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.

Valentines Day Blues?

I've always loved Valentines Day.  It never really bothered me when I was single (at least not too much, anyway), because I've found that whether or not you're in a relationship with a significant someone, hopefully there are plenty of other people worthy of celebration in your life to whom you can show your love and appreciation.

Mine went particularly well this year--my number one Valentine and I have been on and off for years (gulp, nearly fourteen!!), and this was our second one "back together." And while it was more family themed than passionately romantic, we had a lovely experience that included dinner out and chocolates for everyone, our eight-year-old daughter included.

I went to bed feeling very loved and blessed and thankful for the people God has given me to love.

And then, I woke up to rejection, getting a taste of what some of the poor, awkward middle-schoolers I chaperoned at yesterday's heart-plastered holiday dance go through on the daily.  Checking my email, I felt especially keenly why the bitter, lonely, or amused and disgruntled have decidedly declared yesterday "Singles Awareness Day":

I woke up to a form rejection from an agent, who was declining to represent the short story collection she'd requested to read in full a couple weeks ago.

Rejection is a part of the publishing game, so it's not especially disheartening.  Writing and reading are subjective, and what one person enjoys, another does not.  This one did hurt though, not just because it happened the morning after Valentines Day, but because the querying process had BEGUN on such a high note.

I'd only sent out five letters in search of an agent when I received a very positively worded (but probably form) request to read the rest of the manuscript.  It was the very first response I'd received, so I was at a 100% request rate (short lived as it was).  I was feeling quite excited and encouraged.

But, such is life.

So what, I was rejected the day after Valentines Day. (I won't give the exact details, but while the letter certainly wasn't cruel, it was also a far fetch from a kind declination, which are also blessings to an extent, because at least they tend to praise aspects of the work and give legitimate reasons for passing).

I can think of many other highlights (lowlights?) that both pertain to my writing and other endeavors in life.  I might not be the girl who gets dumped (by a boyfriend, not an agent) the day after Valentines Day, but I am  (or have been) all of the following:

• The girl who got dumped on her front step on the exact day I'd bought my prom dress.
• The girl who received yet another rejection letter from a submission of a full manuscript (this one on my most recently completed fiction novel) from an agent on her birthday.
• The girl who was very excited to receive a third place medal upon finishing her very first five mile race. (Come to find out, there were only three runners in my age group.  Fail.)
• The girl who, out of all drivers to collide with on the road at any given moment, managed to rear-end the superintendent of the school district I was employed with at the time.

Yes, I'm no stranger to rejection, bad luck, and crappy timing.

 But, I'm still a believer. 

I believe in love, and also believed it was out there before I'd experienced it.

I believe in putting in one hundred percent, even if you finish last.

I believe that good can come out of even the lousiest of situations.

I believe in the God who loves us all, who gave us a gift far greater than chocolate, flowers, or jewelry, in the salvation found in His one and only son, Jesus Christ.  And I believe in the talents and desires God has blessed me with and planted in my heart.

So I'll keep writing, because while the publishing industry isn't exactly fighting over me yet, I don't do what I do for them.

I do it for me, my God, my family, and my friends.

And if I happen to pick up some more fans along the way, that would be fabulous.

But whether you're being dumped at the prom, celebrating marital bliss at a 25th anniversary, or anywhere in between...  Whether your dream is on the verge of coming true, or you're not yet brave enough to whisper it out loud...

You have to own it.

You have to love yourself before you can love anyone else.  Seeking your own validation through someone else will always lead to heartbreak, if your happiness is dependent upon some definition of who you are through someone else's eyes.

I think writing is like that.  I see myself as a great writer.  I don't mean to brag about it.  Not everyone will agree, and not everyone should agree, because we all have different tastes as readers.  But I write what I love to read. Because my writing brings me joy, I believe my words have the power to reach others in the same way.  But even if they didn't, no audience or publisher or agent could ever convince me that I'm not a writer.

So for me, I just keep writing, taking the rejections in stride. 

I had to be happy with who I was, seeing myself the way God saw me, before I could ever really learn to be happy in a romantic relationship.  I am so thankful to God and my Rashieme, that we are very happily treasuring each other, in the adventure that is our day to day relationship.  But it didn't happen over night.  We each had much to realize on our own before God could bring us back together.

And though I'm currently single in the author-agent realm, I still see myself as the writer I think God created me to be, knowing that if no one else ever read another word I wrote, that would be okay.  So because of that, I believe, God will take care of the rest.  I think He will bring success in His own time.

And if He doesn't?

Well, I wrote some pretty cool stuff trying. 

So whatever your dreams and passions are, I hope you don't allow anyone else to fizzle them out.  I hope you love yourself, embrace your gifts, and most of all, I pray you know the God who blessed you with them.  No matter who is rejecting you, there is One who loved you so much, He declared His affections before you were even born.  He spoke you into motion, loving each detail about you, designing each and every detail to his exact specification and liking.

You are beautiful just the way you are.  Embrace your talents, love your life, and give it everything you've got.

Happy Valentines Day, everyone.  Or better yet:  Happy So-What-You-Were-Once-Rejected Day. 

Don't look back.  Just look up.

Wishing on a Wintry Wednesday...

My routine's all out of whack.  We haven't had a normal week of school in all of 2014.  There's a good chance that we won't leave the house for days.  And, yeah, once again... I'll probably be in school until almost July.

Winter blues?  Sort of.  But then, I look out the window and see this:

 

How can you not find it beautiful?

 

 

(I guess talk to me at the end of February.  If we get any more snowstorms, I might lose that reverent feeling.  But for now, I find it soothing.  Romantic.  Enchanting).

It also reminds me of The Winter Writing Retreat, an event hosted by The Eastern Shore Writing Project.  Sadly, ESWP is currently on hiatus.  And despite the winter timing, the retreats I attended never looked quite like this.  But sifting through my old blog the other day, I found a piece that I'd written upon return from the retreat and wanted to share.  The thoughts I recorded in this post eventually played an important role in my deciding to travel to Peru in the summer of 2011 as a missionary, so this piece has a truly special meaning to me.

It is dedicated to all of my friends and colleagues who miss ESWP.

I hope you enjoy.

Originally posted Monday, January 17, 2011.


                                                                            A Love Affair

This weekend, I experienced one of those once in a lifetime, luxuriously refreshing string of events that you might equate with an unlikely romantic fantasy or an unspoken, secret dream: in a beautiful oceanfront hotel, where I watched the sunrise over the sea, talked all hours into the night and early morning, enjoyed laughter from the depths of the soul, invigorating intellectual conversation, and plastic cups filled with cheap wine, I fell in love...

It wasn't a weekend getaway with a long lost lover (though that might have been nice, too). This weekend, during the Eastern Shore Writing Project's Winter Writing Retreat, I fell in love again with writing, with living, and with people. It was a love affair of different sorts.

I engaged in a whirlwind romance of the mind as my colleagues and I examined the power of words, allowing ourselves to express heartfelt sentiments about writing, teaching, and communicating. I wrote, I reflected, I read my words aloud. I laughed. I felt deeply my own pain and joy, and that of those around me, as we captured the little miracles of life and typed them into existence on our laptops, jotted them into permanence in patterend journals and tattered spiral notebooks. We came together in a way that is truly rare. I realized, once again, that writing is a bridge across cultures, years, gender, experience. I smiled and cried as I was touched by the words of those around me, and I was humbled as I watched my words fall meaningfully onto the ears of others.

I was swept off my feet spiritually, as well. In a place when I was more inspired than I have ever been by the common bonds uniting us, so many vastly different people, I reflected on what God has done for me, the incredible gift of salvation that I believe is found in Jesus Christ. I ran across the boardwalk at sunrise, watching the incredible display of glowing pink rays lighting up a still soft, star speckled sky, the cold ocean consistently lapping the shore below. I thought of how big my God was, yet how accessible He is, to all who seek him. I prayed for my new friends, and thanked God for the amazing blessings He has given me.

Of course, it's all very noble to claim that I had planned this spirtual rejuvenation in conjunction with my adamant need to exercise. Truth is, I had to force myself to run. Self, I began, you've gained at least five pounds if not more over the holidays. You embarassed yourself terribly at your last 5K. If you don't run at least once this weekend, I'm going to kick your own butt later.

So I exercised my resolve and woke up at 5:30 in the morning, as to not interfere with the precious writing time or the socialization to which I had quickly become addicted, having come together with some of the most interesting and fantastic people I had ever known. As I'm too cheap to pay for a gym membership, and too much of a pansy to be hardcore with my running in the icy month of January, I decided a run in the hotel's treadmill would be a special treat.

Down I went to the gym on the second floor, and yes, it's quite possible that I forgot my sweats and had to run in my pajama pants (don't worry. They're gray, and except for the penguins and surfboards across my derriere, I don't think anyone would have noticed anything suspicious about my attire). Luckily, I was the only lunatic in the gym at what I would have thought was an ungodly morning hour.

*Sidenote--I just had to google "butt synonym" to figure out how to spell derriere. True confessions of the randomness of my life.

So anyway, I attacked the treadmill, and it attacked me back. I've only resorted to indoor running a handful of times in my life, and when I checked my mileage after twenty-five minutes, a timeframe when during my normal efforts outside I would have been at close to three miles, I had managed to run just over two. Sweaty, hot, and disgusted by the stuffiness of my gym and my poor performance, I jumped off the treadmill and wandered out to the balcony to breathe in some fresh air.

To my delight, it wasn't a frigid, furious winter morning, as I assumed it would have been. The cold that greeted me was exactly what I needed to refocus my mind. I jogged down the stairs, having found the inspiration to finish what I'd started. I ran the final mile down the deserted Ocean City boardwalk, awed by the spectacular display of nature in the sunrise, convinced that God had chosen this moment to talk to me.

It was a beautiful experience.

The people I spent the weekend with: dear older friends and instant newer ones, too, were truly some of the most fascinating I've ever met. Many of us are teachers. Some of us are students. All of us are writers. Stacie, the single mom of four I invited from my church, one of my favorite friends I made last year, discovered that she is, in fact, a writer. My friend Greg, a college student and full-time construction worker, held his own and kept us in hysterics as he carried his weight as one third of our entire male population (the only time you'll be in the minority as a white male, we joked). His creative documentary on seagulls is both hilarious and a bit scary. Once he posts it online, I'll provide a link. Laura, who has easily done enough living in her short time on this planet to have lived fifteen people's lifetimes, told of her adventures in twenty-one countries, and her Deep Conversations with Random Strangers, a brilliant book idea that stems from her energy and fearlessness in meeting and connecting with new people. I heard sentences from her mouth that I would never anticipate hearing again, things like "So I was in Chicago, and it was after I'd won third place in the Amateur Ventriliquest Competition..." We practiced the art of Deep Conversations with Random Strangers, marching into The Atlantic Hotel in Berlin, demanding to know if this was in fact the hotel Richard Gere stayed in during the filming of Runaway Bride. The gracious owner, who was sidetracked by her duty to check in actual paying guests, handed us the key to Room #20, and up the stairs we went. Cynthia touched the bed Mr. Gere slept in; we all admired the toilet he peed in.

We finished the weekend out with Jody Kelly Wright, a local author and partner of a West Ocean City restaurant. She spoke beautifully, encouraging us all, inviting us to celebrate whatever successes it is that we have achieved, and to constantly challenge ourselves to take it to the next level, whatever that may be. Jody is living my dream. She has had one book published by a small press, and is now an agented author pursuing traditional publication for another of her novels. I think given her energy, dedication, and obvious talent, she is a definite name to watch. As I sat in that room with other aspiring authors, I thought back to that grueling run on the treadmill, and how the moment I stepped outside, I was free to really run. It suddenly became easier, because instead of running in place, I was actually going somewhere. I think so many of us run, run, run through our lives going nowhere, just as I was struggling and huffing away on that treadmill. Only in breaking loose and running in the fresh air, which we are so often afraid to do, because of the cold, because of the inconvenience, because of the unknown, because of the challenge, only when we venture outside, do we find we are finally able to run somewhere. I don't even know that where you go is the important thing... I just know it matters that you are moving in a direction of your choice, as opposed to staying still despite your best efforts.

As I thought about God and all his majesty, the gifts he gives us that we take for granted or get distracted from (the most sacred of which is the gift of His own son), I vowed to not run in place any longer. I vowed to pursue my dreams and those God has for me, and to not settle for running in place, to exhaust myself in a struggle to make it through without actually going anywhere. I want to live life to the fullest. As I returned to Salisbury for church in the evening, my pastor's words summed up my realizations of the weekend:

"It is never too late to be the person you were always meant to become."

Why wait another day? We are given so very few, and they are truly precious. I'm getting off the treadmill now.

Will you?

Why settle for an affair when you could be married?

Here's to living each day to the fullest.