Josh and I moved to Clarion County in July 2007. We had not been married even a year yet. We rented a tiny house on Barber Street and without even knowing it began growing our family. We had no indication when we came that we would spend as many years here as we have. I think likewise we didn't realize the blessings God would have for us here, and probably haven't even recognized them all except maybe from a hindsight perspective. Like looking in a rear view mirror you can see them passing quickly behind you. Jobs, homes, babies, relationships, etc.
As of last week, we have officially sold our home and will be moving on to Pittsburgh. I have many mixed emotions about this, but if there is one thing I can say about our time here, it is that I think we have lived life to its fullest, truly experiencing the best of Clarion County. We have been surrounded, supported and loved by the best people I have ever met. We learned from our church what it means to truly live in community and be family. Cook Forest was like a second home, the ALF 5k was a regular part of our fall activities, Saturday mornings in the summer required a stop at the farmer's market, and a drive to Walmart provided a view of some of the prettiest landscape I have ever seen. I hope I always remember those drives.
We don't know where we are going. It is no small thing to find a rental big enough for a family of 6 and a dog...unless you don't mind paying a fortune or are willing to give up eating or something like that. It is no small thing to find somewhere that has a yard or sidewalks or enough space between homes that you can't reach out your window to touch your neighbor's house. I'm no city girl. I covet those drives with rolling farmland, flocks of sheep, and that cow that always seems to have a bird sitting on its head. Thinking about a 10 minute drive taking 25 minutes because of traffic makes me want to cry a little. And if you turn me around twice I'm likely to get lost, so city driving and me are not really friends. Add to this that we are walking away from a home we love. It is big and beautiful, full of character, and has a pool that is an endless source of summer fun. Owning a home was not in the stars for Josh and me. We know that God provided this place for us and we have appreciated every bit of it. We would often look around and say, "How the heck did we get this place?!" And now...it is time to say goodbye.
Although I don't know where we are going to live, and despite my aversion to city living, I am not discouraged. Not even close. In fact, I'm excited. I once heard, and truly believe, that the will of God is our home. I know that God is calling us to move on. It has been a long time coming. And it has been painful, like slowly ripping off a band aid. I know that taking a step in obedience will open doors for the Spirit to move in our lives. And I know that we could stay here forever, clinging on to all the comfort and sentimentality in the world, and miss what God has in store for us and what He has called us to. I want the adventure. I want to make my home in the will of God. I'm looking forward, expecting God's faithfulness ahead, and praising Him for all those blessings I see in the rear view mirror. Clarion County...thanks for loving us. I am grateful for you and will always hold you dear in my heart. Let the adventure begin!
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
Sunday, March 15, 2015
That Girl
I love the month of March. I love spring. I love watching winter come to an end. Seeing birds return. Feeling warmth in the air. I love discovering grass again. Going for walks without having to put on triple layers. Sensing nature waking up. Feels like such a hopeful time of year. I also love March because it represents a birthday of sorts for me. Eleven years ago this month I gave my life to Christ. And a few years after that, also in March, I was baptized. Before I can tell you about my new life, I need to tell you first how I became That Girl.
In the fall after my senior year of high school I received a phone call that would change my life forever. It was a Wednesday morning, my third day of college classes. After my morning class I stopped in the mail room where I got a care package from my boyfriend. Getting any mail in college is exciting. Getting a big box is super exciting! So it was with excitement that I opened it to find a bunch of my favorite snacks, some sentimental items, and a note letting me know I was loved by him. I headed to the computer lab and began to type him a thank you email when my phone rang. That call set off confusion and panic to where I would eventually learn that my boyfriend had shot and killed himself that morning. In just one moment I went from feeling on top of the world, to watching my life come crashing down around me. And instantly before I even knew it, I had become That Girl.
I quit school and went home. Home. Where I was That Girl. That Girl moving through time, but feeling like I wasn't really even there. That Girl that some thought should have known something was wrong. That Girl that some thought was crying too hard, exaggerating my position in or connection to the tragedy. That Girl that still others had an overwhelming sense of pity for. That Girl that people found easier to ignore for fear of not knowing what to say, but undoubtedly would ask those around me, "How is she?" That Girl that lost a sense of the future. That felt alone everywhere. That belonged nowhere. Including home. So in January I went back to school. To my surprise, I was still That Girl.
At school I was That Girl that was new...again. That Girl that missed fall training for track and field. That Girl that many knew something had happened to. That girl that was fragile. That some professors, my coach, my advisor, etc. knew to be sensitive towards. That Girl that still felt alone. Still didn't belong anywhere. Still was moving through time in a state of numbness. That Girl that fell into all kinds of destructive behaviors because the future didn't really matter anymore. That Girl that was afraid to take her life, but no longer desired to live. That Girl that felt guilty for smiling, pathetic for not being able to get myself out of the pit I was drowning in, hopeless that much could ever really change for me. That Girl that became a master at going through the motions, learning how to put all kinds of barriers up so that no one could really get close to me again. And then in a moment that once again would change my life forever, something happened.
It was March, just a year and a half after that Wednesday morning that ended in tragedy. I went with one of my roommates to Upper Room, which was a student led worship service. I was unsuspecting. Once again, I was going through the motions. Singing songs to a God I resented. One of the girls in the student band stopped worship to say that God was putting it on her heart that somebody there needed healing. That they didn't understand how God was going to be able to bring that healing. But that God was telling that person just to trust Him. There isn't really a way for me to describe to you how I knew that I was the one she was talking to. I will just say that when you have a true encounter with God, you know. You know that you know. There is no second guessing or wondering. You just know. And I knew. And I had a vision of light and a hand outstretched toward me. That hand was beckoning me to let go. Let go of everything I was holding onto. My broken heart. My hopelessness. My relationship with my boyfriend. My misunderstanding of who God is. My future. My identity. My life. I knew in that moment I had to choose to let go so that I could walk forward. I had to die to myself so that I could begin to really live. And I did. Some people around me layed hands on me and prayed. I surrendered. And the peace that I heard a lot about from churchy people, became a reality in my life that day. I was different immediately. I was new. No longer That Girl. I was a daughter of the King. I was far from alone. I belonged. I had a destiny. A future. A hope.
The next time I was home on a weekend, I stopped by my boyfriend's grave for the last time. I had to say goodbye. I loved him. Thought my future was going to include him in it. Was broken when I learned that it wouldn't. But I told him my God is bigger and that in order for me to move on, I had to say goodbye.
Sometimes I forget who I am. Even all these years later. Maybe it is brought on by the anniversary of his death. Or a memory is triggered. Or sometimes just simply being in my hometown. Lies start to creep in. I can feel myself falling back into an old identity...That Girl. But then I remember how in John 8:36 I am promised that, "He whom the Son sets free is free indeed." And I remember who I am and Whose I am. I remember that in Romans 8:38 I am promised that "...nothing can separate us from His love. Death Can't, and life can't. The angels can't, and the demons can't. Our fears for today, our worries about tomorrow, and even the powers of hell can't keep God's love away."
I don't know what your life has brought you. What has made you That Girl or That guy. But I know who you are. Even if you don't know yet. I am praying for you right now. That you too would surrender that old identity that you were never created to put on. And that you would claim your new identity, your position as a daughter/son of the Most High God. "Therefore, if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new." 2 Corinthians 5:17
In the fall after my senior year of high school I received a phone call that would change my life forever. It was a Wednesday morning, my third day of college classes. After my morning class I stopped in the mail room where I got a care package from my boyfriend. Getting any mail in college is exciting. Getting a big box is super exciting! So it was with excitement that I opened it to find a bunch of my favorite snacks, some sentimental items, and a note letting me know I was loved by him. I headed to the computer lab and began to type him a thank you email when my phone rang. That call set off confusion and panic to where I would eventually learn that my boyfriend had shot and killed himself that morning. In just one moment I went from feeling on top of the world, to watching my life come crashing down around me. And instantly before I even knew it, I had become That Girl.
I quit school and went home. Home. Where I was That Girl. That Girl moving through time, but feeling like I wasn't really even there. That Girl that some thought should have known something was wrong. That Girl that some thought was crying too hard, exaggerating my position in or connection to the tragedy. That Girl that still others had an overwhelming sense of pity for. That Girl that people found easier to ignore for fear of not knowing what to say, but undoubtedly would ask those around me, "How is she?" That Girl that lost a sense of the future. That felt alone everywhere. That belonged nowhere. Including home. So in January I went back to school. To my surprise, I was still That Girl.
At school I was That Girl that was new...again. That Girl that missed fall training for track and field. That Girl that many knew something had happened to. That girl that was fragile. That some professors, my coach, my advisor, etc. knew to be sensitive towards. That Girl that still felt alone. Still didn't belong anywhere. Still was moving through time in a state of numbness. That Girl that fell into all kinds of destructive behaviors because the future didn't really matter anymore. That Girl that was afraid to take her life, but no longer desired to live. That Girl that felt guilty for smiling, pathetic for not being able to get myself out of the pit I was drowning in, hopeless that much could ever really change for me. That Girl that became a master at going through the motions, learning how to put all kinds of barriers up so that no one could really get close to me again. And then in a moment that once again would change my life forever, something happened.
It was March, just a year and a half after that Wednesday morning that ended in tragedy. I went with one of my roommates to Upper Room, which was a student led worship service. I was unsuspecting. Once again, I was going through the motions. Singing songs to a God I resented. One of the girls in the student band stopped worship to say that God was putting it on her heart that somebody there needed healing. That they didn't understand how God was going to be able to bring that healing. But that God was telling that person just to trust Him. There isn't really a way for me to describe to you how I knew that I was the one she was talking to. I will just say that when you have a true encounter with God, you know. You know that you know. There is no second guessing or wondering. You just know. And I knew. And I had a vision of light and a hand outstretched toward me. That hand was beckoning me to let go. Let go of everything I was holding onto. My broken heart. My hopelessness. My relationship with my boyfriend. My misunderstanding of who God is. My future. My identity. My life. I knew in that moment I had to choose to let go so that I could walk forward. I had to die to myself so that I could begin to really live. And I did. Some people around me layed hands on me and prayed. I surrendered. And the peace that I heard a lot about from churchy people, became a reality in my life that day. I was different immediately. I was new. No longer That Girl. I was a daughter of the King. I was far from alone. I belonged. I had a destiny. A future. A hope.
The next time I was home on a weekend, I stopped by my boyfriend's grave for the last time. I had to say goodbye. I loved him. Thought my future was going to include him in it. Was broken when I learned that it wouldn't. But I told him my God is bigger and that in order for me to move on, I had to say goodbye.
Sometimes I forget who I am. Even all these years later. Maybe it is brought on by the anniversary of his death. Or a memory is triggered. Or sometimes just simply being in my hometown. Lies start to creep in. I can feel myself falling back into an old identity...That Girl. But then I remember how in John 8:36 I am promised that, "He whom the Son sets free is free indeed." And I remember who I am and Whose I am. I remember that in Romans 8:38 I am promised that "...nothing can separate us from His love. Death Can't, and life can't. The angels can't, and the demons can't. Our fears for today, our worries about tomorrow, and even the powers of hell can't keep God's love away."
I don't know what your life has brought you. What has made you That Girl or That guy. But I know who you are. Even if you don't know yet. I am praying for you right now. That you too would surrender that old identity that you were never created to put on. And that you would claim your new identity, your position as a daughter/son of the Most High God. "Therefore, if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new." 2 Corinthians 5:17
Monday, March 2, 2015
Vaccines: Our Story
This post is about my family's journey with vaccinations. I would like to say that I have felt compelled to share my experiences and thoughts a number of times, but keep resisting. First, I really don't desire to enter discussions about such polarizing topics. And second, I am not confident I will adequately express myself on the matter. Please know that I am not speaking from a position of judgement, I am simply sharing our story.
In case you don't know, I have three children (ages 4, 2, and 1) and another one on the way. My husband and I have made different decisions for each child when it comes to vaccinations. With our oldest, I was still working full-time, and so we often would go to well baby checkups together. We both were a little concerned over the amount of vaccines our daughter was supposed to receive, and so we decided at that time we would spread them out on a delayed schedule. In the end, she received all recommended vaccines (minus the rotavirus and flu vaccine-no one in our family has ever received a flu vaccine) and is considered now to be fully vaccinated. By the time our second daughter was born, I had quit working full-time and assumed the responsibility of taking the girls to their checkups. In all honesty, I was overwhelmed with being a mom of two, and though I still thought it best to spread out vaccines, the thought of returning to the doctor multiple times to make that a reality seemed like too much. Consequently, our second daughter followed the normal vaccination schedule until she was a year and a half when we decided to stop vaccinating her.
By this time we had experienced what I am confident was three vaccine induced illnesses. The first occurred when our oldest daughter contracted the chicken pox after receiving the varicella vaccine. Our, then, 13-month-old baby woke up in the middle of the night screaming uncontrollably, thrashing, had a high fever, had bumps scattered over her body, etc. We rushed her to the ER where they offered a slew of tests, but determined she had a double ear infection. Within about a week and a half, my husband became ill with the shingles virus as a result of being exposed to our daughter's chicken pox, our second vaccine induced illness. Another trip to the ER and more medical bills piled up. Lastly, our second daughter contracted the measles after receiving the MMR vaccine. At 15-months she got a rash that covered her entire body...like from her scalp to the bottom of her feet and everywhere between. She had a fever, red, watery eyes, was fussy, had a runny nose, etc. It was frustrating to go through those illnesses as a family. But, in the end everyone recovered and medical bills eventually got paid. We could have just gone on not thinking of it again like you might with the common cold or flu. But we actually couldn't just forget about it. Because what was far more disturbing to us than the actual illnesses was the reaction we received from the medical professionals involved. At the ER with our daughter that night, we were asked all kinds of questions about what we had been doing prior to the onset of symptoms. We listed everything we could think of which ranged from going camping to having just received the varicella vaccine. The possibility of her symptoms being related to her vaccine were immediately dismissed and we were told the bumps on her body were likely bug bites from our camping trip. Bug bites? Like 20+ bug bites? Bug bites...even in her diaper area? When we got home we looked up chicken pox signs, symptoms, etc. Red flags began to go off because it seemed so simple and plain that our daughter indeed had chicken pox. Fast forward to the measles. When we called our doctor's office to give them a rundown of our daughter's symptoms, the doctor looked through her chart, made mention that she had just received the MMR vaccine, but upon noticing we didn't get her a flu vaccine, told us it must just be the flu and that it would run its course. We were intrigued that she had even mentioned the MMR (it hadn't occurred to us yet that it could be an outbreak) but she refused to acknowledge at that point that it could be related. We began to learn quickly that there was something unapproachable about questioning vaccines. Again, a quick online search of measles perfectly and simply described what it was we were seeing in our daughter. I think it was probably around then that I stopped just trusting.
When our third daughter was born it is fair to say I was hesitant going forward with vaccines. Something in me told me it wasn't right to just blindly follow the recommended vaccination schedule, but I was unsure of how to become educated to make another decision. I expressed my concerns with my husband. We agreed that if I could put the time into researching and acquiring valid information we could then discuss what we might want to do differently. I didn't know where to begin and by the time her first well baby checkup came, I wasn't prepared. I spent a few hours the night before scouring the internet and decided that I should go ahead and get her the DTaP (for the pertussis because it seemed scary) and Hib (because of links to meningitis that also sounded scary to me). Since then, and for the past year I have taken things much more seriously. I started by contacting a natureopathic doctor and asking for resources on vaccinations. From there I have spent countless hours listening to lectures given by medical doctors, reading books that are hundreds of pages long, reading online articles, and putting together over 18 pages of notes. I've specifically studied the who, what, when, where and why behind vaccine development. I've studied each individual vaccine and the viruses they are created for...the risks and benefits of both. I've studied the ingredients, the manufacturing process, the side effects, the difference between vaccination and immunization, and so on. All information has been retrieved from medical professionals, medical/scientific journals, and statistical information gathered from entities such as the Center for Disease Control (CDC), Department of Health (DOP), World Health Organization (WHO), etc.
Having said all of that, what position have I taken on vaccines? Personally, with what I have learned along the way, I simply could not, as a mother who loves and desires to protect her children, continue to vaccinate at this point. I cannot ignore the facts that I have learned. I am completely aware how even stating this might bring judgement, condemnation, ridicule, etc. And I am okay with that. Because at the end of the day, I am the one who is responsible for making decisions that are in the best interest of my children. I feel confident that I have made an informed decision. And I am completely dedicated to continuing to study, learn, read, watch, etc. and to go forward with an open mind.
I want to end by encouraging others who might be on a similar journey. I want you to know that you are not an idiot simply because you choose to question, or possibly to take a different position than the majority. I want to encourage you that there is solid, reliable, trustworthy, scientific, medical information out there available to you. If you are in need of some direction, some resources, please feel free to contact me. While I don't feel it is my duty to lay out the facts of the argument for anyone other than my own family, I am happy to point you in the right direction so you can begin to gather your own facts. So, be encouraged. While we can always choose to vaccinate later, we can not ever un-vaccinate. For that reason, I think the journey is worth pursuing.
In case you don't know, I have three children (ages 4, 2, and 1) and another one on the way. My husband and I have made different decisions for each child when it comes to vaccinations. With our oldest, I was still working full-time, and so we often would go to well baby checkups together. We both were a little concerned over the amount of vaccines our daughter was supposed to receive, and so we decided at that time we would spread them out on a delayed schedule. In the end, she received all recommended vaccines (minus the rotavirus and flu vaccine-no one in our family has ever received a flu vaccine) and is considered now to be fully vaccinated. By the time our second daughter was born, I had quit working full-time and assumed the responsibility of taking the girls to their checkups. In all honesty, I was overwhelmed with being a mom of two, and though I still thought it best to spread out vaccines, the thought of returning to the doctor multiple times to make that a reality seemed like too much. Consequently, our second daughter followed the normal vaccination schedule until she was a year and a half when we decided to stop vaccinating her.
By this time we had experienced what I am confident was three vaccine induced illnesses. The first occurred when our oldest daughter contracted the chicken pox after receiving the varicella vaccine. Our, then, 13-month-old baby woke up in the middle of the night screaming uncontrollably, thrashing, had a high fever, had bumps scattered over her body, etc. We rushed her to the ER where they offered a slew of tests, but determined she had a double ear infection. Within about a week and a half, my husband became ill with the shingles virus as a result of being exposed to our daughter's chicken pox, our second vaccine induced illness. Another trip to the ER and more medical bills piled up. Lastly, our second daughter contracted the measles after receiving the MMR vaccine. At 15-months she got a rash that covered her entire body...like from her scalp to the bottom of her feet and everywhere between. She had a fever, red, watery eyes, was fussy, had a runny nose, etc. It was frustrating to go through those illnesses as a family. But, in the end everyone recovered and medical bills eventually got paid. We could have just gone on not thinking of it again like you might with the common cold or flu. But we actually couldn't just forget about it. Because what was far more disturbing to us than the actual illnesses was the reaction we received from the medical professionals involved. At the ER with our daughter that night, we were asked all kinds of questions about what we had been doing prior to the onset of symptoms. We listed everything we could think of which ranged from going camping to having just received the varicella vaccine. The possibility of her symptoms being related to her vaccine were immediately dismissed and we were told the bumps on her body were likely bug bites from our camping trip. Bug bites? Like 20+ bug bites? Bug bites...even in her diaper area? When we got home we looked up chicken pox signs, symptoms, etc. Red flags began to go off because it seemed so simple and plain that our daughter indeed had chicken pox. Fast forward to the measles. When we called our doctor's office to give them a rundown of our daughter's symptoms, the doctor looked through her chart, made mention that she had just received the MMR vaccine, but upon noticing we didn't get her a flu vaccine, told us it must just be the flu and that it would run its course. We were intrigued that she had even mentioned the MMR (it hadn't occurred to us yet that it could be an outbreak) but she refused to acknowledge at that point that it could be related. We began to learn quickly that there was something unapproachable about questioning vaccines. Again, a quick online search of measles perfectly and simply described what it was we were seeing in our daughter. I think it was probably around then that I stopped just trusting.
When our third daughter was born it is fair to say I was hesitant going forward with vaccines. Something in me told me it wasn't right to just blindly follow the recommended vaccination schedule, but I was unsure of how to become educated to make another decision. I expressed my concerns with my husband. We agreed that if I could put the time into researching and acquiring valid information we could then discuss what we might want to do differently. I didn't know where to begin and by the time her first well baby checkup came, I wasn't prepared. I spent a few hours the night before scouring the internet and decided that I should go ahead and get her the DTaP (for the pertussis because it seemed scary) and Hib (because of links to meningitis that also sounded scary to me). Since then, and for the past year I have taken things much more seriously. I started by contacting a natureopathic doctor and asking for resources on vaccinations. From there I have spent countless hours listening to lectures given by medical doctors, reading books that are hundreds of pages long, reading online articles, and putting together over 18 pages of notes. I've specifically studied the who, what, when, where and why behind vaccine development. I've studied each individual vaccine and the viruses they are created for...the risks and benefits of both. I've studied the ingredients, the manufacturing process, the side effects, the difference between vaccination and immunization, and so on. All information has been retrieved from medical professionals, medical/scientific journals, and statistical information gathered from entities such as the Center for Disease Control (CDC), Department of Health (DOP), World Health Organization (WHO), etc.
Having said all of that, what position have I taken on vaccines? Personally, with what I have learned along the way, I simply could not, as a mother who loves and desires to protect her children, continue to vaccinate at this point. I cannot ignore the facts that I have learned. I am completely aware how even stating this might bring judgement, condemnation, ridicule, etc. And I am okay with that. Because at the end of the day, I am the one who is responsible for making decisions that are in the best interest of my children. I feel confident that I have made an informed decision. And I am completely dedicated to continuing to study, learn, read, watch, etc. and to go forward with an open mind.
I want to end by encouraging others who might be on a similar journey. I want you to know that you are not an idiot simply because you choose to question, or possibly to take a different position than the majority. I want to encourage you that there is solid, reliable, trustworthy, scientific, medical information out there available to you. If you are in need of some direction, some resources, please feel free to contact me. While I don't feel it is my duty to lay out the facts of the argument for anyone other than my own family, I am happy to point you in the right direction so you can begin to gather your own facts. So, be encouraged. While we can always choose to vaccinate later, we can not ever un-vaccinate. For that reason, I think the journey is worth pursuing.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
God Made Girls
RaeLynn "God Made Girls"
Somebody's gotta wear a pretty skirt,
Somebody's gotta be the one to flirt,
Somebody's gotta wanna hold his hand so God Made Girls
Somebody's gotta make him get dressed up,
Give him a reason to wash that truck,
Somebody's gotta teach him how to dance,
So God made girls.
He needed something soft and loud and sweet and proud
But tough enough to break a heart
Something beautiful, unbreakable, that lights up in the dark
So God made girls, God made girls
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls (for singing in your front seat)
God made girls (for dancin' to their own beat)
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls.
Somebody's gotta be the one to cry
Somebody's gotta let him drive
Give him a reason to hold that door so God made girls
Somebody's gotta put up a fight,
Make him wait on a Saturday night
To walk downstairs and blow his mind,
So God made girls.
Something that can wake him up and call his bluff and drag his butt to church
Something that is hard to handle
Somethin' fragile to hold him when he hurts
So God made girls, God made girls
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls (for singin' in your front seat)
God made girls (for dancin' to their own beat)
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls
Somebody's gotta wear a pretty skirt,
Somebody's gotta be the one to flirt,
Somebody's gotta wanna hold his hand
So God made girls, God made girls
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls (for singin' in your front seat)
God made girls (for dancin' to their own beat)
He stood back and told the boys, "I'm 'bout to rock your world."
And God made girls
Somebody's gotta wear a pretty skirt,
Somebody's gotta be the one to flirt (and God made girls, yeah)
Somebody's gotta wanna hold his hand
So God made girls
There are a lot of girls in our home. There's a lot of pink. A lot of emotions. A lot of crying. A lot of loud singing. A lot of dresses and baby dolls and Frozen gear. Even our dog is a girl! When the girls are out and about (with or without my husband) people like to say, "Dad's outnumbered!" Indeed he is. But he also loves it. My husband has a heart for women. He treasures his position in our family and the opportunity he has to make us all feel edified and valued, like the princesses God made us to be. Upon learning that we are expecting again, people automatically assume that Dad must want a boy. Actually, if you ask him, he would tell you he'd love to maintain his house full of princesses.
Girls are all we have known. While each of our daughters possess their own unique personality, as the mother of all daughters I understand their general makeup. I understand their parts, their hearts, their emotions, etc. I know when they push me away the most, what they really are asking is for me to hold them close. I know when they need me to buckle down and be a disciplinarian and when they need to just have a breakdown for a moment instead. I know they need to run around and be really loud sometimes. I know it's normal for them to change their clothes three times a day (It's no small task for a girl to get the right outfit!). I know they literally may not be able to stop talking (ever). I know they genuinely care about how their hair looks at the age of 2 and that simply being allowed to wear chapstick makes them feel beautiful. I know their inner desire to be seen, to be affirmed, to know that they are enough. When people have asked me what gender I'd like the new baby to be, I say, "Well, girls are all I know. I don't know what I'd do with a boy!"
This morning at our 20-week ultrasound we were able to learn the gender of the newest addition to our family. We asked the nurse to write it down and put it in an envelope, and then we opened it together with the girls once we got home. I was overcome with joyful tears when we learned the news.
I still don't know what I'll do with a boy. But I know I'll learn. I'll learn his parts, his heart, and all the other things that make him a prince at the core of his very makeup. I couldn't be more excited. We have a son!
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Don't Let That Steal Your Joy
We have some cousins on my husband's side of the family that have a small herd of children. Every time I'm around them I find myself admiring them more and more. For lots of different reasons...like how they grow a lot of their own food, their philosophy behind their decision to homeschool, their grace and patience amidst the chaos of raising five young children, etc. But one interaction with them many years ago made an impact on me and continues to move me to this day.
We were eating pizza together at our house. Our oldest daughter was just a baby at the time. I'm not sure we had many toys that appealed to their older kiddos. So, they were drawing pictures. Their son, just a toddler, went up to their older daughter and scribbled on her picture. She was crushed. She had been taking her time creating her work of art, and now there was unwanted color spilled carelessly on her picture. She went to her mom in tears. I watched with curiosity to see how the mom would react. I was surprised. I guess I expected the toddler to be addressed. Not necessarily reprimanded, he was just a toddler after all. But at least told what he did wrong or something. Instead, the mom looked at her disappointed daughter and very calmly told her, "Don't let that steal your joy." Sometimes in life you have an experience that you are able to glean something significant from. This was such an experience for me. I tucked that little piece of wisdom away in my heart and trusted it would be used someday.
Fast forward to now when my husband and I have our own small herd of children. I have found myself many, many times encouraging my daughters not to let a particular offense steal their joy. It is a regular occurrence around here that someone's picture gets scribbled on or someone's feelings get hurt (even my 2-year-old verbalizes that her "feewings" are hurt or when so-and-so is "being not weawy vewy nice" to her!). Living life with others is tough! And it's messy. And frustrating. And sometimes just plain irritating. Do I correct the child that is in the wrong? Oftentimes, yes. But whether I do or whether I don't, I try to make it a habit to look at my child who has experienced a hurt and calmly say, "Don't let that steal your joy."
Recently the atmosphere of our home has been stressful. I blame it on a lot of things...like being cooped up during the winter season, our children seem to be going through difficult stages simultaneously, I happen to have raging pregnancy hormones, etc. I have been venting to my husband about my struggle to deal with all of the crying, and arguing, and bad attitudes, and general discontent I see occurring with our children. I usually feel strong and able to extend a good amount of patience and grace. But, I'm not going to lie, I have been at my wits end. And so I got on my knees today and I asked God to show me how to love my children in the way that they need it. To my surprise, God did not respond by telling me to spend more individual time with my kids. He didn't respond by telling me to prioritize my day better by not worrying about getting things done and just playing with the kids instead. He didn't tell me I need more "me" time or anything like that. You know what he did tell me? "Don't let that steal your joy."
Maybe you are asking, "Don't let what steal your joy?" Let me give you a few examples. It is all the little things. It's not being able to put laundry away without stopping to solve several conflicts. Or realizing my one-year-old got 367 other items out while I was putting that laundry away that I now have to clean up. But not before my older daughter goes running down the hallway and steps on an open bottle of aloe causing it to shoot 3 feet across the carpet and up the wall. Oh, let me just use these cloths I was going to put away to clean that up. Meanwhile, maybe there is a potty accident (again). And then maybe the baby poops for the 3rd time that morning and I have to hold her down while she attempts an alligator death roll to escape a diaper change. On top of that my husband and I haven't been on a date in an eternity and instead of using the couple hours we see each other in an evening to connect and enjoy one another, tired from our day we unfortunately often just scribble on each others' works of art, if you know what I mean.
The fact is, life doesn't change all that much as an adult. It's still hard to do life with others. It's still messy and frustrating and irritating. People still hurt one another, even when they love each other. I'll never be able to really truly protect my children from what they will experience from others in life. And, for that matter, I can't fully protect myself either. So I'm left with the thought instead, that we simply cannot let our joy be so easily taken. Our joy has to come from somewhere inside us that cannot be moved by what occurs around us. In John 10:10 Jesus plainly states that it is the enemy that comes to STEAL, and kill, and destroy our lives. But it is He who comes to give us life, and not just any old life but life to the absolute fullest. Beyond what we can imagine. More than what we can ask for. Above what we can hope for. This is good news! Knowing this truth I can see how the enemy is up against me in all the little things that come with being a stay-at-home mom. I realized that I cannot expect something from my children that I am not practicing myself. I reclaimed my joy today. And it was a good day.
We were eating pizza together at our house. Our oldest daughter was just a baby at the time. I'm not sure we had many toys that appealed to their older kiddos. So, they were drawing pictures. Their son, just a toddler, went up to their older daughter and scribbled on her picture. She was crushed. She had been taking her time creating her work of art, and now there was unwanted color spilled carelessly on her picture. She went to her mom in tears. I watched with curiosity to see how the mom would react. I was surprised. I guess I expected the toddler to be addressed. Not necessarily reprimanded, he was just a toddler after all. But at least told what he did wrong or something. Instead, the mom looked at her disappointed daughter and very calmly told her, "Don't let that steal your joy." Sometimes in life you have an experience that you are able to glean something significant from. This was such an experience for me. I tucked that little piece of wisdom away in my heart and trusted it would be used someday.
Fast forward to now when my husband and I have our own small herd of children. I have found myself many, many times encouraging my daughters not to let a particular offense steal their joy. It is a regular occurrence around here that someone's picture gets scribbled on or someone's feelings get hurt (even my 2-year-old verbalizes that her "feewings" are hurt or when so-and-so is "being not weawy vewy nice" to her!). Living life with others is tough! And it's messy. And frustrating. And sometimes just plain irritating. Do I correct the child that is in the wrong? Oftentimes, yes. But whether I do or whether I don't, I try to make it a habit to look at my child who has experienced a hurt and calmly say, "Don't let that steal your joy."
Recently the atmosphere of our home has been stressful. I blame it on a lot of things...like being cooped up during the winter season, our children seem to be going through difficult stages simultaneously, I happen to have raging pregnancy hormones, etc. I have been venting to my husband about my struggle to deal with all of the crying, and arguing, and bad attitudes, and general discontent I see occurring with our children. I usually feel strong and able to extend a good amount of patience and grace. But, I'm not going to lie, I have been at my wits end. And so I got on my knees today and I asked God to show me how to love my children in the way that they need it. To my surprise, God did not respond by telling me to spend more individual time with my kids. He didn't respond by telling me to prioritize my day better by not worrying about getting things done and just playing with the kids instead. He didn't tell me I need more "me" time or anything like that. You know what he did tell me? "Don't let that steal your joy."
Maybe you are asking, "Don't let what steal your joy?" Let me give you a few examples. It is all the little things. It's not being able to put laundry away without stopping to solve several conflicts. Or realizing my one-year-old got 367 other items out while I was putting that laundry away that I now have to clean up. But not before my older daughter goes running down the hallway and steps on an open bottle of aloe causing it to shoot 3 feet across the carpet and up the wall. Oh, let me just use these cloths I was going to put away to clean that up. Meanwhile, maybe there is a potty accident (again). And then maybe the baby poops for the 3rd time that morning and I have to hold her down while she attempts an alligator death roll to escape a diaper change. On top of that my husband and I haven't been on a date in an eternity and instead of using the couple hours we see each other in an evening to connect and enjoy one another, tired from our day we unfortunately often just scribble on each others' works of art, if you know what I mean.
The fact is, life doesn't change all that much as an adult. It's still hard to do life with others. It's still messy and frustrating and irritating. People still hurt one another, even when they love each other. I'll never be able to really truly protect my children from what they will experience from others in life. And, for that matter, I can't fully protect myself either. So I'm left with the thought instead, that we simply cannot let our joy be so easily taken. Our joy has to come from somewhere inside us that cannot be moved by what occurs around us. In John 10:10 Jesus plainly states that it is the enemy that comes to STEAL, and kill, and destroy our lives. But it is He who comes to give us life, and not just any old life but life to the absolute fullest. Beyond what we can imagine. More than what we can ask for. Above what we can hope for. This is good news! Knowing this truth I can see how the enemy is up against me in all the little things that come with being a stay-at-home mom. I realized that I cannot expect something from my children that I am not practicing myself. I reclaimed my joy today. And it was a good day.
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Motherhood: A Calling
I always knew I wanted to be a mom someday. In fact, I would say when I was younger that I wanted a pile of kids. Like 6 or 7. Then I had one.
My first pregnancy was one of the most exciting times of my life. It seemed like every week was filled with an amazing discovery. Learning the baby had a heartbeat around 5 weeks. Hearing that heartbeat myself a short time later. Watching my body change. Feeling the movement of life inside me. Preparing our tiny home for our new family member. I remember washing the first load of baby clothes so everything would be ready. They were so small and cute. It was like playing with dolls when I was little, only better because it was real! Then she was born.
My first labor and delivery was definitely the most difficult. Mostly because I didn't know what I was doing, despite all my research and attempts at being prepared. And also because I had nothing to compare it to. I often find in life it is easier to persevere through something difficult when you have been through that difficult thing (or at least something similar to it) before. No life experience I had compared to that one! So, I had such a limited view of what was going to be required of me. Could I continue? I didn't know...how long did anyone think I may have to continue for? I remember a nurse saying she thought it wouldn't be long. Even if it was a lie, or a guess, it made me feel better. After 9 hours of labor it was over. Never, ever in the history of Heidi has there been the feeling of relief as strong as in that moment. I loved her right away. Actually, I would say I loved her already. But that experience was such a physical one, that honestly, left me a little traumatized. I remember thinking, I think I want more kids, but I don't know how they're going to get here. After delivery I sort of had this feeling of accomplishment. Like I did what I came to do and was ready to go home. Then I remembered the baby was coming home with me. Oh, yeah. The delivery part was just the beginning.
Once home, the realization that I, actually we (my husband and I), had no idea what we were doing hit hard again. I laid the baby down in her crib and walked away satisfied that I could do something else. A couple of minutes later the baby started crying and that was the first dilemma. What do we do? Do we pick her up? Let her cry? Feed her? Change her? Where the heck are the nurses?! What followed were days and nights and weeks of sleeplessness, so much crying, a lot more pain than I ever expected in the healing process and in the world of breastfeeding (I thought that was supposed to be natural?), frustration, and the feeling of helplessness. I was overwhelmed with the weight of being responsible for another human being. Every noise or movement from her caused a lightening bolt to shoot through my body as all senses were alerted. Like an alarm announcing that I was needed, or maybe just that I might be needed. I was overwhelmed mostly with the feeling that I loved this baby girl, but I didn't want to do this anymore. Can I just put my doll away now and play something else?
Like many things in life, it got better with time. We learned how to swaddle her, nurse her properly, and all the little things that she specifically required (like eating and sleeping upright). We also learned she had colic. And so we could accept that challenge instead of seeing ourselves as failing. We learned to live with a lot of crying. Learned to survive on very little sleep. And eventually we crawled our way out of what I call the dark abyss of Newbornland. And it wasn't long before that little girl had us falling in love with every single thing she did. Much like the pregnancy, there were a million new discoveries, each one of them amazing. Our family adapted and changed and after a while we felt we were ready for number two.
My second pregnancy wasn't anywhere near as fun or exciting as my first. I discovered that carrying an extra 20-30lbs while caring for a toddler was a pretty rigorous job. All those new discoveries were replaced with exhaustion and fatigue. I still treasured that little life inside me. Thriving on the movement I'd feel to remind me she was there. Unlike my first, the pregnancy seemed to fly by. And on exactly the day she was due she was born 3 hours from the start of labor. I pushed one time and she came out. The nurse said, "Holy fast and furious!" I loved her already too, and this time had an appreciation for all that I knew we would experience together. I felt much more confident nursing this time and I was sure we wouldn't have 2 babies with colic. Our second daughter indeed did not have colic. But what I didn't know at the time was that she had one fierce little personality! And what I also didn't know was that every time you add a new member to your family, you upset the groove. This became abundantly clear the minute we arrived home from the hospital. It felt more like stepping into another world. As we opened the door to our house our newborn was screaming and so was our toddler. Our newborn had needs she was demanding be met immediately and so did our toddler. What's more, it was a quick realization that it would be impossible to meet all or any of those needs when expected. And also, I felt pulled between whose need I wanted to meet first. How could I let my toddler suffer without me when all she had known was having me available to her? I can still see myself in those early days, running down our hallway with what my husband likes to call 'a baby on the boob' trying to get my potty training 2-year-old on the toilet in time. What often resulted was just a mess I couldn't even clean up until the baby was done nursing. We just learned to live with a lot more crying (including my own crying!) and stress and take one day at a time. Once again we slid into the dark abyss of Newbornland. The land where you still haven't brushed your teeth at 3PM because you simply couldn't make the time. The land where there is no sleep. There is no such thing as no one needing you. And where friends and family come to visit (and even bring you food and nice things) but no one stays for long. 'Cause they know. I loved the new baby. But I was also mourning the loss of our little family of three. The ending of an era, is what my husband called it. He was right. But, again, with time came good things. The girls fell in love with one another. And our family learned a new groove.
That new groove didn't last long! Just 7+ months later we would learn number 3 was on the way. The pregnancy was a little more exhausting because I now had 2 toddlers to take care of. But I tried to appreciate it and I was in no hurry to get back to Newbornland. My labor was completely different. I labored at home waiting for my contractions to become "regular". In a moment of weakness I almost punched my 1-year-old when she tried to feed me a piece of apple skin she had spit out while I was doubled over with a strong contraction. Once I recognized the signs of being almost there (which would be tears) I told my husband I think we better go to the hospital. From the moment I walked into the hospital it was only 20 minutes before we would welcome our third daughter into the world. It was probably the most empowered I have ever felt, bringing a life into the world with no intervention. She was perfect in every way and this time I was thankful we got to take her home with us. I don't know if Newbornland was less difficult this time around, or if it just got overshadowed by larger life stresses (like the fact that we had a baby, bought a house, and started a new long-distance job all at the same time). Either way, I felt more seasoned this time around and it became clear that nothing would really phase me. I spent those next months literally changing one diaper after another, not sleeping more than 2 consecutive hours for the better part of a year, and accepting the fact that life now was largely about trying to control utter chaos.
People like to tell me all the time how I have my hands full. I haven't quite figured out their motivation. Do they think that's helpful? Are they just trying to make a connection with someone? I don't know. I appreciate the people that follow that up with asking if I need a hand. Even if I don't need a hand. What does need really mean anymore anyway? Many people are kind to mommies who have their hands full. Minus the time that I almost punched the lady at Walmart that caught me in a bad moment, I try to respond, "My hands are full, but my heart is too." And that's pretty much the whole of it. Having kids is insane. The other morning I started my day with my 4-year-old letting me know she had wet the bed (AGAIN). As I helped her take her jammies off, eyes still barely open, she sneezed in my face twice. Now that I think about it, maybe it was a good thing my eyes were barely open. I wipe a lot of poopy bottoms, clean up a lot of crumbs off the floor, spend a lot of time cutting food up into small, chewable pieces. I have no "me" time. Even when I am showering, I am fighting my 1-year-old off trying to keep the curtain closed as she repeatedly opens it to play peek-a-boo. I am most often covered in someone else's bodily fluids. It's not exactly a glamorous life. But it is my life. And man, these girls really do fill my heart. The reward that you get from putting so much into a person is simply incomprehensible. There isn't a way to measure the joy of hearing them make up their own songs, learn something new, laugh uncontrollably, or pronounce things all wrong. I think I'll probably shed some tears the day that napkin is no longer pronounced pakin in our house.
I'll be honest and tell you there are days, or moments, when I stare off the back porch and think about the freedom I once had to do...well, anything. And there are times that I still feel nostalgic for the days when it seemed so much easier with one. There are moments in my day when my 1-year-old has been following me around for an hour, crying as I make dinner, grabbing at my leg with tiny nails that should have been cut 3 days ago, and I have that same overwhelming feeling I did at the beginning of all this...I love her, but I don't want to do this anymore. But I can also honestly tell you that I know there is nothing else in this whole world I would rather spend my life doing. I don't just feel like I have kids and am waiting for them to grow up and sort of get out of the way so I can get my life back. I feel compelled to spend my life loving and caring for them. Whether that means putting a band aid on a boo boo that doesn't really exist, getting out of bed at 2AM to fix a blanket that there seemed to be nothing wrong with in the first place, or playing dinosaurs or lions or any other number of pretend games for the umpteenth time...this is my calling. To raise these babies in truth and in love and to send them off to change the world. A holy calling indeed. An often overwhelming responsibility, but a blessed one.
With that, I am happy to announce that we are expecting our fourth baby in July 2015. I already have fears about how I will manage another little one. How will I give any more of myself? But I know that God is the creator of life, and he creates with purpose. And so it is with purpose that I will carry this baby. And with purpose that I will love and care for her (or him!).
My first pregnancy was one of the most exciting times of my life. It seemed like every week was filled with an amazing discovery. Learning the baby had a heartbeat around 5 weeks. Hearing that heartbeat myself a short time later. Watching my body change. Feeling the movement of life inside me. Preparing our tiny home for our new family member. I remember washing the first load of baby clothes so everything would be ready. They were so small and cute. It was like playing with dolls when I was little, only better because it was real! Then she was born.
My first labor and delivery was definitely the most difficult. Mostly because I didn't know what I was doing, despite all my research and attempts at being prepared. And also because I had nothing to compare it to. I often find in life it is easier to persevere through something difficult when you have been through that difficult thing (or at least something similar to it) before. No life experience I had compared to that one! So, I had such a limited view of what was going to be required of me. Could I continue? I didn't know...how long did anyone think I may have to continue for? I remember a nurse saying she thought it wouldn't be long. Even if it was a lie, or a guess, it made me feel better. After 9 hours of labor it was over. Never, ever in the history of Heidi has there been the feeling of relief as strong as in that moment. I loved her right away. Actually, I would say I loved her already. But that experience was such a physical one, that honestly, left me a little traumatized. I remember thinking, I think I want more kids, but I don't know how they're going to get here. After delivery I sort of had this feeling of accomplishment. Like I did what I came to do and was ready to go home. Then I remembered the baby was coming home with me. Oh, yeah. The delivery part was just the beginning.
Once home, the realization that I, actually we (my husband and I), had no idea what we were doing hit hard again. I laid the baby down in her crib and walked away satisfied that I could do something else. A couple of minutes later the baby started crying and that was the first dilemma. What do we do? Do we pick her up? Let her cry? Feed her? Change her? Where the heck are the nurses?! What followed were days and nights and weeks of sleeplessness, so much crying, a lot more pain than I ever expected in the healing process and in the world of breastfeeding (I thought that was supposed to be natural?), frustration, and the feeling of helplessness. I was overwhelmed with the weight of being responsible for another human being. Every noise or movement from her caused a lightening bolt to shoot through my body as all senses were alerted. Like an alarm announcing that I was needed, or maybe just that I might be needed. I was overwhelmed mostly with the feeling that I loved this baby girl, but I didn't want to do this anymore. Can I just put my doll away now and play something else?
Like many things in life, it got better with time. We learned how to swaddle her, nurse her properly, and all the little things that she specifically required (like eating and sleeping upright). We also learned she had colic. And so we could accept that challenge instead of seeing ourselves as failing. We learned to live with a lot of crying. Learned to survive on very little sleep. And eventually we crawled our way out of what I call the dark abyss of Newbornland. And it wasn't long before that little girl had us falling in love with every single thing she did. Much like the pregnancy, there were a million new discoveries, each one of them amazing. Our family adapted and changed and after a while we felt we were ready for number two.
My second pregnancy wasn't anywhere near as fun or exciting as my first. I discovered that carrying an extra 20-30lbs while caring for a toddler was a pretty rigorous job. All those new discoveries were replaced with exhaustion and fatigue. I still treasured that little life inside me. Thriving on the movement I'd feel to remind me she was there. Unlike my first, the pregnancy seemed to fly by. And on exactly the day she was due she was born 3 hours from the start of labor. I pushed one time and she came out. The nurse said, "Holy fast and furious!" I loved her already too, and this time had an appreciation for all that I knew we would experience together. I felt much more confident nursing this time and I was sure we wouldn't have 2 babies with colic. Our second daughter indeed did not have colic. But what I didn't know at the time was that she had one fierce little personality! And what I also didn't know was that every time you add a new member to your family, you upset the groove. This became abundantly clear the minute we arrived home from the hospital. It felt more like stepping into another world. As we opened the door to our house our newborn was screaming and so was our toddler. Our newborn had needs she was demanding be met immediately and so did our toddler. What's more, it was a quick realization that it would be impossible to meet all or any of those needs when expected. And also, I felt pulled between whose need I wanted to meet first. How could I let my toddler suffer without me when all she had known was having me available to her? I can still see myself in those early days, running down our hallway with what my husband likes to call 'a baby on the boob' trying to get my potty training 2-year-old on the toilet in time. What often resulted was just a mess I couldn't even clean up until the baby was done nursing. We just learned to live with a lot more crying (including my own crying!) and stress and take one day at a time. Once again we slid into the dark abyss of Newbornland. The land where you still haven't brushed your teeth at 3PM because you simply couldn't make the time. The land where there is no sleep. There is no such thing as no one needing you. And where friends and family come to visit (and even bring you food and nice things) but no one stays for long. 'Cause they know. I loved the new baby. But I was also mourning the loss of our little family of three. The ending of an era, is what my husband called it. He was right. But, again, with time came good things. The girls fell in love with one another. And our family learned a new groove.
That new groove didn't last long! Just 7+ months later we would learn number 3 was on the way. The pregnancy was a little more exhausting because I now had 2 toddlers to take care of. But I tried to appreciate it and I was in no hurry to get back to Newbornland. My labor was completely different. I labored at home waiting for my contractions to become "regular". In a moment of weakness I almost punched my 1-year-old when she tried to feed me a piece of apple skin she had spit out while I was doubled over with a strong contraction. Once I recognized the signs of being almost there (which would be tears) I told my husband I think we better go to the hospital. From the moment I walked into the hospital it was only 20 minutes before we would welcome our third daughter into the world. It was probably the most empowered I have ever felt, bringing a life into the world with no intervention. She was perfect in every way and this time I was thankful we got to take her home with us. I don't know if Newbornland was less difficult this time around, or if it just got overshadowed by larger life stresses (like the fact that we had a baby, bought a house, and started a new long-distance job all at the same time). Either way, I felt more seasoned this time around and it became clear that nothing would really phase me. I spent those next months literally changing one diaper after another, not sleeping more than 2 consecutive hours for the better part of a year, and accepting the fact that life now was largely about trying to control utter chaos.
People like to tell me all the time how I have my hands full. I haven't quite figured out their motivation. Do they think that's helpful? Are they just trying to make a connection with someone? I don't know. I appreciate the people that follow that up with asking if I need a hand. Even if I don't need a hand. What does need really mean anymore anyway? Many people are kind to mommies who have their hands full. Minus the time that I almost punched the lady at Walmart that caught me in a bad moment, I try to respond, "My hands are full, but my heart is too." And that's pretty much the whole of it. Having kids is insane. The other morning I started my day with my 4-year-old letting me know she had wet the bed (AGAIN). As I helped her take her jammies off, eyes still barely open, she sneezed in my face twice. Now that I think about it, maybe it was a good thing my eyes were barely open. I wipe a lot of poopy bottoms, clean up a lot of crumbs off the floor, spend a lot of time cutting food up into small, chewable pieces. I have no "me" time. Even when I am showering, I am fighting my 1-year-old off trying to keep the curtain closed as she repeatedly opens it to play peek-a-boo. I am most often covered in someone else's bodily fluids. It's not exactly a glamorous life. But it is my life. And man, these girls really do fill my heart. The reward that you get from putting so much into a person is simply incomprehensible. There isn't a way to measure the joy of hearing them make up their own songs, learn something new, laugh uncontrollably, or pronounce things all wrong. I think I'll probably shed some tears the day that napkin is no longer pronounced pakin in our house.
I'll be honest and tell you there are days, or moments, when I stare off the back porch and think about the freedom I once had to do...well, anything. And there are times that I still feel nostalgic for the days when it seemed so much easier with one. There are moments in my day when my 1-year-old has been following me around for an hour, crying as I make dinner, grabbing at my leg with tiny nails that should have been cut 3 days ago, and I have that same overwhelming feeling I did at the beginning of all this...I love her, but I don't want to do this anymore. But I can also honestly tell you that I know there is nothing else in this whole world I would rather spend my life doing. I don't just feel like I have kids and am waiting for them to grow up and sort of get out of the way so I can get my life back. I feel compelled to spend my life loving and caring for them. Whether that means putting a band aid on a boo boo that doesn't really exist, getting out of bed at 2AM to fix a blanket that there seemed to be nothing wrong with in the first place, or playing dinosaurs or lions or any other number of pretend games for the umpteenth time...this is my calling. To raise these babies in truth and in love and to send them off to change the world. A holy calling indeed. An often overwhelming responsibility, but a blessed one.
With that, I am happy to announce that we are expecting our fourth baby in July 2015. I already have fears about how I will manage another little one. How will I give any more of myself? But I know that God is the creator of life, and he creates with purpose. And so it is with purpose that I will carry this baby. And with purpose that I will love and care for her (or him!).
Thursday, December 11, 2014
In My Father's Footsteps
I grew up the youngest of four girls. I also had two cousins that lived across the street that for all intents and purposes were like two more sisters. We grew up on 60 acres of shared family land that made our small world feel huge and limitless.
As a little girl I was into girl things but also was a huge tomboy. I loved to climb trees in my tutu and play with my Barbie dolls in the mud. I loved to wear my mom's lipstick and I loved to play with my dad's tools. I loved to bake and I loved to spend all day exploring in the woods. When my sister, Jaynelle, and I would play Hey Dude in my dad's lower garage, she would be Tiffany (the pretty, dainty character) and I would be Bradley (girly, but tough). These divided interests followed me as I got older. I became the athlete in my family and the one responsible for the outside chores (including, but not limited to, standing outside for prolonged periods of time in the freezing cold holding Christmas lights for my dad like I was Russ Griswold in Christmas Vacation). I liked to wear dresses and makeup and yet found it perfectly acceptable to poop outside when necessary or even just convenient. I dreamed of growing up and taking over my dad's contracting business or joining the army. I enjoyed painting my nails, and didn't mind getting sweaty or dirty. I was, in short, my father's only son. It was inevitable, I suppose, that I would one day hunt with my dad as well.
My father is a meticulous man. He is careful and calculated and doesn't miss a detail when carrying out a task. This is the kind of leader he proved to be in the woods as well. The first time he ever took me out, it was to hunt small game. Specifically, squirrel. I can't say I remember a lot of that experience, but I do remember two things. One: squirrels were simply too cute to shoot. And two: I enjoyed spending time with my dad out on the land. So, when I became old enough to hunt deer, I was there. The first couple of years, I decided hunting deer was more fun to talk about than to actually do. In reality, I had to wake up when it was still dark when most of my friends got to sleep in, and then spend the entire day in the frigid cold seeing and shooting just about nothing. But the draw for me was in the memory making.
Now, my sisters didn't hunt, but my two cousins did. Although I consider us kinda tough, we were still girls out there hunting. We horsed around, laughed too loud, peed too often (like, it happened more than once that we missed a shot because our pants were around our ankles and our guns were out of reach...oops), took naps, and had our dads build us a fire if we couldn't hack the cold. A typical day hunting would start with an early get together for pancakes and sausage at my uncle's house. Then we'd get dressed and eventually get to our "spots". If you grew up on family land I'm sure you are familiar with the way certain areas acquire names over the years. On the Brumbaugh farm, we have names like 'the bottom', 'the beaver pond', 'the hollo', etc. And then we have our "spots". It is common knowledge where 'Denny and Heidi's' or 'Mandi and Uncle Dick's' spots are. Once we arrived in our spot, my dad and I would stay there for a few hours. For me, this was sometimes the toughest part of hunting. It was cold. And quiet. And usually really cold. And mostly really quiet. I would fight sleep and wait in anticipation for my dad to say, "Well, you wanna go check in with Mandi and Uncle Dick?" "Sure," I would casually say...but you know I was pumped! Not only would I get warm from the walk up to their spot, I would get a new energy being able to move around, and they always had better snacks (things like Starbursts and salt & vinegar chips). Usually once we got to their spot our dads would leave us girls there and they would go drive the woods for us. Later in the afternoon I would go back with my dad to our spot and finish out the day...watch the sunset on the open field where we sit and listen to my dad tell stories of his upbringing, his hunting experiences, etc.
It was my third year hunting, I toughed it out through the early morning cold and quiet and my dad suggested we take a walk up to see Mandi and Uncle Dick. As we walked through the woods I tried very carefully to walk exactly behind my dad, stepping only in his footsteps, to make the least amount of noise as possible. I was busy concentrating on this when we heard it...a loud gunshot not far away. My dad instructed me to stop and be still and explained that sometimes a close shot might send deer running our way. We didn't have to wait long before we saw them. Three deer coming. Two doe and a buck. My dad told me to be quiet, maybe one of them would stop. As if on cue, the buck stopped. My dad told me to pull my gun up, take the safety off and shoot. I did. The deer took off. We both breathed, laughed a little, and my dad told me it was a good try and at least I now had practice shooting at one. I was reeling with adrenaline. My dad said we should walk over to where the deer had been standing just to check. When we got there we saw a little bit of fur and some blood. A new excitement swept over me. We began to track the blood. After a time we found him in a swamp. The deer had apparently run up the bank by the swamp and fell backwards when he died. We happened to come across a neighbor who graciously helped my dad drag my deer out of that black, murky swamp. I stood back watching. The moment I realized I had taken the life of something so big, really so beautiful, I cried. I sobbed actually. It was a foreign feeling to me. Being responsible for taking life. After a few minutes a different feeling crept in. One of excitement, and satisfaction, and pride. I felt like I had accomplished what I set out to do. Finally hunting took on a new meaning to me. It had a purpose. A goal. And I now knew I was capable of meeting that goal. I was proud that I was successful and happy that I could go to school and tell the boys that I shot an 8-point. But more than anything in that moment, I was simply inflated by my father's pride in me.
We now call that swamp 'where Heidi shot her first deer'. It may be used in reference to give direction to some other destination on the land. In eighteen years I have only missed one season, when I was 2 weeks postpartum after having my third baby. But, I've hunted through three pregnancies and through nursing two infants (my mom would just text me and say, "Baby awake. Send boob!"). During those years I'm not sure if I spent more time in the woods, or trying to get in the woods! I have realized that hunting isn't necessarily just something that I do. It is a part of who I am. It is a part of who my family is. It is something special I have with my dad, as his only son:)
Over the years more people have joined us on the land. Another uncle. My brother-in-law and his brother. My nephew. More spots have been designated. More memories have been made. I watch my dad gain a new energy with my nephew out there. This year it was my nephew who joined my dad at our spot, and I actually got my own, new spot. A tree stand. I felt so grown up. Like graduating from the kid's table to the adult table at Thanksgiving dinner. I'm happy to see him lead my nephew. Happy that my nephew will hear the same great stories I've heard a hundred times. And my nephew is blessed to learn the ropes from such a great man, to learn to walk quietly in my father's footsteps.
As a little girl I was into girl things but also was a huge tomboy. I loved to climb trees in my tutu and play with my Barbie dolls in the mud. I loved to wear my mom's lipstick and I loved to play with my dad's tools. I loved to bake and I loved to spend all day exploring in the woods. When my sister, Jaynelle, and I would play Hey Dude in my dad's lower garage, she would be Tiffany (the pretty, dainty character) and I would be Bradley (girly, but tough). These divided interests followed me as I got older. I became the athlete in my family and the one responsible for the outside chores (including, but not limited to, standing outside for prolonged periods of time in the freezing cold holding Christmas lights for my dad like I was Russ Griswold in Christmas Vacation). I liked to wear dresses and makeup and yet found it perfectly acceptable to poop outside when necessary or even just convenient. I dreamed of growing up and taking over my dad's contracting business or joining the army. I enjoyed painting my nails, and didn't mind getting sweaty or dirty. I was, in short, my father's only son. It was inevitable, I suppose, that I would one day hunt with my dad as well.
My father is a meticulous man. He is careful and calculated and doesn't miss a detail when carrying out a task. This is the kind of leader he proved to be in the woods as well. The first time he ever took me out, it was to hunt small game. Specifically, squirrel. I can't say I remember a lot of that experience, but I do remember two things. One: squirrels were simply too cute to shoot. And two: I enjoyed spending time with my dad out on the land. So, when I became old enough to hunt deer, I was there. The first couple of years, I decided hunting deer was more fun to talk about than to actually do. In reality, I had to wake up when it was still dark when most of my friends got to sleep in, and then spend the entire day in the frigid cold seeing and shooting just about nothing. But the draw for me was in the memory making.
Now, my sisters didn't hunt, but my two cousins did. Although I consider us kinda tough, we were still girls out there hunting. We horsed around, laughed too loud, peed too often (like, it happened more than once that we missed a shot because our pants were around our ankles and our guns were out of reach...oops), took naps, and had our dads build us a fire if we couldn't hack the cold. A typical day hunting would start with an early get together for pancakes and sausage at my uncle's house. Then we'd get dressed and eventually get to our "spots". If you grew up on family land I'm sure you are familiar with the way certain areas acquire names over the years. On the Brumbaugh farm, we have names like 'the bottom', 'the beaver pond', 'the hollo', etc. And then we have our "spots". It is common knowledge where 'Denny and Heidi's' or 'Mandi and Uncle Dick's' spots are. Once we arrived in our spot, my dad and I would stay there for a few hours. For me, this was sometimes the toughest part of hunting. It was cold. And quiet. And usually really cold. And mostly really quiet. I would fight sleep and wait in anticipation for my dad to say, "Well, you wanna go check in with Mandi and Uncle Dick?" "Sure," I would casually say...but you know I was pumped! Not only would I get warm from the walk up to their spot, I would get a new energy being able to move around, and they always had better snacks (things like Starbursts and salt & vinegar chips). Usually once we got to their spot our dads would leave us girls there and they would go drive the woods for us. Later in the afternoon I would go back with my dad to our spot and finish out the day...watch the sunset on the open field where we sit and listen to my dad tell stories of his upbringing, his hunting experiences, etc.
It was my third year hunting, I toughed it out through the early morning cold and quiet and my dad suggested we take a walk up to see Mandi and Uncle Dick. As we walked through the woods I tried very carefully to walk exactly behind my dad, stepping only in his footsteps, to make the least amount of noise as possible. I was busy concentrating on this when we heard it...a loud gunshot not far away. My dad instructed me to stop and be still and explained that sometimes a close shot might send deer running our way. We didn't have to wait long before we saw them. Three deer coming. Two doe and a buck. My dad told me to be quiet, maybe one of them would stop. As if on cue, the buck stopped. My dad told me to pull my gun up, take the safety off and shoot. I did. The deer took off. We both breathed, laughed a little, and my dad told me it was a good try and at least I now had practice shooting at one. I was reeling with adrenaline. My dad said we should walk over to where the deer had been standing just to check. When we got there we saw a little bit of fur and some blood. A new excitement swept over me. We began to track the blood. After a time we found him in a swamp. The deer had apparently run up the bank by the swamp and fell backwards when he died. We happened to come across a neighbor who graciously helped my dad drag my deer out of that black, murky swamp. I stood back watching. The moment I realized I had taken the life of something so big, really so beautiful, I cried. I sobbed actually. It was a foreign feeling to me. Being responsible for taking life. After a few minutes a different feeling crept in. One of excitement, and satisfaction, and pride. I felt like I had accomplished what I set out to do. Finally hunting took on a new meaning to me. It had a purpose. A goal. And I now knew I was capable of meeting that goal. I was proud that I was successful and happy that I could go to school and tell the boys that I shot an 8-point. But more than anything in that moment, I was simply inflated by my father's pride in me.
We now call that swamp 'where Heidi shot her first deer'. It may be used in reference to give direction to some other destination on the land. In eighteen years I have only missed one season, when I was 2 weeks postpartum after having my third baby. But, I've hunted through three pregnancies and through nursing two infants (my mom would just text me and say, "Baby awake. Send boob!"). During those years I'm not sure if I spent more time in the woods, or trying to get in the woods! I have realized that hunting isn't necessarily just something that I do. It is a part of who I am. It is a part of who my family is. It is something special I have with my dad, as his only son:)
Over the years more people have joined us on the land. Another uncle. My brother-in-law and his brother. My nephew. More spots have been designated. More memories have been made. I watch my dad gain a new energy with my nephew out there. This year it was my nephew who joined my dad at our spot, and I actually got my own, new spot. A tree stand. I felt so grown up. Like graduating from the kid's table to the adult table at Thanksgiving dinner. I'm happy to see him lead my nephew. Happy that my nephew will hear the same great stories I've heard a hundred times. And my nephew is blessed to learn the ropes from such a great man, to learn to walk quietly in my father's footsteps.
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| Me, my dad, and my 8-point swamp deer. |
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