials to be dispensed.  So, given that pretty much all of us are either currently dealing with, about to enter, or have just exited a difficult ordeal, doesn't it make sense that we all take a deep breath, and remember that it costs us nothing to be kind to one another?

In my life, I'm sure I've been both this student (taking out undue frustrations on whoever happens to be in front of me) and this staff member (absorbing them).  It's not fun to play either role, so I try not to let my anxieties or worries filter into daily life beyond the situations that have caused them.  I also try to remember that no one is perfect, so when I find someone being especially short with me, it's not always a personal attack.  The same rule applies in lots of situations, so I try to have a little extra grace when the cashiers aren't as friendly as I'd prefer, when the servers seem like they're struggling to keep up with a busy night, when the driver behind me passes me to cut me off, when the parent in the supermarket is fighting a losing battle with a tantrum-throwing toddler, etc., etc., etc.

Smiles aren't always expressions of happiness.  Sometimes they are the masks that hide incredible pain.  Be kind.

Clipped words, snapped responses, ignored text messages, curt glances, and even rude actions aren't always intended to be invitations to argue.  Sometimes they are side effects from dealing with grief, grappling with hardship, or being exhausted by the roller coasters of this tumultuous life.

Whenever you can, choose kindness.

Spiritual Musings

I see my writing very much related to my faith, because I see my faith related to every area of my life.  According to my Christian beliefs, God gave us all of our talents; he also instilled in us all of our passions.  So whatever talent I have as a writer is from Him.  The desire I have to write is also a direct effect stemming from how I've been wired by my Creator--at least, that's what I believe.

I try to use my gifts for the glory of God--if you didn't know, I blog for my church, and you can check that out here.  I also think that in much of my writing, you don't have to look very hard to find the theme of hope that is a hallmark of Christianity.

Having said this, though, I generally refrain from directly writing about spiritual matters--except as they pertain to events I include in my short stories or essays (and they do show up there--sometimes explicitly, sometimes more subtly).  The reason for my avoidance, in general, is I don't feel equipped.  I read devotions from Rick Warren, Beth Moore, Max Ludado, Joseph Prince, and others.  And I'm not sure that God has called me to speak with authority in the same way that they do through their writing.  I'm not a Biblical scholar.  I'm sure there are many occasions when I'd flounder in even the most basic of debates with skeptics and non-believers.

But though my area of study is not in theology, I do hold an advanced degree (a couple of them, actually).  Once upon a time, in my undergraduate days, I was trained to be a literary critic.  This was only reinforced as I continued my graduate work.  So why, I wonder, when I spent so many years in academia learning to interpret texts and defend my interpretations, do I hesitate to voice an opinion on a Biblical passage?

I think maybe it's because though I've achieved success in many worldly ways, I sometimes continue to let my failures define me.  I see myself as unqualified to insert myself in Christian conversations, because of all the times I've had a choice to make, and I chose wrong.  All the times God called me to do one thing, and I did something else.  All the times I've let doubt take over, and decided I wasn't the woman for the job.

Or maybe, I'm just really not called to write in the style of a Rick Warren or a Beth Moore.  I honestly don't know.

But as I was reading my devotion the other day, I came across this, and realized I had something to say about it.  I'd like to share it here, and I trust that you'll take what I'm saying for what it is--the humble opinion of one flawed Christian woman.

Here's the passage that got me thinking:


.
This is from Beth Moore's Believing God Day by Day:  Growing your Faith all Year Long, a wonderful book that I think I bought for myself as a pick-me-up some years ago.  I didn't start at January in the daily devotions; I just jumped right in, whatever day it was.  I think I kept it at my desk when I taught in public education, and I think I read it every weekday, and probably left it there over summer break (oops).

So I decided this year, when planning out my God time, that I would begin every day with this little book--and I have, starting January 1, 2019.  Before I get out of bed or do anything else, I read the verse and Moore's commentary.  I re-read the pages that seem to speak to me especially, and I re-read all of the verses at least a couple times.  I also read a devotion more than once if I feel it's difficult for me to relate the verse to her commentary, or if I'm struggling to follow what she's saying, or relate it to my life.

The above passage really spoke to me, for a number of reasons.  First of all, it's so counter-cultural.  For a skeptic, putting God above family is probably a really different thing to understand.  Honestly, it's a really difficult principle for me to follow, and I wonder if most Christians were being truthful, if they would confess the same--or if maybe, they are a lot more spiritual than I am.  It's just the tangible love that we feel when we hold our spouse's hand or kiss our babies is so strong and undeniable.  And the expectation is, we must put a far less tangible relationship, one that requires faith to enter, and faith to maintain, above all the others in our lives.

It is difficult for me to live this out.

Yet, while I sometimes place people above God, I do believe the truth in Moore's words here:  "My relationship with God preceded my present family and proceeded long after my mother died.  In other words, my longest and most effectual history with anyone has been with God Himself."

As I read the rest of that devotional, which invited me to think back about the memories I'd made with God, I was amazed that they did come easily:

 My early introduction to Him, when I used to attend a tiny Baptist church just a little more often than Christmas and Easter.  I felt this inexplicable sense of joy when the people in that church, most of them strangers to me, sang "Welcome/To the Family/Of the people who love the Lord."  There was something in their voices that was so honest, so warm.  It didn't matter that some of the voices were warbling and others were off-key.  There was something beautiful there.

The weeks I sat in church service in college--at the altar call, every Sunday, I felt this tugging, this pulling--this pleading, just about--every time the pastor invited any who had not received Him to come and do so now.  I can remember with vivid clarity the absolute sense of relief, the happiness in my surety, when I finally walked down the aisle to the cross one Sunday.

My baptism, not long after that.  I was nineteen.  Ironically, as I read the devotional that inspired this post, I looked up and saw the photo that I still have from that day--I'm holding my nose with my hands, I'm soaking wet, the pastor is grinning next to me--and every time I look at that picture, I remember exactly how free I felt.  That sense of joy, that I think is unique to believers.  Lest you think I stare at this picture daily--it was behind my daughter's scrapbook, which I'd happened to move, and when I looked at it after reading that devotional, that was the first time I'd seen that photo in probably a year.  Like it was God literally showing me--We've got plenty of memories.  Here's one.  See?

I remember when I was bleeding out on the operating table, just minutes after meeting my firstborn daughter.  When I realized that I was hemorrhaging--that was probably one of the most pivotal moments of my life.  You have no idea how helpless you are until you realize that you have zero control over whether or not you will live to see your next moment.  I remember praying--laying there on that table, body trembling, blood gushing.  It was odd the sense of peace I had, given the circumstances.  But there was this moment between me and God.  I started by apologizing--telling Him I was sorry for every sin I'd ever committed, all the ways I'd failed him, both big and small.  I hadn't been walking the Christian life back then--I had a lot to apologize for.  And I still had this absolute sense that He heard me.  That He forgave me.  I told Him that if it was my time, I was thankful for the years I had been given, and that I trusted Him.  But I asked him, could He please spare me?

So I could hold my daughter?

So Rashieme wouldn't have to do this alone?

And he did.  I lost three pints of blood and required a blood transfusion.  But I lived.

And what's more than that, I'm alive in Him.

My faith is the reason I believe I'll see my stillborn daughter again.  It's why I think I'll get to hug my dad in heaven.

Most importantly, I'll get to be with Jesus.

Have you ever thought about it--if He was who He said he was, and He did what He said He did--what greater love is there?  What greater love could there be?

I'm forever thankful.  For the reasons I've described here, and so many others.

 So, yes.  I am one of those of little faith.  I need to be constantly reminded that I do serve a great God, that He does care about me.  That He is real.  That He will never leave me or forsake me.  I constantly struggle to keep him first, in spite of all the ways He's showed up for me.

I know He knows I'm trying.

My family is an incredible gift.  I hope yours is, too.

But I do believe all gifts come from God, and the greatest of these is Jesus Christ.

In Pursuit of Perfection (Why Mothering with All You've Got is Sometimes All You Need)

The other day, one of my best girlfriends texted me.  We've been friends longer than many of the college students I teach have been celebrating birthdays, though life has taken us on fairly different paths.  I became a mother about ten years before she did, but when she joined the club, she did so with fervent commitment:  her two boys are only about a year apart.  Any mama who can handle this (and kudos to all of you out there who do, including my own mother, as my brothers and I were all born within about four years of each other) deserves a medal.  It's hard enough having one kid in diapers, but when you have two tiny ones, as much of a blessing as that is, it's obviously double the trouble.  By the time Rashieme and I added to our family, our oldest daughter was on the brink of middle school, so obviously, that's a totally different experience.

My friend has a somewhat unique situation though--her husband works out of town about half the year.  So not only is she dealing with the already heightened pressures and responsibilities of caring for two completely dependent human beings, but much of the time, she is doing it on her own.  I recognize that this experience is not necessarily out of the ordinary--there are many families out there where one spouse is serving our country and required to be absent from the home for months at a time.  Still other occupations require extensive travel.  And then there are those of us who are single parents, whether by choice or circumstances, with varying levels of support from the co-parent (if (s)he is still in the picture) and/or other family members.

I did the single parent thing for several years when Rashieme and I were apart.  Fortunately for me, we both were always involved in all aspects of Kaliah's life when she was younger.  We split custody without going to the court system.  We co-parented well, even when our relationship with each other was quite broken.

My friend's experience as the only parent in the home for a good chunk of her time reminds me of my days as a single mama, even though she and her husband are "separated" for an entirely different reason, and their relationship is as strong as ever.  But I think about how often, she doesn't get a break.  How she is the one in the trenches through diapering and stomach bugs, she is the one dealing with the monotony of laundry and bottles and meal prep, she is the one who must be on the go from start to finish all day long, often without fifteen minutes for herself for a shower, or perhaps even five minutes without interruption to pee in peace.

When Rashieme and I went through our time apart, we were 100% on when it was our turn to be with our daughter.  But we also got a break when it was the other parent's turn.

For me, the break was both good and bad.  I missed my daughter terribly (and Rashieme, for that matter).  But I also had time to myself that I probably wouldn't have otherwise had to read, go out with my girlfriends, or enjoy a glass of wine with my favorite TV show.

I recognize that for many of the single parents out there, those who are widowed or those whose former partners are not involved, a week off is not a reality.  It's similar for my friend--she is a full-time mama when her husband is away, and though he is an amazing father and shares the parenting responsibilities when he returns, she is still a full-time mama when he is home, PLUS her attention is divided as she strives to be a supportive wife.

As I think about the challenges she faces and the blessings she enjoys, I realize there are ups and downs to just about every situation.  With Rashieme and I, we basically are in a polar opposite situation.  He is the stay at home dad, but my schedule is also quite flexible.  I try to give him as much of a break from the hands-on nitty-gritty as I can when I'm home, and he also is patient and understanding if I need to stay an extra hour at the office to catch up on stuff, or if I'm spent for the day, he tells me to go to bed early, even if he was the one at home with the kids all day.  I love it, and it works for us, but we also don't have near the financial security as many couples our age, given that my occupation, teaching, which I love, is not typically thought of as lucrative enough to enable one to be a primary breadwinner.  We make it work, and we love our lives, as I am sure my friend with two under the age of four loves her life.

But all this to say:  No matter how many kids you have, no matter what your marital status, no matter how old the children are, or whether you work or stay home:

Parenting is hard.

When my friend texted me, she shared her very real frustrations upon stumbling upon a latest piece of parenting advice, some well-intentioned guideline that recommended a perhaps surprising number of hours spent outside per day.  As all of us moms probably think, but not all of us probably admit to, her main reaction was basically:  Well, that's great in theory.  But with everything else I'm expected to do, when the bleep and how the bleep am I supposed to make that happen?

Which got me thinking.

There are so many ridiculous do's and do not's in mothering, most of them stemming from reasonable ideas and legitimate desires to keep our children healthy and happy.  But our culture blows them so out of proportion that eventually, even if you are as confident as Mary Poppins in your child-caring abilities, you may find yourself questioning your capability as a mom.

Because all of the guidelines that are out there, even the most reasonable ones, are basically impossible to follow when you try to follow them all.  Some of these best practices contradict other solid information, but even the guidelines that don't violate other suggestions cannot possibly be adhered to all of the time, in conjunction with all the others.

We put so much pressure on ourselves as moms.  A lot of this comes from our culture, which encourages perfection and achievement across all areas of our lives.  We feel it especially when it comes to our kids, because they are (and should be) our most important responsibilities on this planet.

So in thinking of the never ending onslaught of well-meaning advice that comes from parenting experts, family members, onlookers, educators, and loud mouths on social media, most of it containing at least some semblance of reason, I offer the following mockery, in an attempt to illustrate just how crazy we can make ourselves when we try too hard to do everything right.  Lest you be offended, let me first say that the following list is intended as a JOKE, and yes, I do realize that most (not all) of what I've written here does poke fun at legitimate advice, and that if you do some of the things on this list (within reason), I am not trying to attack your parenting.  I'm merely trying to point out that at the end of the day, all of the do's and don't's in the world can be an exhausting, overwhelming, and sometimes contradictory bottomless pit of information that would be an easy recipe to drive any mother bonkers.  The vast majority of suggestions can be attempted or disregarded, and that is a personal decision.  I think you should do what works best for you as a mom, with what works within your parenting style, and for your kids, as they are unique and beautiful human beings.

But because I couldn't stop myself, I assembled a list of 20 Suggestions to help you Be the Perfect Mom.  If you decide to start reading, I highly recommend you read all the way on to number twenty (or at least, skip to the end).

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

How to Be the Perfect Mom

1.  Never feed little Johnny or Suzi anything too sugary, too fattening, too loaded with carbs, too flavored with artificial flavorings or colorings, or any vegetable or fruit grown anywhere that utilizes pesticides or any chemicals designed to make the food actually grow.  Fast food is obviously un-allowed, as are all foods children actually like (i.e., chicken nuggets, hotdogs, Kraft macaroni and cheese). If you really want to be a great mom, go vegetarian, or better yet vegan, but whatever you do, go fully organic.  Bonus points if you can grow 1000% of your meals in your backyard.

2.      Begin looking for your child’s special gift shortly after birth.  Quickly decide:  Will he be a professional NBA player?  A famous writer or artist?  Will she dance with Julliard?  Cheerlead for the Dallas Cowboys?  Better hurry up, the sooner you identify the gift, the sooner you can spend oodles of your money forcing your child to play clarinet or walk the balance beam.  You are doing an especially good job if you determine their lifelong hobby before they can walk.  Or better yet, talk.  Then they can’t argue with you about it.

3.      Never admit that your child does anything wrong, ever.  He or she is your special little genius, and you must not allow any well-intentioned teacher, pastor, or police officer to interfere with your little angel’s self-esteem.  How will the world react if your child serves a single detention for one lapse of judgement, in elementary school?  Childhood must become a mistake-free zone, and if your child screws up and makes one, you must begin damage control immediately! Social media must be a land of perfect children.  What will Facebook say if they know your child wasn’t the first in her class to read?

4.      Speaking of reading, read to your kids constantly.  They must be familiar with all the classics before beginning schooling:  I.e., Good Night Moon, The Don’t Let the Pigeon series, Great Expectations, The Complete Works of Flannery O’Connor, The Quintessential Shakespeare.  You know.  The usual.  Start with the Shakespeare while you’re still pregnant.  Then you can finish before your child is old enough to ask questions you can’t answer.

5.      Make Pinterest your Bible.  Learn how to craft, bake, and decorate better than the Mom next store.  Carefully document all your success by posting photos of your crafting, baking, and decorating accomplishments to Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and whatever other newfangled technology comes out that you must also become fluent in, lest your child learns how to work it before you, leaving you unable to monitor his or her social media.

6.      Speaking of screen time:  LIMIT IT!  Never mind that iPads and smartphones are essential to functioning in today’s society—you must make sure your children’s time isn’t monopolized by screens (even if you limit them to learning apps and educational videos).  Two hours a week is obviously two hours a week you are giving to the DEVIL.

7.      Since they can’t learn technological skills they need, or you will be considered a bad parent, force them to play outside.  Never mind that outside is filled with strangers, Lyme’s disease, and spiders.  Children need healthy air to fill their lungs (so hopefully you don’t live in the majority area of the country that is filled with smog or pollen), and they need their vitamin D from the sun (but they don’t need skin cancer!  So lather them up with SPF 800 every 20 minutes.  And bug spray.  Spray them with bug spray so that they stink so badly, there’s no way you’ll be tempted to allow them to skip their nightly bath, another sign of substandard parenting).

8.      While they’re outside, make them run.  Teach them to play tag, hide and seek, kickball, dodgeball, and all of the other lost art forms that were hallmarks for those of us who grew up in the nineties and earlier.  I mean, if they don’t learn how to deal with a dodgeball to the face by age 6, what kind of pansy are you raising?

9.      Don’t let your boys cry.  Teach them that boys must be strong.  By strong, we mean humans that pretend they are incapable of feeling emotion, and can therefore never express any signs of weakness ever.

10.  Speaking of boys, discourage all other signs of behavior that indicate any reason someone might question his manliness.  Disallow dancing, cooking, and playing with dolls (even though all women everywhere agree that a man who can dance is sexy, a man who can cook is a Godsend, and a man who enjoys being a good father is the definition of a family man, and what many of us who want to be mothers most look for in a partner).

11.  Don’t forget your girls!  They aren’t allowed to do anything manly.  Discourage familiarity with tools, involvement in contact sports, and all things automotive.  God forbid you teach them life skills that their future husband should handle (even though she might choose to be single).  Or encourage participation in athletics that develop character or understanding of teamwork.  You don’t want her to mess up her make-up.  Which is another issue of concern:  Be careful here, because if you encourage it too early, you’re raising a Jezebel.  If you wait too late, she won’t know how to do her make-up, and she won’t be able to find a date to the prom, or later, a good college boy who wants to make sure everything you spent on her bachelor’s degree is for naught, as he seeks to make her stay home and start popping out babies.  And then, her life will be ruined and you will have failed as a parent.

12.  Breastfeed your baby.  Breast is best!  Haven’t you heard there are eight million benefits and children who aren’t breastfed grow up at higher risk for every single ailment under the sun, including a whole slew of conditions you’ve never even heard of!?!?

13.  BUT don’t let your boobs show evidence that their primary function is or has ever been anything other than arousing men.  Get a boob job as soon as possible after you cease breast feeding.  Wear a push up bra all day everyday until you can afford one, if finances are tight.

14.  The jury is still out on breastfeeding in public.  On the one hand, public breastfeeding shatters the illusion that your breasts are ever used for anything other than sexual play, violating principle #13.  But on the other hand, breastfeeding in public demonstrates your commitment to the aforementioned guideline #12.  It also allows you to crusade for breastfeeding rights, and to feed your child uncovered whenever and wherever you wish.  You get to yell at strangers you make uncomfortable, demanding, “Would YOU like to eat your lunch in the bathroom??” when they suggest you move the baby’s dinner party to the restroom. 

15.  Make sure you have a harrowing birth experience story to tell.  Tell it everywhere you can, but especially tell it to terrified expectant mothers.  Bonus points if you almost died on the table.  Everyone respects a mother more if she almost died on the table giving birth.

16.  But also, have at least one child naturally.  Refuse all pain medication, even when you get to the point that you personally want to go back in time, find Eve, kill her, and tell Adam not to dare eat that blessed apple, lest all women everywhere suffer labor pains because of one bad decision on one broud’s part.  Breathe through the pain.  Bounce on a ball or jump in the tub.  Have a water birth!  You are at one with the universe; never mind that this hurts like a mother, like a 1,352 on a pain scale from 1-10.  People respect a mother who gave birth naturally.

17.  Have only one child.  Anyone who has more than one child is clearly being selfish and shortsighted, because now all the children must learn to share, and your resources (which, let’s be real, no matter how well-off you are, are never endless) can no longer solely be devoted to your little angel.

18.  Have more than one child.  Anyone who has only one child is clearly being selfish and shortsighted, because putting all your resources into one child will spoil your only child like a rotten fruit, and one day you and your spouse will be gone and your poor only child won’t have any siblings to reminisce with.

19.  Be the room mom.  Be the best darn room mom that ever was.  At every possible opportunity, organize committees to address everything from provision of snacks to chaperoning eligibility for both dances and field trips, to raising money for every possible reason you can raise money.  Decide on the most obnoxious fundraisers available, and select the most random products on the market to sell at the highest cost, with only a portion of the donations going to whatever program or cause benefits (marginally) from the sale of popcorn, pizza, candy, or wrapping paper, all of which is ridiculously overpriced.  Run the classroom like you’d be in charge of a group of soldiers—the ship cannot be too tight!  Chase down every parent and force them to donate time or money or both, even if you’ve got a room full of single moms or dads who work two jobs just to survive.  If anyone tries to avoid volunteering or charitable giving, listen patiently to their excuse before you make a snarky comment that is a clear, direct attack on her commitment to her children.

20.  Obviously, all of the above guidelines are total crap.  You will be the perfect mom for your children if you love them, and if day after day, you are doing the best you can.  Volunteer—when you can.  Feed them in as healthy a way as you are able.  Breastfeed them if you can, but remember, a huge segment of the population was bottle-fed, and the vast majority of those people are doing just fine.  If you are a baker, bake.  If you are a decorator, decorate.  If you like crafts, craft till you’re blue in the face.  If those aren’t your talents, don’t worry!  Something is.  And your child loves you for you, so long as you are giving them your time.  There may be seasons where you have less of it, especially if you are a single parent.  It takes a village, so ask for help.  Let your children live and learn, and let them learn consequences.  Don’t protect them from every challenge—learn when to step in and when little Johnny or Suzi needs to understand that they are free to choose their actions, but we are never free from consequences.  Love them.  Sometimes love is tough, and sometimes, it is the most natural thing in the world.  Real love supports your children, no matter their interests and talents.  Real love helps develop those passions without becoming overbearing.  Real love is in the mother-child bond, and you will get there, even if you are having the worst case of post-partum depression there ever was—ask for help.  None of this is easy, even if the mom who bakes makes cookies that make yours look sad, even if the mom next door has a house that’s cleaner than yours, even if the mom down the street got her pre-pregnancy body back and you didn’t.  We all struggle with something.  Don’t feel guilty about being a stay-at-home mama who still can’t keep the kitchen spotless.  Don’t give yourself grief if you couldn’t afford to stay home, or, heck, WANTED to work. This doesn’t make you less of a mother, just like those who stay at home aren’t in any way contributing less to their households.

We are all good at some things. We all struggle in other areas.  Embrace your strengths.  Admit your weaknesses.  Love your children for the unique individuals that they are, just as they will surely love you for being the only woman in the world who could ever possibly be their mom.