one thousand and ninety-five miracles

My brother was born with trouble in him. Mischief. He was also born with a fabulous sense of humor, a heart for people who are hurting, serious physical strength, great communication skills, an obsession with all things sports, and an extreme motivation to succeed once he sets his mind to something. But looking back at those early years, the trouble and mischief I mentioned...I have to admit that that's what sticks out in my mind.

And being the older child, a people pleaser and overall goody two-shoes, that little brother of mine caused me a great deal of stress. Even as a young child, I remember feeling responsible for him, like another parent...or maybe like a parole officer. I was probably only five years old, pleading with him to obey the babysitter. A few years later, I was bribing him to behave on the school bus. 

I ran interference between him and the neighbor kids when he played pranks on them...like convincing the girl across the street that moldy bread was actually delicious. Behind his back, I defended him continually to older kids whom he wasn't afraid to pester.

He was the kid in the preschool Christmas program who, instead of singing, was shining a flashlight in the eyes of audience members. He was the kid who pretended to be asleep and fell out of his chair the first day of kindergarten...and the second...and the third. He was the kid who told my deepest, most embarrassing secrets to my friends when they slept over at our house.

But what started as funny little pranks and silly mischief eventually got more stressful. Looking back, it was no big deal. Just kid stuff, but it made me nearly sick with worry at the time. I remember him getting in trouble at school for passing a note to a friend that had swear words on it. As my dad talked to him about it in his room that evening, I laid on my bed and cried and prayed and prayed and cried. 

He developed a bad reputation among teachers and the parents of his peers. He was friendly, a great athlete, smart and so funny, but he was trouble. And at a very small, strict, private school, it's easy to dig yourself a hole. And once it's dug, there's no way you're getting out. It pained me to see him sitting alone at the lunch table every day for some silly thing he did months before. It broke my heart when his friends' parents wouldn't let him come to their houses. And it made me angry too. I just wanted him to be better...and sometimes hope would flash by and I'd think that things were turning a corner, but then they would just get worse. 

As Brad was entering high school, my dad got laid off and was out of work for eight months. Brad's best friend moved away. He switched schools. Tough things happened in his friend group. He did his very best to cope. He fought off the lies that get thrown at teenagers about what will make them feel better, but like so many young kids, he could only fight so hard for so long. He skipped more than a third of his classes in high school. It was only by the grace of God and one kind-hearted teacher that he even graduated. I can picture him right now in his cap and gown, standing with his friends for a picture. I can see that photograph in my mind's eye...and I know that he's high as a kite.

Because by high school, drugs had entered his life...our lives. And the power they wielded was terrifying. Devastating. Watching him spiral downward into harder and harder drugs was like watching someone slowly die. I will not attempt to tell his stories here because they aren't mine to tell. But I can tell you what it's like to be the sister of an addict.

It is the most physically painful, emotionally exhausting, mentally excruciating, spiritually trying thing that I have ever experienced... 

...because one night he went missing and I laid on the living room floor and yelled at my dad to "FIND HIM!" and to "DO SOMETHING!" But there was nothing to be done. So Andrew and I drove around the city, looking for his abandoned car, certain that he was dead.

...because my parents came home from visiting him in the hospital one night and my mom collapsed in the entryway, just laid there with her face on a shoe, sobbing seemingly endless tears of heartbreak and grief.

...because the entire process of writing a letter to read at my brother's intervention, sneaking into his dorm room, stationing my husband outside the window in case Brad tried to escape, reading the letter to him, and watching him cry made my entire body ache with sadness.

...because treatment gives you hope. And relapse steals it. And treatment gives you hope again. And relapse steals it. And then you stop hoping.

...because he was homeless a couple of times. Just for a few days each time but when that homeless person is your brother, even a few moments of homelessness feels like way too long.

...because when you are just the sister, you have absolutely no power. You have even less power than your powerless parents and you feel angry with them all the time for all of the things that you think they are doing wrong, all of the ways that they are not saving him.

...because seeing him so skinny made me so sad.

...because it's so hard to go to Alanon and Naranon meetings and family therapy.

...because I didn't trust him. Not with anything. Not for two seconds. I hid my money and my stuff because I knew that addiction turns people into thieves.

...because holidays and vacations were always sabotaged.

...because there were fist-sized holes in the walls of our home.

...because for years, he didn't have a personality.

...because people would ask me what my brother was doing, whether he was in school or working, and I'd have to make something up.

...because he got kicked out of treatment one time and was driving home, across the whole country. And my dad called me and told me that we needed to prepare ourselves because he didn't see how Brad would possibly ever make it home alive. I knew he was right. And I made peace with that. I remember thinking that if Brad died, he would be in heaven with Jesus and would no longer have to fight this impossible battle, and I felt relieved at the thought.

But he made it home. And he kept using. There were times when he did better. When he got a job. When he took some classes. When he made me mix CDs of encouraging music after my miscarriages. But nothing ever lasted. I lost hope for him and faith in him. 

And then Harriet was born. 

He came to the hospital with my parents and held my tiny, vulnerable daughter in his arms with the most astonished, adoring look in his eyes. He fell in love with her. He just kept commenting about how strong her little hands were, how tightly they wrapped around his finger. He couldn't believe it. 

And one month and one day after he became an uncle, he went into treatment for the last time. I have no idea what happened in treatment, what made it different from the times before that. But I know that God heaped miracle upon miracle on my brother's life. I know that his brain and his heart were transformed. I know that the iron grip that drugs had on his life was loosened...crushed...by grace. 

And my brother came home...healed. People email me after reading my blog sometimes and ask me how I can believe in God. And I want to put one hand on their cheek and with the other hand, point at my brother and whisper, "Because of this. Because lives do not change this way without Christ. Because what you see here isn't just a man who is clean and sober. What you see here is a life made whole."

Because of the trust and generosity of a saint named Steve, my brother got a job. A good one that he has kept ever since. And he fell in love. He fell in love with a girl named Alyssa who supports him and celebrates his sobriety with every part of her heart. She sunk into our family like she had always been part of it. She laughs at my dad’s lame jokes. She delights in my children. She loves our dogs more than we do.

And slowly, slowly I started to hope again. And to trust him again. And God continued to heap miracles on his life. God restored our joy. God rebuilt our family. 

And this past August, my brother and Alyssa got married. They asked me to be the only bridesmaid, the maid of honor. And they asked Harriet to be their flower girl. The wedding was a small, simple service at Andrew's parents' cabin, the place that we celebrated his sobriety anniversary every year...a sacred place for us.

After the sweet ceremony, we all sat down under a lovely canopy and ate Alyssa's mom's famous chicken lasagna off of her grandmother's treasured china. My dad gave a short speech and he cried. He just kept saying how all of this...every part of it...was a miracle. How Alyssa was a miracle for our family. How we never, ever would have thought that this day would come. A day that was a celebration of love, yes. But also a celebration of redemption. A celebration of healing. A celebration of a girl...and her family...who risked everything on this boy who loved her and opened their arms and their hearts as wide as they go to the brother of mine whom so many had rejected in the past.

And then it was my turn to say a few words. So I turned to Brad and Alyssa and I said this...

I can’t even tell you how joyful and honored I feel to be here today, standing up there with the two of you, witnessing the creation of a new family, the tangling together of two beautiful journeys to create one story – a story about redemption, acceptance, love and blessing.

I know that the two of you have worked hard to prepare for this day and for the shared lifetime that will follow. You have spent so much time together, adventured together, seen each other at your best and your worst. You know each other so well. You’re best friends. But, Alyssa, you have three brothers, and I’m sure you’d agree that sisters have a special window into who their brothers really are, deep down. So I want to share with you a few words about Brad and who he really is at his core.

But for starters, if I can just give you some advice...don’t play practical jokes on him. You will never, ever win. We have all tried, but every time we think we’re about to best him, he throws it back in our faces. Like the time he gave me a piece of candy with an ant in the middle of it. Or the time he hid a nice tall glass of milk and a pile of shredded cheese in the back of my closet. Or the time he suspended my dad’s electric toothbrush just centimeters above the toilet water. Or the MANY times we’d be on vacation, all sleeping in the same hotel room and the alarm would go off at 3:00 am.

Also, he’s an adventurer. You know this from your camping and kayaking and hunting, I’m sure. But did you know that at age seven, he took apart an entire bed and used the wood to build a boat that he then sailed in a nearby pond we called “Diarrhea Swamp?” Or that at age five, he bungee jumped…off the balcony in our home?

But the main thing I want you to know is that this man…your husband…is a warrior. I want you to know that he will fight for you. He will fight for your family. He will fight for your children. He will fight to keep good things in your life. And when our fallen world knocks on your door, he will not stand down.

I can tell you all of this because I have seen him nearly defeated. I have seen him journey-worn and battle-scarred, face down in the dirt with the enemy’s boot pressed into the back of his neck. I have seen him struggle to stand…and fall again. But that’s the thing about Brad – he never stops fighting. Like I said, he is a warrior. I have seen him come from that low, down-in-the-dirt place and somehow, against all odds, find a way to get back up. To look hopelessness directly in the eyes and refuse to back down. I have seen him battle against the lies this world throws at us about who we are and what we’re worth. And I have seen him win. I have seen him live this victory every single day. And so have you.

And I think that even back then, of course he did it for himself, but really, I think he did it for you. For the hope of you. For the dream that someday something as wonderful as you would come into his life.

And Brad, if there’s anything in your life, anything in this world, worth fighting for…it’s her.   

I know girls. I am a girl. I am raising a girl. I lived with six other girls in a tiny apartment with one bathroom and no kitchen. And I can tell you this…Alyssa is a rare find. She is a woman to be treasured and cherished. I mean, you’re a cool guy, but seriously…you got really lucky. And so did we. Alyssa’s unshakeable character, generous heart, kind spirit, and gracious, humble nature didn’t happen by accident. They are the result of twenty-some years of God’s good work in her – molding and shaping her, fashioning her heart after His own. I feel incredibly blessed to be gaining her as a sister. I can’t even imagine how fortunate you must feel to be able to call her your wife.

I cannot wait to see all that the Lord has in store for the two of you. Today marks the start of a remarkable adventure. Love you both.

I look at these pictures of my brother with his lovely wife...the same little brother who literally worried me sick for twenty-some years. The brother whom drugs tried to steal from us. And I cannot get that word – miracle – out of my head. Because every day since January 11, 2012 has been a miracle…straight from the loving hands of a God who never gives up on us. A God who gathers up our brokenness and turns it into something beautiful, something redeemed. Today, my brother celebrates three years clean and sober. One thousand and ninety-five days. 

One thousand and ninety-five miracles...and counting.

 

 

right here

I think I could explode. Seriously, right in this moment, I could blow sky high.

It's been a fine morning around here. My husband let me sleep in til my body woke me up at exactly 8:00. All of the kids had baths today. I labeled some more bins in the playroom. I can't remember what else we did. But then it was nap time for all three. Andrew cozied Harriet into her crib and I fed the boys and put them down.

Andrew took Murphy for a run and I sat down at the kitchen table to read my Bible. Not even two minutes later, Louie was fussing. I returned to his room to help him out. Big burp. Wide awake baby. I tried to bounce him, pat him, coax him to sleep, but his eyes just continued to brighten and I knew we weren't getting anywhere. I laid him back in his crib to see if he would put himself to sleep.

Back to my Bible, my journal and my study book - one about the miracles of Jesus. I took a deep breath, picked up my pencil...more crying from the boys' room.


We went through the familiar routine several times, and I was getting more frustrated with each round. I grabbed my phone with my free hand and desperately typed a text to the women from my accountability group:

Ladies, can you please pray for me? This has been a week where all I'm 

asking for is twenty minutes to read my Bible. Not trying to sound pious. 

I'm just seriously needing even fifteen minutes to sit down 

with Jesus and it's not happening. I'm trying  to do my study right now because 

it's supposed to be nap time for all three of them. And I have been interrupted 

four times in ten minutes. I have also had to stop my boiling water 

for the RAMEN NOODLES that I am trying to make myself for lunch THREE 

times so that I can deal with someone who needs me. How pathetic is that?!?! 

I am getting so frustrated with God that I just keep crying to Him - 

"I am trying to spend time with YOU!!!! Throw me a bone here!" 

Please pray that I will have miraculous patience. 

My throat is full of burning tears.

And it was. I wasn't upset with Louie. I was angry with God. Because I keep trying to be with Him and my life keeps getting in the way. And not just today...every day. I could understand if God allowed the demands on my time and attention to be so much that I wasn't able to check Facebook, send emails, clean my house, compose posts for this blog...but when my goal is to spend twenty minutes talking to and hearing from God and He doesn't give me that window, it leaves me confused...with a throat full of burning tears.

It's not just a time thing either. I just got my first real, grown-up study Bible. One with maps, diagrams, a concordance, and commentary that fills up half of every page. I love it. I had been using it for only about a week when Harriet splattered bright orange butternut squash soup on the pages.

And my prayer journal...about every third page is covered with scribbles. Sometimes prayer feels like scribbling. But these scribbles are not of the prayer variety. These are the type of scribbles that happen under the table while the offender "needs privacy." I thought that was code for "I'm trying to poop" but apparently it's code for "I'm trying to do exactly what you told me not to do."

What are you trying to teach me, God? What's the point of this craziness? Why does it sometimes feel like my kids are making it impossible for me to know You well? 

I knew my faithful, faithful sisters were praying, but the situation wasn't changing. So I started over -  nursing Louie again, gingerly placing him back in his bed. 

Silence.

I sat down at the table and not even half a second later, the dog was barking at me, wanting to come inside. How long does it take to let a dog inside? Maybe five seconds. BUT IT WAS THE PRINCIPLE OF THE THING! 

I sat down again. Got my marching orders from Kay Arthur. Flipped to Malachi. Then to Isaiah. Tried to wrap my frazzled brain around the prophecies. About three minutes after I let the dog in, Gus was crying. Nap time was over. 

I stood in the kitchen with a talking, happy baby in my arms, trying to breathe through the frustration I was feeling. Andrew, who was finishing up some work in the garage and knew nothing of the battle that was raging in my heart, must have seen my tears through the window, because he came inside and with few words, took Gus into the living room.

I sat down at the kitchen table yet again. My Bible, my journal, my study book, my pencils...it was all there. But all I could do was cry. I pressed hot palms against my eyes and sobbed outloud, wiping tears and snot on the sleeves of my sweatshirt, until I was done.

I opened my book and read the same sentence for the eighth time. I felt a little nudge from God, telling me that maybe I should write instead. So that's what I'm doing, and while I still feel sad and confused, I no longer feel like I'm going to explode.

---------------

It's been nearly a week since that combustible Saturday, and the things I wasn't ready tell you then, I can finally tell you now.

I was holding Louie in that not-dark-enough room, about to set him down for the third time, and I just wanted to scream. And Jesus said quietly...always quietly..."I'm here too, you know?"

My eyes closed slowly. My chin touched my chest. "Yeah...I know. But I don't want to meet you here! I want to meet you there with my tea and my Bible and my colored pencils!"

And again, that same truth, whispered ever patiently into my stubbornness, "But I'm here too."

And He was. He was deeply, deeply there. With me and my boys in that room. He didn't need tea. He didn't need colored pencils.

And over this last week, with the gift of time and perspective, I'm realizing that accepting Jesus' invitation to meet with Him in the midst of life's chaos and constant interruptions...Well, it's kind of like going on a date with the love of your life...to Chuck E. Cheese's. He is still Him. And you are still you. But rather than basking in the candlelight and the violins, you are surrounded by flashing lights, electronic noises, and the combined smell of bad feet and stale pizza. And you just have to work a little harder to focus on the gift of time together, right here.

What's your right here?

Maybe it's a windowless cubicle on the forty-second floor.

Maybe it's an overfull, underfunded classroom.

Maybe it's a cold, sterile hospital room, completely devoid of hope.

Maybe it's the dorm room you share with someone who doesn't respect you.

Maybe it's a home where the conflict never seems to end and the the voices never seem to soften.

Maybe your right here looks a lot like mine - a loud, messy, sleep-starved house where the menial tasks are endless and the little voices always seem to be calling your name.

Can you hear Him whispering to you? Is He telling you the same thing He told me?

I'm here, too. Even here. Seek me, my precious child, and you will find me.

Every day, I make my best attempt at setting aside time to talk to and hear from God. Sometimes He gifts me with a time of quiet stillness...like right now, when I am able to look up from the table to see a big, fat woodpecker outside my window, doing his bizarrely beautiful woodpecker thing, and I'm able to smile at this moment I'm sharing with God alone, and praise Him for his sense of humor and creativity. And other days, I don't get that time. And those are the days that I have to look a little harder for Him...in places that sound like whining toddlers and smell like dirty diapers. But even there...

...even here, He will always, always be found.

that imaginary t-shirt

It's silly but true...one of my life's passions is our state fair. The fairgrounds closed not even two months ago and already, I'm itching for August. I can't get enough of the sticky, greasy, sugary, spicy, frosty, salty foods. I love the rickety, loosely bolted rides. I savor the wide variety of smells - from fresh hay in the cattle barns to corn dogs and ketchup on the midway. But most of all, I love that feeling of togetherness...the fact that our whole state seems to come together for ten days just to celebrate the end of summer and have fun. The people-watching from afar is great, but in recent years, I have loved striking up conversations with strangers at the fair. Whether I'm asking what they think of the walleye taco they're sampling or inquiring as to where they're from, when I'm at the fair, everybody's a friend.

So this past August, on my fourth and final fair day, I was sitting on a dusty curb and feeding Gus a bottle when another couple rolled their stroller up next to me and sat down. The dad took a fresh mini donut out of the white paper bag and tossed it from palm to palm while blowing on it. Then he passed it to his wife who seemed excited to give their one-year-old son his first taste of this state fair delicacy. The little boy devoured it...obviously. The parents smiled to each other and just as I was opening my mouth to comment about how much he was loving it, the mom said, "I wish I was wearing a t-shirt that said - we usually feed him kale."

I closed my mouth.

I had thought she'd be relatable. You know, we were both feeding babies. We were both wearing Keens. But her comment was such a turn-off for me. It came off as so snobby and I had zero interest in playing the mom olympics with her. My kids don't eat kale. I don't even eat kale. Kale is a hassle. So I turned back to Gus and the bottle, feeling very proud of having liberated myself from such heavy societal pressures.

And then a gentle voice from heaven reminded me what I'd been thinking not even five minutes earlier...

I wish people knew that I usually nurse him and that this is a bottle of breast milk.

Boom. Just like that, Mrs. Kale and I were one and the same. I had been wishing an imaginary t-shirt on myself the same way she had, a declaration to the world that "I'm a better mother than I seem to be at this particular moment in time because I...fill in the blank." She and I were both making the same assumptions...that feeding our kids certain things a certain way is what makes us good or not-so-good moms. And that the world cares. Both are false.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I've worn many, many imaginary t-shirts since becoming a mom.

There's the "I have a masters degree!" t-shirt that I've worn in my mind when interacting with smart, professional women who are getting solid sleep at night and don't struggle to come up with basic words like "tooth" or "television" in conversation.

When Harriet had an absolute meltdown at Target and I had to literally carry her out of the store upside-down, I wished I was wearing a t-shirt that said, "This is the first time she's ever done this...no, seriously, it is."

And then there are the really yucky t-shirts...the ones I wish on my kids. Dumb things, like when I am out with one of the boys, I feel compelled to tell people who comment about him or interact with us that he's a twin. It's like I'm wishing he had a t-shirt that says "I'm a twin" on the front and "I have a two-year-old sister" on the back. Heck, might as well throw in a little baseball cap that says "My mom sure is impressive, huh?"

Ugh.

I wish that last paragraph was wearing a t-shirt that said, "Please like me anyway." Or, "I know this is messed up, but I'm working on it."

When I take my daughter to a playdate or ECFE, I find myself wishing that she was wearing a t-shirt that says, "My parents are doing their darndest to teach me to share." Or, "I'm 98% potty trained." It's like I want to throw a precursor out there in case anything goes wrong...in case kid stuff happens. What's with that? Like I expect people to expect her to be perfect? Plus, let's be real. We're all only about 98% potty trained, right?

Some imaginary t-shirts are less self-involved and more about just trying to survive.

After we lost Ethan, I imagined myself into a t-shirt that said, "I'm a mama."

When I was pregnant with Harriet, I wished I had a maternity shirt with "No, this isn't my first" on it.

And even after Harriet was born, I had an imaginary t-shirt for her that said "I'm an IVF baby" to give other infertile families hope.

I know that lots of you are wearing imaginary t-shirts right now. Some of them say "this isn't a baby bump, it's fertility drugs" or "please stop asking me when we're going to have kids." Others say "I could really use a friend" or "Sometimes I feel like my worst case scenario is starting to play out." Some pretend t-shirts say "I'm not dumb/mean/bitter, I'm just so tired." Those aren't the ones I'm talking about today. Those are really legit. Keep wearing them if you need to, and I really hope that if I see you around, I'll really see you and the words on your imaginary t-shirt.

I've worn lots of those t-shirts. And I've unfortunately also worn a lot of the self-involved ones, too. I have to admit that it matters so much to me what people think. I thought I'd outgrow it but I never did. And I think it got worse after having children. That's the thing about kids - they put all of our garbage out there for the world to see and they don't care one bit, which leaves us with a very important choice...Do we double down and care enough for ourselves and our kids combined? Or do we follow their example, strip off that pretend t-shirt and just dance around in our imaginary nakedness?

I hope that I can learn to choose the latter. Because, as a good friend has been reminding me...I have an audience of One. And He is far less concerned with the meals I'm feeding my kids than with the truths I'm feeding them. He's not worried about the cleanliness of my house but rather the purity of my heart. In fact, I think He cares less about my role as a mother than He does about my role as His daughter. 

An audience of One. The kind of audience that gives a standing ovation and throws roses even when I've forgotten my lines, split my costume or straight-up fallen off that stage. Why? Because of that whole daughter thing. Imaginary t-shirt or not, He sees straight through to my heart.

So...what does your imaginary t-shirt say today? And what would it feel like, just this once, to leave it at home?

sometimes you're washing rocks in the rain and your blog goes viral

One night in late September, Andrew and I were bouncing the boys to sleep in their room. I don't know if it's the darkness, the whir of that white noise machine, or the sleepy sweet baby in my arms that does it, but that's the time when I often start fashioning blog posts in my head. Most of the time, the good ideas vaporize the second I set that baby down, but prayer was something I'd been thinking about a lot, something I really wanted to write about, so after I put Louie in his crib and tiptoed out of there, I sat down at the computer for about five minutes and outlined a post about praying for the parents of the babies that might someday marry my kids. At 5:00 the next morning, I filled in the missing pieces, and later that morning, I put it up on my blog.

I always post my writing on Facebook for my friends and family to see. My mom always shares it. My husband often shares it. Occasionally another friend or two. But that day, maybe eight people shared it, and from there, it just kept going and going. It was exciting and fun to watch my view counter hit 1,000 then 5,000. I was shocked when it hit the big numbers - 10,000 then 50,000 and eventually 100,000. That's when I started freaking out a bit and considered taking the post down altogether. But I knew that people would ask why and I didn't have a good excuse besides, "It was stressing me out."

Emails started rolling in - from grandpas and grandmas, pregnant mothers, seasoned fathers, new moms struggling with postpartum, other twin parents. People were commenting like crazy. And then ABC contacted me. They wanted to post If My Child Marries Yours on their website. I gave them permission to post it, just as I did for few other websites (including one in Spanish and one in Portuguese) and my favorite - a church bulletin.

That's when it really blew up. The boys were napping and I was in the backyard with Harriet, picking rocks out of the grass and helping her wash them under the drain spout. The rain was soaking my hair and the sweatshirt I was borrowing from my husband. A pink rain slicker with legs was giving me instructions, "More rocks, Mom! Here, can you put them in a pile?" I was on a quiet mission to fill a plastic bucket with backyard rocks and all the while, the world was reading my heart.

At one point that drizzly morning, my post was getting 10,000 views about every four minutes. (Andrew kept me grounded by reminding me that half of those were probably my mom.) I could no longer follow all of the shares, likes and comments on Facebook. It felt bigger than I was, certainly must faster, and it was leaving me dizzy. As my audience broadened, the negative comments started coming in. Some were one hundred percent correct, pointing out the fact that my post promoted gender stereotypes. Some comments were downright mean and unfounded. Most were somewhere in between.

I was struck by the fact that people were judging me as a parent, as a Christian and as a person based solely on this one piece of writing - a simple blog post that was really the electronic equivalent of scrawling something on a napkin, written in an unfiltered manner and for a very small audience.

The most common criticisms I got for the post were often posed in the form of a question - What if your child is gay? What if your child doesn't get married? What if your child marries someone with a background that's different from yours? What if your child doesn't have children? A few even questioned whether I would still love my kids if they didn't follow the path my post seemed to lay out for them. While I will not respond to all of the negative comments I received, I very much want to respond to this one, so please listen carefully...

My ultimate dream for my children is not that they are heterosexual, that they marry or that they have children. My ultimate dream for my children is that they will know God and follow Him. Not because I want them to follow in my steps but because I want them to follow in Christ's. Because I know the hope, freedom and transformation that comes only by trusting Him, and the thought of them living and dying without Jesus is more than I can bear.

My prayers for my babies are not dominated by thoughts of their spouses, but rather by thoughts of their character. My main prayer for them, the one I recite over and over again is that they will seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with their God (Micah 6:8). That they will stand up for those whose voices aren't heard. That they will be kind down to their core. That humility and selflessness will define them. And that most of all, they will walk with God. This, I'm not budging on. This, I will battle all of hell for.

But like I said, at night when I sometimes feel alone, my thoughts go to those other parents who are perhaps doing the same tasks I am doing and to that larger legacy that we might be building together. That vision is something that helps me see past that mile-high stack of dirty diapers and the seemingly endless string of sleepless nights. It helps me remember that the menial tasks I'm doing right now...are important.

I don't moderate comments. You are all welcome to say whatever you want here. A comment would really have to cross the line in order for me to delete it. But a lot of the comments did sting...more than I thought they would have. Those first few days after the post went viral, I kept telling Andrew that I wished it never would have happened. I felt bruised by unkind words and I felt like so many assumptions were being made about me that weren't true. I also felt like my blog had been overexposed and was struggling to feel welcome in my own space. It is going to be a challenge for me to find my true voice again without examining every word for fear of either offending or being judged. In my last post, I wrote Harriet had been drinking a lot of kool-aid...and then deleted it because I didn't want people to point out the fact that she shouldn't be drinking something so sugary and artificial. That made me sad because if I'm censoring myself all the time, this blog is worthless to all of us.

On the other end of the spectrum, some of my very favorite comments were from people who identified themselves as atheists. They said that although they don't pray or believe in the God I follow, they still loved the heart of my post. They picked out things in my post to celebrate rather than nit-picking things that they didn't agree with. I am so sad that all of these commenters were anonymous because I would love to write to them and thank them for choosing to be so positive. I so wish that more Christians would do that. So, my dear readers, if you are a Christ-follower, can you make me a promise? When you read something online, written from a worldview that's different from yours, can you please look for the good? Can you please choose to encourage rather than argue, to find common ground rather than pointing out differences? A friend of mine recently told me that her husband said that he hopes he's never the type of person who clicks "dislike" on youtube. Amen, Nathan. I hope the same thing for myself and my children.

Having a post go viral was a crazy experience. At times, I felt like I was flying and at other times, I felt like I was sinking. What kept my head up? The comments and emails I got from struggling parents saying that the post was exactly what they needed to help them get through that particular day.

Also, I am humbled and grateful that a string of simple words got so many people dialoging about prayer...prayers for our children. And no matter how big that particular post got on that random Tuesday or how absolutely itsy bitsy it will be in the near future...because that's how the internet works...I hope that our prayers for our kids will stay big...and bold...and uncensored.

Two quick things...

1. If you are a "no reply commenter" or always comment as "anonymous," please consider claiming your comments and giving bloggers an opportunity to respond to you directly. There were so many comments - both positive and negative - that I would have loved to respond to, but I wanted to do it via email to assure that they'd read my response and to avoid a public argument when a private discussion would be more appropriate. It was a bummer to not be able to connect with readers more directly.

2. If you are one of the many who stated that you disagree with letting babies cry it out, know that I'm right there with you. Please read these two posts, not because I'm trying to convince you of anything, but because I want you to know the sleep journey that we've been on (or at least part of it).

lullaby and goodnight

sweet dreams

if my child marries yours

If my child marries yours...

I just want you to know that I'm praying for you.

When I'm awake at night - feeding babies, burping babies, giving tylenol to a feverish toddler, covering up chilly toes, tucking green monkeys under little arms - I think of you. Because chances are, you're awake too, doing the same sorts of things. Taking care of tiny children that I already love because they will someday hold the hearts that are beating against my chest tonight.

I'm praying that you'll stand firm against the pressures to overcommit and hyper-schedule, that you'll shut out the voices that tell you you're not doing enough, that your kids aren't doing enough.

I'm praying you'll have the wisdom to know when to pick that crying baby up out of her crib and when to just sit outside her door, your fingertips pressed to the wood, willing her to feel your love and comfort and just finally fall asleep.

I'm praying that you will take those children to church...that the mothers and fathers of our future grandchildren will grow up knowing what it means to worship, even when that means missing out-of-town basketball tournaments and marathon sleepovers.

I'm praying that your love for and commitment to your spouse will swell with each year you're together, that you will grow to love the legacy you are creating just as much as you adore the person you're creating it with.

I'm praying that you take lots of pictures so that I can see where our grandchildren got their sticky-out ears and their mischievous grins.

I'm praying that Jesus will give you just enough strength each day to keep you from losing it but not so much that you forget Who that strength comes from.

I'm praying that we will be friends.

Will you pray those things for me too?

I don't really pray for your child. Maybe I should. My husband does that, and I think it's wonderful. But chances are, your child is just fine. And chances are, a lot of the time, you aren't. Chances are, if you're anything like me, you're very tired. And some days, you get so discouraged. Sometimes, your temper erupts, your selfishness wins, and your smile is fake. Sometimes you forget to change the baby's diaper, to spend time being silly with your toddler, to really see your spouse. So it's you I am praying for right now, in the still darkness, with this baby fist pressed up under my chin and this sweet, sleepy breath on my ear. May you feel these prayers when you need them the most.

We are in this together, you and I. We are building something beautiful with each onesie folded, each invisible owie kissed, each story read.

You don't know how much it means to me that you give your children everything you have every single day...even on days when it's not much at all. Because your child will fall asleep next to mine for fifty-some years. Your child will be the one holding my child's hand when our first grandchild is born. And when they face the darkest days of their lives, it will be your child and mine, facing into the struggle together.

I'm pretty sure that our longest days - the ones that are brim-full with hair-pulling moments, impossible messes, and toddler meltdowns - those are the days that we are fashioning hearts. And someday, one of the hearts I'm helping create will crash into one of your love-crafted hearts, and what spills out as a result of that jolt...it's kind of up to us. I promise to tend to these hearts with utmost care, to plant in them humility and peace and selflessness...especially selflessness. I promise to plant Jesus seeds in these hearts every chance I get. And I promise to keep praying for you.

I'm praying that you will hug your boy tight when he's sad or lonely or scared. Because someday, my girl - all grown beautiful with babies of her own - will be sad or lonely or scared. And he'll need to know how to hold her. Teach him.

And let your daughters hear you speak righteous words that bring life and hope. Because someday, my sons will be worn and weary, and the words you're placing in your daughters' minds today just might become the balm to my sons' souls.

I'm doing my best to do the same. And sometimes...much of the time...I fail. Pray for me too.

Someday we will sit on opposite sides of the aisle...all fancy and with gobs of tissues tucked into our fists. We'll watch our silly, sticky, sweet babies somehow transform into brides and grooms and make the same promises to one another that we ourselves have kept...against all odds and only by His grace. And we will watch these children create families of their own with the ingredients we have given them. The ingredients we are slipping into their souls today.

But until then, I'm sitting here in the dark with babies in my arms.

And I'm praying for you.

upon the waters

Last summer was a hot one. It's hard to imagine it while waiting out this everlasting winter, but the end of July and most of August were scorching. So every morning, before the heat set in, I threw on my running shoes, strapped Harriet into the jogging stroller with her breakfast, and we took Murphy for a good run. I'm not a runner. I ran because Harriet only has so much patience for the stroller and because it's a better workout for the dog. I listened to music for inspiration, playing it from my iPhone without headphones on so that Harriet could hear it too. A little Katy Perry, some Miley Cyrus...upbeat stuff to help me keep my pace. But oddly enough, there was one song that kept me running more than any other - a slower song, nearly impossible to dance to, not the typical workout playlist staple. It's called Oceans and it has gained lots of popularity in churches and on the radio in this last year. As I ran, I contemplated the words...

You call me out upon the waters,
the great unknown,
where feet may fail.

The song refers to that miraculous story in the Bible where Jesus is walking on the water in the midst of a storm. His friends are in the boat, terrified for their lives. He welcomes Peter to step out of their vessel and onto the waves - the ultimate test of trust. Peter does it - not without fear or second guesses, but he lifts himself over the boat's rail and places his feet on the water's churning surface, his faith in his Savior keeping him above the treacherous waves. As I ran and listened to the lyrics, I pictured myself in Peter's sandals and wondered whether I would have trusted enough to do the same.

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders.
Let me walk upon the waters,
wherever you may call me.
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger 
in the presence of my Savior.

The singer repeats these words over and over again, and as my feet pounded the solid, dry paths, I visualized a "trust without borders" and I wanted that. I imagined where Jesus might call me, how He might stretch my faith. And slowly, carefully, like Peter stepping out of that boat, I began to make the words of that stanza my mantra. I began to beg that of Jesus - that He would make my faith borderless, infinite.

This was terrifying.

I know that I serve a God who is completely and utterly good. A God who loves me endlessly. But I also know that sometimes He makes choices that my finite mind never would have made, choices that cause me pain because I can't even begin to comprehend them with my limited scope. I knew that He would answer my request to grow my faith but I didn't know how. I was fearful of what my "great unknown" would look like. I imagined awful things - an illness, an accident, a loss - you know, those unspeakable events that wound us nearly beyond repair but are, in the end, supposed to make us better, stronger people.

But then...I was pregnant again, against all odds. And there were two babies, against all odds. I remember in those first days and weeks, people asking me how I was feeling about the news. Of course, the most powerful emotions were elation and blessing, but there was also a part of me that felt sobered by this new development. I felt, in some ways, like I was going into battle - a private, miniature battle against gravity and time and anxiety. And as I've walked through this pregnancy day by day, I have realized that this is it - this pregnancy (and assumedly motherhood afterwards) - is God's answer to my request for trust without borders.

Really? While He has others wait endlessly and suffer unimaginably, He grows my faith through joy and blessing? Not that I have been completely unfamiliar with struggle and not that there isn't more of it in my future. Of course there is. But for now, He seems to have chosen to gently stretch the borders of my trust with a priceless gift rather than ripping them away like I foolishly expected Him to. To say that I am humbled by this...no words can express how much.

This journey over the past thirty-seven and a half weeks has not been easy. That's for sure. The discomforts get worse by the week - swollen feet, arthritic joints, trigger finger, nausea, back pain, pulled muscles, difficulty breathing, extra weight (a full sixty pounds), limited mobility, restless legs, and insomnia...oh, the insomnia! At my final OB appointment today, I burst into tears while telling the doctor that I got two and a half hours of sleep last night and three and a half hours the night before. Even with Benadryl and a homeopathic sleep remedy on board, I can sleep for maybe an hour at a time. It's making me feel crazy...and rather anxious because I was so hoping to go into the birth feeling well and well-rested. It's not going to happen that way. And I feel silly saying it, but it's true - these little discomforts have stretched my faith more than I would ever have thought.

While I have had many aches and pains, there have been no complications. Not one. Not even a close call or a test that warranted repeating. Nothing. These babies have surprised me and the doctors by staying put in my very short torso for a full thirty-seven weeks without even a hint of dilation, not a single contraction. I am so, so grateful. I am clearly not a medical professional, but I really wonder if part of the reason that they have stayed so solidly put is their breech positioning. While I have had a bruising type of pain in my pelvis for about a month (feels like a did a hundred-mile race on a road bike yesterday), I have absolutely no pelvic pressure. These babies' heads are right up under my bra line and their butts are high too, so although I've bemoaned their breech status and the fact that I have to have a c-section, perhaps this should be more a matter of gratitude than complaint. Perhaps if these babies were vertex, those little heads (which a growth ultrasound recently put in the 89th and 98th percentiles) would have pushed themselves out much, much earlier. Again, a reason to trust that His plan is far greater than mine.

Every once in a while, I feel sad about the idea of a c-section. I feel sorry for the babies. I feel worried about the recovery. And I feel...oh how spoiled this is going to sound...even cheated. It sort of feels like running the majority of a marathon, only to hand the baton to someone else at the twenty-six mile mark and watch them cross the finish line for me. Is there part of me that's a little glad to be done at 26 miles? A bit tired and relieved that someone else is tackling the final fifth of a mile? Of course. But deep down, I want to do it. All of it. Even the messy, excruciating parts. Maybe even especially those parts. I have done it before and I know I could do it again. Even with twins. Even in an operating room with lots of people watching. So yes, sometimes it bothers me to be finishing this way.

But lately, I have become much more content with the idea of a c-section. I think this is partly due to the fact that I have tried and tried to flip these babies. I saw a chiropractor several times. I visited an acupuncturist who did moxibustion. (I tried very hard to believe in both of these practices, but when the acupuncturist in the Hawaiian shirt commented that holding the moxa stick felt like holding a crystal wand due to the energy pouring out of it, I nearly laughed out loud. All I knew was that it smelled really, really, really bad. I bought four of the sticks anyways, fully intending to use them at home...but then my dog chewed them up, so that was the end of that.) I laid upside-down on a board that we rested against the couch and nearly died of a coughing fit when the babies came crashing into my diaphragm. I put icepacks where their heads are, hoping that they'd turn to escape the cold. Nothing worked. And although some of these things were a bit miserable, I'm glad I did them so that I can at least say I tried. Baby B is bigger than Baby A anyways (sizes roughly estimated at the growth ultrasound to be 6 pounds, 5 ounces and 6 pounds, 14 ounces), so even if they flipped head-down, the doctors still wouldn't want to deliver vaginally. They like the first baby to be bigger and pave the way.

And as with anything, even the less attractive option has a positive side. A friend recently told me that when she had her c-section, she felt so grateful that she could come out of it feeling fresh and ready to mother her baby rather than dog-tired and in desperate need of a long hibernation. I can absolutely identify with that, especially given my recent lack of sleep. So again, perhaps this c-section is a gift - another gesture straight from Jesus, beckoning me to trust His plan and join Him amidst the waves.

Another area that brings me anxiety is my daughter. She is going to be a fabulous big sister. I know that for a fact. But every time I think of expanding our family, of stretching my love to include other children whom I have not yet met, I want to cry. Often, I do cry thinking about leaving her behind as we head to the hospital. We are desperately grateful to have both families nearby and I know that she will be fully loved and entertained during the four days that I am in the hospital, but the thought of nuzzling and nursing and loving on these babies while Harriet is across town breaks my heart. She is more resilient than I give her credit for and she will be just fine sharing her mama, but I am already grieving that time with just her and I. Most mornings, I go into her room and hold her and bury my face in her neck and tell her that she is my best girl in the whole wide world. And she adamantly disagrees, saying, "No Mama, you are my best girl in the whole wide world." Can we still say that if there's a little sister? I am so grateful to my wise, wonderful doctor who, without me having to even bring up this issue, randomly warned me that it would be very normal to feel a little bothered by the possible lack of love I feel for the twins at first in comparison to the adoration I have for Harriet. Normalizing is always helpful. And even more than that, I know that this is another area where I am being asked to trade my fear in for faith and to trust even my daughter to His capable hands. Because He loves her immeasurably more than I do...it's hard to even fathom that but wonderful to believe it.

So those are my final thoughts on this twin pregnancy. Just a few more days and we'll step out of our boat and into a wholly fresh and even frightening lake storm - parenting these tiny twins and their big sister. But the best news? Our Jesus is already there, walking those waters and gently calling us to join Him - right there in the midst of the toss and spray. And as intimidating as it may look, nowhere could be safer than where He calls us.

I'll leave you with a few pictures of me and my belly (measuring 52 weeks today) - some of the last ones before we meet these precious babies face-to-face.

making peace with ivf

It took Andrew and I a long time to make peace with in vitro fertilization (IVF). We had been trying to get pregnant for a couple of years. We'd had two losses. I know that a lot of people double, triple, even quadruple our waiting years, but we knew that the heartbreak had gone on long enough and we needed to take the next step - IVF. 

Moving forward with IVF requires all sorts of decisions, conversations and sacrifices. It's a major financial burden. It's a hefty physical undertaking. It's a serious time commitment. But it was the spiritual aspect of IVF that had us completely and utterly stuck. 

In our faith community, there's a healthy skepticism about reproductive technology. I count myself among those who wrestle with the implications of our country's big science and small God. So when we felt ourselves inching down the path that leads to IVF (a place we never, ever thought we'd be), we entered into a wrestling match of our own.

Obviously, this is our journey. Only ours. I am not making any recommendations here. I am not providing a theological lesson. I am simply explaining how Andrew and I made peace with IVF.  I have come across many people along the way who feel much differently than we do about these issues. It's such a personal thing, an individual choice, but one that’s important to dialogue about.

Our biggest concern with fertility treatments was whether IVF was sin. In the beginning, we asked so many questions -Are we not trusting God enough by moving forward with this? Does the procedure itself take God/marriage/love out of the equation and remove God's blessing? When embryos die as part of IVF, how close is that to abortion? These were very difficult questions for us to answer, so difficult that many of them went unanswered. But even with unanswered questions, we eventually came to a place where we felt very comfortable and at peace moving forward with it, and we have never once looked back. 

The freezing/cryogenics part of IVF was a tough issue for me to wrap my head around. It sounded really scary and weird at the beginning and was one of my biggest problems with the process, but I've become more comfortable with the idea over the last couple of years as I've learned more about it. I was fascinated to learn that some clinics have found that frozen IVF cycles can often be even more successful than fresh cycles! Also, some women respond much better to frozen cycles than fresh.

All of this is to say that freezing embryos doesn't necessarily mean that they are less likely to turn into viable pregnancies. If you research miscarriage rates, they’re all over the board, but they’re generally higher than we’d expect. That’s because many women think they're just having a late, heavy period when really, they're miscarrying. I have heard doctors say that the embryos that don't survive the thaw are the ones who may have been chemical pregnancies. I know they can't know that for sure, but it really makes sense to me. Also, even after a baby is inside of you (via IVF or a more natural method), there are all sorts of things that can cause problems - deli meat, car accidents, soft cheeses, overly hot showers, seat warmers in cars, laptops, etc. You do your absolute best to protect them, but there are threats everywhere it seems. For us, the cryogenic process was one of those potential threats. So, we felt like it was important to do everything that we could to protect our embryos (choose a reputable clinic with a good lab, decide ahead of time what we’d do with our remaining embryos, etc) and then pray for them like crazy. We knew we couldn't completely protect them. That part took a lot of faith.

One of my very best friends told me the most freeing thing during one of our conversations about spirituality and IVF. I was going on and on and on about the science behind everything, and she eventually just said, "Em, this is all gray area. God hasn't given any specific instructions about embryos, infertility procedures, etc. You have done your due diligence in educating yourself on the subject, and you've still ended up in the gray. There's just so much we don't know. This is one of those situations where you have no other option than to align your heart with God's and ask Him to show you the way. Ask Him to put a peace in your heart if He wants you to pursue IVF and ask him to put an uneasiness in your heart if He wants you to go a different direction."

So that's what we did. We had already researched like crazy and had tons of conversations to get people’s opinions about what we should do, and we kept ending up in that gray area where there are no clear answers. So we stopped focusing on the science and the debate surrounding IVF and put that energy toward our relationships with God. We spent extra time reading Scripture. We talked to God all the time. We made sure that our hearts were as aligned with His as they'd ever been, and we begged Him to take away the peace that He had already placed in our hearts if He didn't want us to do IVF.

At one point during our decision-making process, I pictured myself in heaven having a conversation with God. I imagined Him telling me that the IVF that brought us Harriet was a sin. This probably sounds a bit heretical to even say, but I imagined myself stating my case to Him. I imagined myself describing the way that I put myself out there and pursued Him like crazy and sought His heart and mind on this issue. I imagined myself asking Him why He didn't take away that peace. I just couldn’t imagine God frowning on us for doing something that we had decided to do after such soul-searching and while really, truly, fully pursuing holiness in this. That imagery of having that conversation with God gave me an even more intense peace about it.

Lastly, when we finally decided to do IVF, we created very firm parameters around it. We decided that we would give every single embryo the very best chance at life, whatever that looked like. We decided that we were uncomfortable with the idea of selective reduction. We felt like God had been very faithful in leading us to this decision, and we wanted to be just as faithful in our part of it.

I was talking to a friend about the spiritual aspects of IVF this past summer, and she made an excellent point, one I’d never considered before. She said that what is sin for one person isn't always sin for another person. So the fact that we did IVF and have a peace about it and some friends of ours have decided against IVF for spiritual/ethical reasons doesn’t necessarily mean that anyone is going against God’s direction. Maybe, for whatever reason, God calls certain people to something else, so pursing IVF would be wrong for them. It took me a while to wrap my head around this concept but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made to me. I can think of examples of other things in life that would be a sin for me but wouldn't be a sin for other people, or vice versa. Like some people can have a couple drinks and it's just fine, but other people have been called to complete sobriety so even one drink is a sin for them. Maybe IVF is the same way.

As far as books and other resources on this topic, I haven't come across much. I think that the ethical/spiritual part of IVF is something that people stray away from for fear of offending people and/or being judged. I really wish that there were more resources out there. I did read one book about the ethics of reproductive technology. It was very black-and-white about the issue and discouraged readers from doing anything in that gray area. Is that probably the "safest" way to go? Some would say yes. They would ask why you'd even want to walk that line of "is it sin or is it not?" To us, the science and academics behind all of this stuff just wasn't cutting it. We needed to feel and experience God's answer in our hearts/souls/bodies rather than keeping it all in our head. So we went a different direction than the book recommended...and I'm fine with that. To me, that felt safer than just having a blanket, black-and-white answer...but many would disagree with that. Again, I wish that there were more resources out there for people who are wrestling with these questions. If you know of any, let me know!

To those of you who are in the midst of this decision, my heart is with you. It’s a tough thing to feel that the thing your heart longs for the most might be in conflict with the One who holds your heart in His hands. I wish I had concrete answers to the many questions that arise around IVF and spirituality, but I don’t. All I have is my own story. Hope it was helpful.