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.