This Guy

All four of my children's birth stories are wonderful and amazing, in my perfectly biased opinion. But this guy. This guy's story is a step into the miraculous. Born 6 weeks early at an even, whopping 4 pounds, his is a story of LIFE. When the doctor who literally just pulled your son from your womb whispers in your ear, "Do you believe in Divine Intervention?", you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that someone epic just entered your family. This boy had a true knot in his umbilical cord. We were clueless of this fact. So a message needed to be sent out. A big SOS. Message was received. I coasted right past preeclampsia and landed smack into this territory. It was confusing and scary. But exactly what needed to happen in order for the boy with the true knot in his cord to be born.
Seven years later, I am still in awe of the Lord's goodness. I am so thankful for this artistic, creative, super smart little boy. He sees the world in ways I do not. He asks questions that stop me in my tracks. This guy. Now this guy is special.
Happy Birthday, Josiah Daniel. I love you bigger than this universe. Just thought you should know...

Sirens

I've lived in the Midwest for almost 8 years now. Oddly enough, we have only had to run down to our basement once in all of those years. That's something to be grateful for!

The past couple of days, there have been big headlines of big storms with big tornadoes. Naturally, one might get a little "tweaked" when hearing of all this commotion. Yesterday I texted my friend Dan, who happens to work for NOAA... our national weather service. He's the one to go to if we have any questions about weather. Dan, I asked, do I need to worry about these reports? I'm home alone with the kids... should I make a plan to head down to our basement? It's pretty unlikely, he replied. But, if you do hear the sirens go off, then yeah. Go downstairs.
I was pretty exhausted yesterday afternoon. Note that earlier I mentioned being *home alone with 4 kids*. Hence, the exhaustion. I put the girls down for their nap. I set the boys up for their quiet time. Josiah spends his time in his bedroom. Elijah spends his downstairs in the guest room. I snuggled down in my bed, asking for that blissful break called sleep. And then. All of a sudden, I heard a siren-like noise. I shot out of that bed faster than I could say tornado. I pulled the dead-asleep Phoebe from her bed. I grabbed a couple of diapers and the box of wipes because she had planted a diaper bomb before falling asleep. Seriously? How do babies do that? Fill their diapers and then fall asleep?? I ran across the house with sleepy baby in my arms, blanket trailing on the ground, diapers falling out of my grasp. I called for Josiah to run downstairs to alert Elijah of the emergency situation. I ran into Lyla's room and woke her up from a dead-sleep. As I slowed down to gather the fallen diapers, I noticed something. There was no siren blaring. There was, however, a neighbor running a SHOP VAC.

Try telling a 3 year old and a 2 year old that Mama just needed to run a quick tornado drill and that they must go back to sleep.
They didn't believe me either.

Chapters

There was a time in my life when death was a viable option. Years when deep lies were believed that I would fail as a person, that I was not worth anyone's love. At 18, I gave in. I said okay, you're right. I'm not fit to be alive. I'm never going to be. Time to end it. I tried. I shook out as many pills as I could from their containers. I washed them down with a gallon size jug of water. And then I waited. My mind became foggy. I remember my dad coming in my room. I remember my mom asking me questions and "calmly" taking me to the hospital. I remember lying there in the hospital bed, hallucinating. Seeing animals dance across the ceiling, the large spotlight over my head. I remember the hushed talking, the decisions being made about my care. Drink charcoal, they said. If that doesn't bring it up, then we'll have to pump your stomach. So I drank the thick, black, sickeningly sweet charcoal. It didn't take long. The heaving. The pain. The excruciating, neverending night. But then the morning came and I was still alive. The charcoal had done the job. There were some physical side effects from the pills I had swallowed. So I had to stay. Social workers came and went. Asking question after question. I pulled whatever I had left together and danced the sanity dance for them. I'm fine, I said. It was a stupid decision, I said. I'll never do it again, I said. And they let me leave.

I wasn't okay. I left for college later that summer. And I wasn't okay. I had a fiancee who soon became my husband living, breathing by my side. And I wasn't okay. I began to envision other ways of ending it. Could I jump from this window, I asked. I would inspect my wrists. Could I end it in this gory way, I asked. These thoughts were a part of me for years.

Time passed. And passed. It was not one thing that healed me. A series of events. People calling me forward at church services. Proclaiming truth over me. My husband's fierce loyalty, not letting me go when many would have walked away. Quiet times with the Lord. Revelations of His sweet Love. Calling me His Precious Jewel. The birth of my firstborn son. A series of events that slowly turned my thoughts. If this One has called me Beautiful and Wanted, who am I to disagree with this?  You never disappoint me, He says. Who am I to turn by back on that?

This part of my past no longer creates grief in my heart. It no longer causes shame. It's my story. And I'm grateful. I look at the precious faces of my children and I am grateful. I'm glad I've never been the one with the pen. I have chapters yet to be written. Whole chapters.

Build

Creativity is a funny thing. To some, it comes a little more naturally. These ones are inspired easily. To others, it's just plain hard work. These ones have short bursts of inspiration and then walk on in silence. I am one of the latter. Add a deep insecurity of any ability to create and you have ME. Granted, I have legitimate reasons for hiding from creativity. 4 reasons to be exact. But I can't continue to hide. It's time to let those parts of me become me. I'm not sure what that looks like or feels like but I'm willing to give it a go.
Step 1 of this journey. Write more.

Dream

Dream big. Dream bigger.

I've heard this a lot recently. I have forgotten how. My dreams consist of that first cup of coffee in the morning. The hope that my children won't throw any fits in the first five minutes of waking up. The desire to fit a workout in sometime along my day. To find that magic recipe that literally takes 5 minutes to make and requires no clean-up afterwards.

I dream for my husband. I dream that his business would suddenly take off and every step would no longer be a days-long battle. I dream that his music would be heard.

I dream for my children. I dream that they would grow up with a deep love for Jesus and a passion for helping others. I dream that they would always know who they are and walk with joy, leaving bitterness way behind.

Something needs to grab hold of me. That thing that keeps my identity in the midst of my day to day. I am who I am. Having entered my 30's, a new peace has come with this thought. After years of struggle, years of depression and self-hatred, I am free. Mostly. It's time to dream.

Dream big. Dream bigger.