As I became a parent, I was grateful to have children who were brilliant in their own rights. Watching them excel in different things has been so fun to watch. Watching them compete at the same things, not so much. No matter how advanced you are, if there is someone to compare your achievements to, then pride is sure to follow.
I am a chronic over-sharer. It gets real uncomfortable, real quick. But unfortunately, not for me, which means I miss it most of the time when people exit stage left.
In a conversation recently with a newer friend, I had been complaining that it seemed it was more difficult for me to make (and keep) friends than the average Joe. I thought she would refute the sentiment with a sarcastic piece of encouragement that would feel like a little word love tap, on the top of my head, to signal me that I was overthinking… but instead, she laughed and responded that she could understand why.
What do we do when we’ve followed the Lord’s prompting and the light on the path seems to dim? What do we make of it when we are so passionate about the birthing of a dream, but when we finally get to the part where we bring it into existence, we are spent from the months of laboring that we’ve already been through? Or the fear of rejection causes us to want to hold it in?
In the immediate aftermath of his passing, I was completely lost. There were days when getting out of bed seemed impossible when the sadness would hit like a wave, drowning me in memories, in what-ifs, in the cruel twists of fate.
But now, I’m finding myself somewhere in the middle of that grief.
We had our daughter on May 17th, 2021.
The one we had been waiting for, the one we had fought so hard for. She was born on a beautiful Monday morning. But how she came was anything but beautiful.
I want to tell you a story. Our story. Your story.
I want you to know how desperately you were wanted and prayed for, so that when you get so low in this life that you can’t imagine going on - you will fight a little harder knowing that you were never a mistake or a screw up. In fact, even before you were born you were loved beyond measure.
And just like that, we have found ourselves on another dark path. Because that is the nature of life isn’t it? The certainty of highs and lows, joys and sadness? There is no escaping it… so we must plod through.
So here we go again, plodding.
I can remember as a young child telling my family that I didn’t want to have biological children of my own. I am not even sure how I came to the conclusion that I wanted to adopt children instead, but I remember thinking that I wanted to be a safe space for a child who didn’t have a home. It is almost ironic thinking of it now as I was just a child myself.
These days have consisted of a lot of learning, growing, arguing, apologizing, crying, screaming, playing, laughing, working, cleaning, Hulu… and Zoom. Literally, so much Zoom.
And while we have all jumped in with both feet, the truth is that we are getting weary. We are just simply over it. But really, we are nowhere near over it just yet (please God, let us at least be halfway)!
With all of the new homeschool schedules, work from home accommodations, financial reconfigurations, and relearning of everything from math to the differences between Spartan and Athens culture, the truth is that we are more than just “over it”. We are overflowing with it.
After many months of planning, the weekend had finally come - our fourth annual girl’s conference and our little team was more than ready. Ready for exactly what we had been obsessively planning that is. Not exactly ready for what we were about to experience.
“Anyone can write a book.”
“I don’t make very much from it.”
“It really isn’t that exciting.”
These are the phrases I have caught myself saying over and over again. Truth be told, I have been saying variations of these same things my whole life. Not for people to pity me, or to fish for a compliment. No, I think deep down I just didn’t want anyone to think that I thought too highly of myself. Because I don’t. I am not that great.
I read through the chapters three times this morning to confirm a thought that had been swirling around in my head the past few days.
Every so often I like to dissect things that have been resolute in my life, not to challenge them but to gain greater understanding around them and this was one of those times. The story of creation. God was trying to teach me something, show me something, that I have read many times over and had never sat with to process.
It was God’s first recorded spoken observation of His own creation, and He said it was “not good”.
My life story is one filled with humbling moments. To start it all off, I was born 2.5 months premature, only 3 pounds. The doctors told my parents that if I lived, I would probably never walk. Those early days were a challenge for me just to survive. In fact, to keep me breathing, the nurses tied a string around one of my toes and they would pull on it when I would stop breathing, to get me breathing again. At about a year old, I was diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy.
I spent my morning taking care of a mouse.
Not one of those house trained, loves people, pet ones. No, I am pretty sure this little thing was minding its own business in the great outdoors when it unknowingly ran into our cat Roo judging by the lack of full body movement.
This year I celebrated my birthday a little different than any other year. This year I gathered my family and friends to celebrate and finally publicly share a (mostly kept) secret project that I had been working on since January.
It was everything a girl could want.
Rich and I were gifted two very different children. I used to hate this. It has made me cry and feel completely at a loss sometimes as we navigated the road to do what “was best” or “would work” for two boys who function in completely opposite ways but over the last few years I have grown to appreciate their uniqueness.
Actually, that is the wrong word. I don’t just appreciate it, I have come to celebrate it. I love that our boys are their own people. But it has taken a lot to get there.
Lately I have been feeling more and more like I am healing into a whole person again. Not the same girl who entered the darkness, but one who has seen the terrors that go bump in the night and has emerged with wider eyes and a greater understanding of human suffering. And God. I have learned a few things about Him and His goodness, too, as I have leaned into Him more and more.
My sea legs are almost gone and while I stumble through fewer and fewer moments of complete anguish, I have found one constant, nagging, companion. The urge to want to still include my brother in conversations about my present life.
Almost two full years after my first trip to Lebanon, the home land of my great grandparents, I was returning. This time sharing the beauty and wonder with my father and older sister whom I had encouraged to sign up many months before.
This trip was structured much like my first one, with a visit to the Syrian refugee camps and hosting of a women’s conference (both near and dear to my heart), but beyond those experiences this time around would share more similarities than I could have ever imagined.