Nurture Bags

A couple weeks ago, I posted a request for all my facebook and Instagram friends asking for help making and donating drawstring bags to NICU moms. I didn’t elaborate much, but I’ve already had an amazing contribution of beautiful bags that I am so, so, thrilled to donate to Vidant. Thank you!!! I wanted to explain the reason behind the deeply personal request, in hopes that it will encourage everyone who has decided or will decide to participate in this project...

The first few hours after Alder's birth I felt alone, afraid, and helpless in ways that I have never known. I felt guilty knowing I should still be carrying my baby inside of me and that apart from me his life was in danger; despite my best efforts, I couldn’t stay pregnant to nourish and grow his body. I couldn’t even see his face before they whisked him away, much less be there for him in these critical hours. I missed the gift of holding my brand new baby to my chest, reveling in the tiny miracle that makes giving birth so worth the months of physical distortion and the hours of pain pre and post delivery. I missed the bond and satisfaction of breastfeeding my new child, and couldn’t even look at those plastic pump pieces without sobbing for the first two days of his life. I almost gave up on pumping before I began, despite my strong convictions about its advantages and four years of nursing experience under my belt. Thank God, I finally did begin, and pumping has been essential for my physical and emotional health. Knowing that I’m contributing to my tiny boy’s physical needs makes me feel less helpless and more connected; I’m so thankful for that gift.

While the NICU mom experience is one I wouldn’t wish on any woman, the reality is that many women know and will know the same journey. We can’t be there to hold their hands through those dark hours, but we can let them know that they aren’t alone. That is precisely what I’m hoping to do through these little “Nurture Bags.” I hope these bags will brighten those darkest moments for NICU moms by reminding them that they are loved, by providing a practical and cute accessory for breastfeeding supplies, and by serving as a gentle nudge towards pumping from a NICU mom who knows just how hard it is.

If you or someone you know is interested in contributing to this project, you can access the free pattern for the lined drawstring bag here: http://www.incolororder.com/2011/10/lined-drawstring-bag-tutorial.html Please email me for a mailing address for completed bags!

“He will tend his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms; he will carry them in his bosom, and gently lead those that are with young.” ~Isaiah 40:11

Wrestling

We've been told many a time to expect bumps on the NICU road. I thought I knew what those bumps felt like, since we've had our fair share over the past month. This week I've come to a whole new appreciation for just how dramatic those bumps can feel. 

Friday was one of the smoothest, most joy-filled and hopeful days we've had since I was still pregnant. I held our boy in my arms for two hours straight, delighting in the feel of his tiny chest pressed against mine. Each kick was an easy remembering of what it felt like when we were bonded together, body in body. I reveled there, finally allowing myself to dream of what a future with him might be. We were told that the next morning, assuming he was still stable, I could hold him again and finally introduce him to his eager big brother and sister.

The next day, everything unraveled. His sats dropped, his gasses went bad, glucose spiked and we switched to two different vents before he ended up back on the oscillator, turned all the way up on power and up to 100% oxygen. The doctor seemed boggled, the nurses gave us hugs and sad puppy dog looks. Nobody said to expect the worst, but when the fellow on call phoned at 9:30 that night and said, "Can we call you with updates throughout the night? I mean, God forbid anything were to happen, we would of course contact you..." all the courage I had left in my body escaped me. I was livid, wordless, desperate. 

The words that have come so naturally the past month, the prayers spoken so fluently, the hope that watered my parched ground--all just drained right out of me. I raged. I threw. I sobbed. I ran. Barefoot, in the dark, wishing the harsh and stubby pavement clawing at the bottoms of my feet would cut through deep enough to distract me from the crushing ache of my heart. "God, why are you doing this? Where are you now? Is this some sort of ***** joke? What of all those promises that you whispered to me in the dark? Are you going to just make a fool of me? I know I'm not omniscient, I'm no fortune teller, but WHY ARE YOU ABANDONING ME?" I couldn't pray, wouldn't pray, I could only rage and sob. I fell into the grass in a neighbor's yard, ignoring their barking dog and the fact that I had just showered and my newly washed hair was probably now hanging out in dog poo. My equivalent of sack cloth and ashes.

I stared up at the sky, the moon, the stars, and in that moment all I could think of was my anger. How my son was going to die, how all the hopes I had for our family's future would be buried there, right there, that night. And then I remembered Jacob, and his wrestling, and his stubborn heart. I didn't process much through it that night, but the image stuck with me through that long, dark night, and the next couple of days.

I've been wordless, until this morning. We went to visit Alder, and while things have certainly been brighter, we are still miles away from where we hoped and prayed to be at this juncture. The nurse this morning kept repeating, "Don't get discouraged just yet." Gave me a hug, said "please don't cry." That's the first time I've heard those words since entering the NICU, because I haven't needed them...I left Alder's pod to go and pump, have some alone time, maybe even chat with God.

I pulled out my Bible, reading this scene with Jacob:

“And Jacob said, “O God of my father Abraham and God of my father Isaac, O Lord who said to me, ‘Return to your country and to your kindred, that I may do you good,’ I am not worthy of the least of all the deeds of steadfast love and all the faithfulness that you have shown to your servant, for with only my staff I crossed this Jordan, and now I have become two camps. Please deliver me from the hand of my brother, from the hand of Esau, for I fear him, that he may come and attack me, the mothers with the children. But you said, ‘I will surely do you good, and make your offspring as the sand of the sea, which cannot be numbered for multitude. . .’

Jacob was left alone. And a man wrestled with him until the breaking of the day. When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he touched his hip socket, and Jacob’s hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, “Let me go, for the day has broken.” But Jacob said, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” And he said to him, “What is your name?” And he said, “Jacob.” Then he said, “Your name shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with men, and have prevailed. Then Jacob asked him, “Please tell me your name.” But he said, “Why is it that you ask my name?” And there he blessed him. So Jacob called the name of the place Penuel, saying, “For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life has been delivered.” The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip...”

— Genesis 32:9-12, 22-32

Alder is a strong, stubborn boy. Part of the reason for the set backs we're having now are due to his strength; he wants to breathe for himself, is resisting the help the ventilators can provide instead of resting and letting them do the work. I saw him just the other day, swaddled and belly down, pick his head all the way up and crane backwards to get a look at me. My boy is head strong and mighty, a real fighter. He is wrestling...

Like son, like mother. This morning, reading and remembering Jacob, I came to a resolution: I will wrestle, too. I don't intend to be brazen or presumptuous, but I do mean to be bold. God always keeps His promises, and He tells us in His word that He wants us to remind Him of His words to us, to pray in His will but to petition, even bother him, constantly with our requests. I can and I will, like Jacob, wrestle with God. Jacob came to God in his fear for his life and the lives of his family, reminding God of His promise to make his descendants numerous and to give them good things. Every day, I will do the same. Every day, I will come boldly, humbly, stubbornly, with strength, and I will bother the Lord on high. I will remind Him of the name He gave to my son, remind Him of the promises attached to that very name. I will beg, I will cry, I will worship, pray, hold fast, and wait. I don't know what the outcome of my son's story will be, but I do know that the Lord will act, and that gives me hope for tomorrow.

“In the womb he took his brother by the heel, and in his manhood he strove with God. He strove with the angel and prevailed; he wept and sought his favor. He met God at Bethel, and there God spoke with us—the Lord, the God of hosts, the Lord is his memorial name: “So you, by the help of your God, return, hold fast to love and justice, and wait continually for your God.’”

— Hosea 12:3-6

Daily Bread

I've prayed the Lord's prayer every evening with my children for nearly four years now. It's been such a routine in our home that, by age 2, Brooks could recite the entire prayer start to finish. Lately, though, the phrase "give us this day our daily bread," has taken on new meaning. The passages and verses the Lord has brought to my mind over the past month have been more than just nourishment; they have been life. I need them, long for them, pray for them. In this season, His words have been my manna. Each day, they've drifted down from heaven and fed my hungry heart. Each day, they've been new, particular for the day. He's given me words for writing and for comforting and for sharing.

But the past few days have been different. In the busyness (and delight!) of traveling back and forth to see our older two, I've been feeling a little deprived of this manna. I've been questioning: maybe He hasn't been sending it; or I haven't noticed; or I've been saving it up and it's going stale? Like a spoiled child, I've been a little sulky. Where's my present today, Lord? Where's my reminder that you see me, me, me?

This morning when I woke, I started praying that He'd provide my bread for the day. I opened my Bible, not quite sure where I was headed, and stopped to read a passage that caught my eye in John:

“. . . Jesus said to them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, you are seeking me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves. Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man will give to you. For on him God the Father has set his seal. Then they said to him, “What must we do, to be doing the works of God?” Jesus answered them, “This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent.” So they said to him, “Then what sign do you do, that we may see and believe you? What work do you perform? Our fathers ate the manna in the wilderness; as it is written, ‘He gave them bread from heaven to eat.’” Jesus then said to them, “Truly, truly, I say to you, it was not Moses who gave you the bread from heaven, but my Father gives you the true bread from heaven. For the bread of God is he who comes down from heaven and gives life to the world. They said to him, “Sir, give us this bread always.” Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever believes in me shall never thirst. But I said to you that you have seen me and yet do not believe. . .”

— John 6:26-36

 In these verses, the Lord gifted me daily bread and a good laugh, issued a soft rebuke, and bestowed a new word of wisdom and peace for my starving soul: why do I ask for signs when I have the Son? Like these disgruntled men and women, I've been following Jesus around, not because I want to be with Him, but because I want something from Him. "Jesus, today I'd like fill-in-the-blank. Gimme."

 But God, in His goodness and mercy, has been giving me manna even when I demanded it, then failed to notice its gifting. Even when His Words seemed flat, they've been giving life. The problem wasn't His provision, but my reception. I've been searching for the God who performs the impossible signs and wonders that I long to see, forgetting that the ultimate miraculous, the wondrous, the extraordinary, was when He came down from heaven and walked this earth--when He called us to Himself and asked us to reside with Him.  

 My foolish heart has been missing the point: Jesus is the miraculous; Jesus is the extraordinary; Jesus is my daily bread. Whether or not my Bible reading makes me leap or weep or feel nothing at all is irrelevant, because Jesus, God incarnate, Word made flesh, has written Himself there, and has written Himself onto my heart. So today, tomorrow, and the next, with the Lord's help, I'll stop demanding signs, and start enjoying the Son. The signs will come as He wills, but the Son is forever by my side.

What Next

After 17 days of waiting, I finally held our boy in my arms last night. It didn't matter that I could only see about an inch of his sweet face, buried deep beneath sheets, still attached to cords, wires, probes, and tubes; it didn't matter. I still long for a day when I'll be able to swoop him up into my arms, raspberry his chubby little tummy, listen to him giggle and watch him drool with delight...These are things I dream of, but since I've spent my waking moments wondering if I'd ever get to hold him at all, I'm learning to take what I'm given: all is gift, all is victory.

In light of last night's holding, I felt a step closer to that dream of bringing baby home. But I've been wondering: suppose I do bring home the happy, healthy, perfect little Alder we've all been hoping and praying for. What then? For the first time in my life, I've grappled with the reality that, even if this specific circumstance turns out "well," the suffering won't stop. Walking on this earth means suffering is inevitable. My heart will break. Hearts around me will break. The end of the story is universally true: we all die. Happily ever after isn't achievable while I'm still here. What do I even do with that? Yesterday's study began to answer the question for me:

"For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return there but water the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it. (Isaiah 55:10-11)

In my forgetfulness, the Lord needs to keep reminding me that, though we suffer, we do not suffer in vain. This breaking isn't just a breaking, but a filling back up again. In the very darkest hours of this journey, Jesus has felt the very closest. Though I would not wish this or want any of this cup, He has given it and from it I have received life, and life to the fullest. I have tasted His goodness and it is so, so sweet! I want to share it and proclaim it and savour it forever. That. That is, in part, why I suffer. I have seen God's faithfulness in our circumstances; He is crafting what the enemy intended for evil and turning it into our greatest good and His highest glory. What feels like loss is merely veiled gain. Not just for our family, but for the world around us. . .

Walking through the hospital halls, I'm becoming more in tune with the expressions on the faces around me. A few days ago, when we had friends visiting and all was relatively well with Alder, I noticed a family in the lobby. They were gathered there, and as the day wore on their faces became more pained. I know those looks. Those looks--I've lived in them. Hours passed, and every time we passed the growing group my heart broke a little more. On our way out for dinner, I passed one of them, the oldest man, sitting alone a bench outside. I couldn't resist the prompting to speak to him. I approached a little timidly, asking if we could pray for whoever it was they're waiting on. His eyes filled with tears and he answered. Yes. Absolutely you can; please pray for my grandson. "I just want to make it better," his eyes swelled and reddened, "and there's not a thing in the world I can do to fix this…" I know, dear man, precious man. I know. You suffer, too. If I could fix this for you, I would. I can't, but you're not in this valley alone. We left the hospital, my heart breaking all over again, all for the sadness of our pain and theirs and those walls brimming with hundreds of broken, crushed, weary souls.

The second part of the response came this morning, unexpected:

“Is not this the fast that I choose:
    to loose the bonds of wickedness,
    to undo the straps of the yoke,
to let the oppressed[b] go free,
    and to break every yoke?
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry
    and bring the homeless poor into your house;
when you see the naked, to cover him,
    and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?
Then shall your light break forth like the dawn,
    and your healing shall spring up speedily;
your righteousness shall go before you;
    the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;
    you shall cry, and he will say, ‘Here I am.’
If you take away the yoke from your midst,
    the pointing of the finger, and speaking wickedness,
if you pour yourself out for the hungry
    and satisfy the desire of the afflicted,
then shall your light rise in the darkness
    and your gloom be as the noonday.
And the Lord will guide you continually
    and satisfy your desire in scorched places
    and make your bones strong;
and you shall be like a watered garden,
    like a spring of water,
    whose waters do not fail.

Isaiah 58:6-11”

— Isaiah 58:6-11

The answer to "what's next?" is twofold, simple: know I won't suffer in vain, and go. So I will go. I will stand alongside those who suffer. What is irrelevant. Where doesn't matter. When is now, was then, is yet to come. He has and will continue to equip me, for His grace is sufficient for me. By His mighty hand I will go to the darkness, because the Word will overcome it, piercing through, resplendent. I will seek out the broken, the weary, the hungry, the weak, because our great, good, and powerful Saviour came not to heal the healthy, but the sick. And even my dim light will shine bright in those dark places, because His light conquered dark itself. I was created for this, and He will use me, even in spite of myself, for His lofty purposes.

So tonight, I am so thankful for that grieving man in the hospital with the saddened blue eyes, because he reminded me why I'm here: to serve and to share in his sorrows, so that one day, with God's grace, we can share in His glory

Waiting

A few days ago, we received a book, "The Day You Were Born," in the mail from some dear, thoughtful friends in England. As we read it to Alder, it occurred to me for the first time that all these weeks I have been thinking about August 11 as a day to grieve, not a day to celebrate. All this time, I have taken the joy out of a day that should be celebrated as the day we met our son. But in my mind up until now, that's been a day with a big question mark--a day that hangs in the balance. Next year on that day, will we celebrate our Alder's first Birthday with family, friends, a big cake, cute and tiny first Birthday attire, or will we grieve his absence with weeping and photographs and hearts aching for a few more of the precious weeks we spent with him? I haven't been able to see past these questions. Even worse, I've been treating Alder himself with this same kind of skepticism: will we see you, my sweet baby, in a year's time with gladness and rejoicing, or will you be the baby we never brought home, the baby I never held? I've been waiting. Waiting for the answers to these questions before I rejoice in the day that is, the baby that lives.

Last year I waited, too. I waited nearly a year before I finally got confirmation of what I had been fearing: "Yes, there were complications. Yes, there is something wrong. Yes, you will need surgery. Yes, this does mean you might not have more children. Yes, we will have to wait and see. . ."

Late last November, in the middle of all my unknowns, I fell in love with Advent, the waiting season. I fell in love with "Waiting Songs," a collection of children's music for Advent. I fell in love with waiting on the Lord, and I learned something about waiting. I began to practice Biblical waiting. I waited in the almost, the not yet, the already. I embraced anew the waiting tension of the believer: we know that the day of the Lord is at hand; we wait anxiously for the day we will see Him face to face; we have already been purchased with a price. . .

But the moment in time when I got that positive pregnancy test, I replaced my waiting with worry. I worried that something was wrong. I worried when we saw a twin pregnancy with only one viable baby and they said it was too early yet to see a heart beat. I worried when they diagnosed a "threatened miscarriage." I worried when they said I'd need oral surgery for a plugged duct, when they found that my body finally succumbed to that hereditary hernia. I worried when my kids were sick for nearly 4 months straight . . . I've been worrying, not waiting. 

I'd like to reclaim last year's Advent waiting habits. The hope-filled, expectant waiting. The waiting that claims, "Our soul waits for the Lord; he is our help and our shield." (Psalm 33:20) When I go to see my bitty boy, I want to greet him with a kiss of gladness and joy. He might have come too soon, but he is here, and when he was born there was great rejoicing in heaven. The Lord delights in our Alder, not just in his future state but in what he is, right now; a beautiful, beloved child of the Most High. 

“Heaven blew every trumpet and played every horn on the wonderful, marvelous night you were born”

— On the Night You Were Born

Super Dad

Well, I finally did it: I splattered an entire bottle full of freshly squeezed milk all over Sam's Super Dad shirt. In case you were wondering, it wasn't out of good humored fun. It's hard to say how it happened really; things escalated so quickly. One moment we were fine, the next we were launching words intended to hurt, looks intended to mock, and before I thought through what I was doing, milk started flying. In a moment of pure outrage I unscrewed the bottle still attached to the pump still attached to me, and I flung. I flung the milk, and with it all the rage, the soured words, the anger, the fear that I can't control--they spewed all over Sam. Sam, the man I love most in all the world. Though Sam and I have noted the hilarity of the incident retrospectively, (there may even be some snickering happening as I type…) at the heart of my behavior  was not comedy. Lurking under this ridiculous act was rebellion, hostility, and selfishness. Not just towards Sam, but towards the Lord. In that moment, I wasn't just angry with Sam. I was livid with God and taking it out on whoever happened to be closest in proximity. Poor Super Dad.

The next morning things carried on, mostly as usual. We had some good apologies under our belts and a good breakfast, too. But when we arrived at the hospital, everything started crumbling. Alder was having another dsat, and this one required extra attention from respiratory care. My dad beat us to the hospital, and was pacing the halls, shaking his head. My fear got the best of me; my hands trembled as I placed them on his tiny back; my voice stuck when I tried to sing him a lullaby. I started pleading with God not to take him. Please, not now. The nurse gave my dad a good scolding for making the situation more stressful than it needed to be. Alder came back up for air again. I took a breather, too, for pumping and a phone call.

I called my dear friend, Katie, and explained what had just happened in Alder's room. Wise as she is, she caught on straight away to the undercurrent of the entire three days prior: fear, unrepentance, and resentment. They had built a dam in my heart, laid siege on God's love and peace. The past few days, I've not been able to break free from the oppressive fear that, at any moment, something terrible might happen. I've looked to the future, afraid to dream of the beauty there and instead only seeing there a grieving, struggling version of myself. I've looked to the past, and instead of seeing God's hand I've lingered in the fear of what might have been. God is with me, but I've muffled His voice under my fears, through resentment at our situation and at others for the times they've made it unintentionally harder. My prayers are stuck. My heart is stuck. I have no one to blame except myself; I've forgotten to be thankful. How do I forget so quickly? Haven't I been writing exactly these truths every day for the past 25 days?

 "Every day is repentance and forgiveness," Katie had said. Have I humbled myself daily? Repented daily? Forgiven daily? Umm. . . As Katie and I prayed that the Lord would bind up my spirit of fear, granting forgiveness and the ability to forgive, I could almost tangibly feel a burden lifting. After praying together yesterday, the Lord replaced my fear, my pride, and my anger with His peace which passes all understanding. (Phill 4:7) He taught me and is continuing to teach me, reminding me daily, that only through that kind of dying to myself can I really live.

Yesterday, after the chaos of the morning and the calming of the storm, Sam and I shared some of the deepest laughter that I can remember. After repentance came the gifted, shared joy. I've never laughed like that before, alone or with another. The Lord is making all things new, even my laughter:

“Then shall the young woman rejoice in dance, Then shall the young women rejoice in the dance,
    and the young men and the old shall be merry.
I will turn their mourning into joy;
    I will comfort them, and give them gladness for sorrow.
 I will feast the soul of the priests with abundance,
    and my people shall be satisfied with my goodness,
declares the Lord. ”

— Jeremiah 31:13-14

So today as I'm scrubbing the milk from Sam's dirty T-shirt, I'll laugh with gratitude and I'll pray with joy and humility: "When we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness." (1 John 1:9)

Nomads

"Sam, where is home?" I asked him. The tears left mascara tracks to my chin, finishing in perfect ombre on the tile underfoot. Splat, splat. I never realized how much I took the stability and unity of my former life for granted.

We'd just hung up the phone with our Brooks and Evelyn Rose, receiving the ten million kisses gifted via a metal and plastic covered cellular device. I'm missing the warmth of their pink lips. The chubby fingers holding my face to theirs. I even miss the "closing of the door" tantrum that generally follows this kissing routine. I miss my family, my home. 

These two now live 45 minutes away from me, the other lives behind 3/8" of Plexiglas across the street. Our house and (nearly) all our earthly belongings live an ocean away. What we couldn't bring with us for our cross continental move two years ago lies scattered with family and friends around North Carolina. Our friends are as close as these hospital hall, as far as Italy, where we were meant to be for a wedding in a little over a week. We are, in the very literal sense, a household divided. 

When I was about 12, my mom had a Mary Engelbreit calendar with quotes and illustrations to match. One in particular always stuck out to me; the one with a doe eyed girl looking straight at me, arms wrapped lovingly around her little brother. "Oh," she says, "we have a home, we just don't have a house to put it in." That little depiction always left me with chills. Materials are immaterial. It's your family that matters. It's family that gives you a resting place. But where does this leave us now, me and my Sam? We have a house, we just don't have a home to put in it. We have each other, and I am so, so grateful for that. But our babies? How can we rest when we are apart this way? What message are we sending them through our absence? Do they still know how much we adore them? Do they know how much they are loved?

There's a passage in Luke about home. I never really got it before, but all these questions nudged me to reread it. Here it is: 

“As they were going along the road, someone said to him, “I will go wherever you go.” And Jesus said to him, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” To another he said, “follow me,” But he said, “Lord, let me first go and bury my father.” And Jesus said to him, “Leave the to dead bury their own dead, but as for you, go and proclaim the Kingdom of God.” Yet another said, “I will follow you, Lord, but let me first say farewell to those at my home.” Jesus said to him, “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

— Luke 9:57-62

At first glimpse, or, in my case, first 100 glimpses, Jesus seems so harsh in his responses. I've always thought that the Jesus in this vignette isn't a very likable one. I know I'm not supposed to feel that way, but I just couldn't understand how Jesus could treat these men with such seeming indifference and heartlessness. Reading this again in my current situation, I saw a different picture. (P.S. I know there is a deeper exegesis than what I'm offering here, but I'll leave all the formal stuff for those smarty pants educated and knowledgeable enough to do it accurately. Sam.)

 When Jesus is approached by a man promising to follow him anywhere, Jesus' response doesn't inspire confidence. He states His own homelessness in no uncertain terms. Jesus, Son of God, has humbled Himself so low that, even from His very birth, He has not the security even of a bed. Jesus, fully God and fully man, leaves the eternity of heaven to become the ultimate nomad. "Are you ready to sign up for that?" he seems to ask this fellow. "Look before you leap. . ." I read here a reassurance, too, a reassurance that He understands the precariousness and even the grief that comes with living in the temporary. All of us--even God Himself--we're all nomads here. "The way you suffer, I suffer, too" He says.

The next man asks to bury his father, and Jesus' response had me stumped and mildly offended for years. (Here's another great thing about God: He isn't too bothered when I'm bothered by His word. And, even better, He doesn't change His word based on my opinion of it. I am so, so thankful for His constancy and wisdom!) This time reading the passage, I was struck by something I never saw before: Jesus isn't being heartless here. Jesus is offering hope to the wallowing, bestowing purpose to the aimless, offering anticipated life where there was only foreseen death.  What a gift He extends to this man! What grace He offers! 

The final man really resonated with me in my homesick state. "Just let me say 'Goodbye?'"And Jesus answers. His answer isn't the harsh unfeeling one that I once read there; Jesus is speaking compassion. "When you look behind, you can't see what's in front of you." When I look to the past as ultimate goal, I miss the gift of what's next, and the greater gift of the One leading me forward. Viewing the past with nostalgia isn't wrong, but straining to see behind and pining for once was won't heal the wounds of what is. Just as "what ifs" for the future can be damaging, so, too, can be "what ifs" for the past. 

So I'll walk forward. I'm not hoping for what I left behind, but something new. Something better.

". . . Forgetting those things that are behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus." (Phillipians 3:13-14)

Grace For Now

Alder loves holding my hand. Even though all five of his fingers reach only my first knuckle when stacked side by side, even though his entire grip won't surround the circumference of a single finger, he still clings to me. Several of the nurses have noticed. The respiratory specialist has noticed. I've seen it, too, even from the very first day. He knows who I am, recognizes my voice, my touch, my smell. Everything is known to him, familiar. When I'm there, Alder relaxes; I'm his safe place. 

That's how I feel these days, too, about being with my Father. When I can feel Him close to me, leaning in, holding my hand, whispering and rejoicing over me and my children, I begin to remember it's o.k. for me to be the child, to let Him be the Father. It's o.k. to be without words, without understanding. Knowing He has me doesn't make my pain go away; the anguish of not knowing what comes next is still there. But I know who He is; I can recognize His touch. He is my safe place. 

At 12 am last night, I woke up to pump. I didn't feel much in the way of His presence. At 4 am I woke again, to repeat the pumping. (Have I mentioned yet how much I hate pumping?) Instead of His presence, all I could feel was fear for tomorrow. Sure, right now Alder is doing all right. But what about tomorrow? What if I never take him home to his brother and sister? What if we move back to Cambridge not with a new baby to introduce but with empty arms and broken hearts and a 4,000 mile gap between Nana and Papa and Gammy and Pops and the aunts, uncles, cousins that have cared for them when I couldn't be there? What if...? Ironically, it's when I begin to let myself look to tomorrow and all the unknowns that I suffer the most. I miss the gift of today. 

When we visited Brooks and Evelyn Rose a few days ago, I showed them a video we'd taken of their new baby brother. Evelyn Rose wanted to watch it again, and asked to hold my phone. I obliged. She immediately cradled it in her arms, rocked it back and forth, and began to coo and sing in her best 2 year old voice. She repeated this over, and over, and over. Every time the video ended she started it again. And my heart swelled and burst into a thousand pieces, all for the love and joy and sorrow and suffering. All those what ifs in a moment like those merely shadow the beauty of what's in front of me. But in that moment, the starkness of what was meant to be and what is was too clear to miss. (There I go again, crying even as I type...)

Two years ago, I watched my precious sister grieve the loss of her 25 week old, Anna. I never quite understood what she meant when she told me that I shouldn't worry about having the grace for tomorrow because I don't yet need it; God gives us the grace we need for the moments we need it. I didn't understand it back then when she spoke those words, but I clung to it, anyway. And these days, I cling to it even more. 

When I wake in the middle of the night and focus on all my fears, those nagging "what ifs," my heart is clouded and feeling God's presence is nearly impossible. But God's consistency isn't dependent on what I feel. He has promised to be with me. He was with me 22 days ago when my water and my heart broke. He is with me now. And when I'm too fragile to raise my voice in prayer, He still has me, and He sends a Helper: "the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words." (Romans 8:26)

When Moses passes on leadership to Joshua, he, tells him not to fear what's ahead. He reminds Joshua of the promise. They need not worry about the grace for tomorrow, because tomorrow isn't here and the Lord always provides what we need in the now. We might not know what's next, but God goes ahead, preparing the way. He's never caught off guard:

"Then Moses summoned Joshua and said to him in the sight of all Israel, "Be strong and courageous, for you shall go with this people into the land that the Lord has sworn to their fathers to give them, and you shall put them in possession of it. It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you, he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed." (Deut 31: 7-8)

Alder loves holding my hand. I can't be there every moment, but even when I'm not there, I leave my heart with him. I would never, ever abandon my child. God promises me the same gift but a thousand fold. He is with me, right now, even when my worry numbs me to His touch. He will sustain, protect, provide, and lavish me with the grace I need when I need it. Right now? I just need the grace to remember that He's not going anywhere. Right now, I just need to rejoice that he has given me today with my son, Alder. Right now is good, and right now is what He's given. 

Learning Faithfulness

Yesterday had a promising start; Alder's O2 was all the way down to 28% over night, his blood pressure looked great, the last umbilical line came out and he was happily resting on his tummy...Sam and I left for Raleigh, for some much needed time of prayer, worship and fellowship. Then I called to check in, and my heart sank. 

Not great news anymore: it seemed like within the past couple of hours everything had plummeted. He'd had elevated blood pressure corresponding with dramatic O2 dips, and they'd had to take him right up to 100% just to keep him stable. Perhaps worse, this episode had included twitches, and they'd ordered another brain scan for Wednesday just to be sure there is no brain damage. 

When we arrived back at the hospital, we sat, watched, prayed, and waited. I left to pump, and Alder had another bad spell while I was away. At this point, I couldn't handle any more. I called my sister, sobbing. What is God doing right now in my baby's tiny body? Didn't I hear a promise from Him just a few nights ago, that He would protect our child and we'd one day bring our Alder home? Did I just imagine the whole thing? Why am I so afraid right now? Didn't I know there would be ups and downs to this road, and that He would walk by me even in those dark places? In moments like those, faith in a promise, hardly a whisper in the dark, feels like little more than wishful thinking...

Many times, since the beginning of our little Sapling's story, well intentioned men and women have said things like, "Well, you just have to keep a positive attitude and stay strong! I'm sure everything will turn out all right." Let me tell you, friends, that philosophy really doesn't cut it for me at a time like this. At a time like this, conjuring up a Pollyanna perspective does little more than embitter me towards everyone and everything that's gone so, so terribly wrong.

This is a broken situation. It's not how God created the world to be. I don't have to put on a happy face, whether it's for me or for somebody else. But friends? I have faith. I have faith that even in this brokenness, it is God who is weaving a tapestry of beauty, mending these tears with threads of gold and sapphire. It is God who does not merely watch as we suffer, but who takes our hands in His and speaks love and comfort into our hearts. It is God who asks us to keep our eyes on Him while He fights our battles for us. It is God who won the battle when His son, Jesus Christ, defeated our sin and brokenness when He died and rose up from the grave. It is God who promises that now death itself has no hold on us, "for to live is Christ and to die is gain." (Philippians 1:21)

At a time like this, it's this faith that lifts my weight. Optimism is a determination to look on the bright side, hoping to cheer my way into the outcome I desire. Faith gives me the freedom to surrender the outcome, to pray, fast, sing, and watch as the Father crafts every brokenness into something beautiful. Faith is weightless.

Last night, I called to check in on Alder in the middle of the night. As I reflected over the course of the day and my break down the afternoon before, God reminded me of a verse I memorized long ago, Hebrews 1, "Now faith is the assurance..."

“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. For by it the people of old received their commendation. By faith we understand that the universe was created by the word of God, so that what is seen was not made out of things that are visible.
By faith Abel offered to God a more acceptable sacrifice than Cain, through which he was commended as righteous, God commending him by accepting his gifts. And through his faith, though he died, he still speaks. By faith Enoch was taken up so that he should not see death, and he was not found, because God had taken him. Now before he was taken he was commended as having pleased God. And without faith it is impossible to please him, for whoever would draw near to God must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him. By faith Noah, being warned by God concerning events as yet unseen, in reverent fear constructed an ark for the saving of his household. By this he condemned the world and became an heir of the righteousness that comes by faith.
By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to go out to a place that he was to receive as an inheritance. And he went out, not knowing where he was going. By faith he went to live in the land of promise, as in a foreign land, living in tents with Isaac and Jacob, heirs with him of the same promise. For he was looking forward to the city that has foundations, whose designer and builder is God. By faith Sarah herself received power to conceive, even when she was past the age, since she considered him faithful who had promised. Therefore from one man, and him as good as dead, were born descendants as many as the stars of heaven and as many as the innumerable grains of sand by the seashore.
These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. For people who speak thus make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. If they had been thinking of that land from which they had gone out, they would have had opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared for them a city.
By faith Abraham, when he was tested, offered up Isaac, and he who had received the promises was in the act of offering up his only son, of whom it was said, “Through Isaac shall your offspring be named.” He considered that God was able even to raise him from the dead, from which, figuratively speaking, he did receive him back. By faith Isaac invoked future blessings on Jacob and Esau. By faith Jacob, when dying, blessed each of the sons of Joseph, bowing in worship over the head of his staff. By faith Joseph, at the end of his life, made mention of the exodus of the Israelites and gave directions concerning his bones.
By faith Moses, when he was born, was hidden for three months by his parents, because they saw that the child was beautiful, and they were not afraid of the king’s edict. By faith Moses, when he was grown up, refused to be called the son of Pharaoh’s daughter, choosing rather to be mistreated with the people of God than to enjoy the fleeting pleasures of sin. He considered the reproach of Christ greater wealth than the treasures of Egypt, for he was looking to the reward. By faith he left Egypt, not being afraid of the anger of the king, for he endured as seeing him who is invisible. By faith he kept the Passover and sprinkled the blood, so that the Destroyer of the firstborn might not touch them.
By faith the people crossed the Red Sea as on dry land, but the Egyptians, when they attempted to do the same, were drowned. By faith the walls of Jericho fell down after they had been encircled for seven days. By faith Rahab the prostitute did not perish with those who were disobedient, because she had given a friendly welcome to the spies.
And what more shall I say? For time would fail me to tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, of David and Samuel and the prophets— who through faith conquered kingdoms, enforced justice, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the power of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, were made strong out of weakness, became mighty in war, put foreign armies to flight. Women received back their dead by resurrection. Some were tortured, refusing to accept release, so that they might rise again to a better life. Others suffered mocking and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment. They were stoned, they were sawn in two, they were killed with the sword. They went about in skins of sheep and goats, destitute, afflicted, mistreated— of whom the world was not worthy—wandering about in deserts and mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth.
And all these, though commended through their faith, did not receive what was promised, since God had provided something better for us, that apart from us they should not be made perfect.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God”

— Hebrews 11-12:2

Do you see it? All those incredible figures--men and women He has brought to my mind and heart so often over the past three weeks--they're all together here, in one gorgeous faithfulness symphony. These men and women had faith in what they could not see, and they experienced in return an abundance of the Lord's grace and power, steadfastness and protection over their lives. They beheld miracles--wondrous works outside the bounds of possibility, of known, of imagined. And yet even in these incredibilities, they merely tasted what I myself have already received in the form of Jesus Christ! 

How amazing is this Good News, that I have already received the Promise that even the greatest Biblical pillars merely witnessed from afar? How grateful and unworthy am I, that He should choose even me to behold such Glory? How can I not bow down and worship to receive such a beautiful gift?

Dear friends, you, too, are invited to come and taste and see that He is good! Jesus promises not only to bear the burdens you have today, but He has already born those from your yesterday and those coming tomorrow. Will you let Him carry them? We can learn this faithfulness together. As you can see, I'm still learning, too. 

Take His hand in yours, and I'll tag along. Side by side, we'll walk this faith journey together. And oh! What wonders we will behold! 

"And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth." John 1:14

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Kyrie Eleison

Every morning, I wake up drenched. They say this happens after giving birth, and I vaguely recollect the same sensation from my previous two. But this time, somehow it seems different. It's not a cold, scared sweat. It's more like my body cleansing itself of unneeded fluid even while I sleep. It's strange to me that it doesn't happen while I'm awake, but only while I'm resting. Eugene Peterson says, "The Hebrew evening/morning sequence conditions us to the rhythms of grace. We go to sleep and God begins His work.." In my current experience, this is just as applicable to my body as it is to my spirit... 

So when I get out of bed for the day I head straight to shower. I used to be a shower at night kind of a girl, since my children are up before the crack of dawn and showering with a couple of wild things knocking down my door hardly sounds safe or appealing. But since I'd rather not go out looking like I just ran a marathon, (trust me. I didn't.) I've grown to love my morning shower. As I wash, I think and I pray. I come out clean.  

Then I visit the hospital, and I must cleanse again. We scrub up to our elbows with soap and hot water for one minute each time we enter the nicu. Once we get to Alder's room, we reapply sanitizer approximately every ten minutes, just to make sure he is in a completely protected environment. 

Then there's the pumping routine. Every 2-3 hours, (ok, ok, lately for me it's been more like 4...) I have to relocate to a "mother's retreat," where I can pump quietly for the recommended 15-20 minutes. When I finish, I have to break down and wash each piece, dry everything off, and get ready to repeat the whole process. 

My hands are starting to crack and bleed from all the washing, but at least I know they are clean. 

Last night, for the first time since Alder's birth, I realized that the majority of my time is spent doing this washing. Essentially, my life right now is one living cleansing ritual. Is it possible to devote this simple act of washing, performed steadily throughout my day, as an act of both contrition and worship? I have to think that it is, and that perhaps the Lord is revealing that to me even this morning as I write. 

In Psalm 51, David uses this exact language to speak of repentance, redemption and restoration:

“Be gracious to me, O God, according to Your loving kindness;
According to the greatness of Your compassion blot out my transgressions.
Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity
And cleanse me from my sin.

For I know my transgressions,
And my sin is ever before me.

Against You, You only, I have sinned
And done what is evil in Your sight,
So that You are justified when You speak
And blameless when You judge.

Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity,
And in sin my mother conceived me.

Behold, You desire truth in the innermost being,
And in the hidden part You will make me know wisdom.

Purify me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

Make me to hear joy and gladness,
Let the bones which You have broken rejoice.

Hide Your face from my sins
And blot out all my iniquities.

Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a steadfast spirit within me.

Do not cast me away from Your presence
And do not take Your Holy Spirit from me.

Restore to me the joy of Your salvation
And sustain me with a willing spirit.

Then I will teach transgressors Your ways,
And sinners will be converted to You.

Deliver me from bloodguiltiness, O God, the God of my salvation;
Then my tongue will joyfully sing of Your righteousness.

O Lord, open my lips,
That my mouth may declare Your praise.

For You do not delight in sacrifice, otherwise I would give it;
You are not pleased with burnt offering.

The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;
A broken and a contrite heart, O God, You will not despise.

By Your favor do good to Zion;
Build the walls of Jerusalem.

Then You will delight in righteous sacrifices,
In burnt offering and whole burnt offering;
Then young bulls will be offered on Your altar.”

While I don't know what today holds, I do know with certainty that I will be washing my hands over, and over, and over again. And every time I do, I will sing: Kyrie Eleison. Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner. And He will hear me, scoop me up in His everlasting arms of love, and make me whiter than snow. 

Empty

Some days are just slow going. In nicu time, weeks--months--are slow going. But go on we must, weary or not, aching or not, emptied or not, it is the task set before us. But oh, how the journey exhausts.

I've found of late that the day passes in relative ease, but then comes evening. And then I realize that I've missed yet another day with my Brooks and Elle Rose. Another new word she's picked up. Another day past his English lilt. And, Oh! Now is just about bath time. Now's the time when I'm fighting over teeth brushing and pj's, chasing down those damp curls of Brooks' and probably raising my voice a little too loud since I've already told him at least five times that he needs to come so I can help get his pants on...And now it's lights out, and I'm missing more than anything the ten million kisses right on the lips he always bestows, the sweet baby snuggles from Elle Rose, who still wants "mielk" despite the fact that I've been all empty for a couple months now. 

The night before my water broke, she fell asleep nursing in my arms, like she hasn't done since infancy. And I knew there was something special, to be treasured, about that moment. And I just soaked it in, kissing her sweet cupid lips, wanting to hold onto that very second forever. That was the last night I nursed her, and here I am, two + weeks later, pumping for another child that wasn't meant to arrive for another four months. 

This. Is. Hard. 

Last night, when I was all worn out from a day of pumping and calls and running back and forth to the nicu and feeling guilty that I wasn't in five places at once, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. "Sam?" I said. "I still look pregnant. I've just got an empty baby bump." 

Empty. The word stung like it stings a little to look down. A fitting word for my emotional state by the end of every day. A fitting word for the weightlessness of my ring finger. A fitting word for our home in Cambridge. A fitting word for my heart missing of my other two children, 50 miles south west from me. I'm all empty. 

Walking down those hospital halls, nobody knows I just had a baby. Outside this hospital, jaws drop when I mention my newborn. I never got quite big enough to make it all that obvious; I was emptied too soon. It's amazing how, a couple years ago, I thought the way my body looked during pregnancy and post delivery mattered one iota. Now I know better. Now I know, given the chance to swell out of everything I own just to spend a few more minutes holding my child that first few minutes of his life--that alone would have been preferable to losing every extra pound in the delivery room four months too soon. Because my arms would have been full. Now, they're...empty. Empty hands, empty heart. Some nights it feels like that. 

Last night, I was mulling over the word and feeling all the feels, when a hint of praise welled up in me. One that, while past held dear, I had momentarily forgotten: Mary's Song. The Magnificat: 

“My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for He has looked on the humble estate of his servant. For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name. And his mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts; he has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate; he has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, as he spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and to his offspring forever. ”

Perhaps, I'm wondering, it's not so bad to be emptied? Because here, in this emptiness, I can be made full again. Maybe the instant coffee once filling my cup had to be thrown in the bin in order to replace it with the hand crafted latte? Mary, hardly more than a child, she knows the meaning of fullness, being indwelt with the very Son of God. Truly, literally, full. 

I want that. I will never be Mary, of course, but Jesus promises to fill me, too. I'm hungry and empty, yet He promises to dwell with me and in me: John 14:16-18: "And I will ask the Father and he will give you another Helper, to be with you forever, even the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, for he dwells with you and will be in you. I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you."

Not empty. Full. Full of the riches of His splendor. Full of His very Spirit. Full to be called daughter of the Most High. Fully God's, fully indwelt, fully satisfied. Fully full. 

Today, my goal is to rest in that promise. I'm not an orphan. I'm not empty, because the love of my Lord Jesus Christ has made me abundantly full. 

The Scars We Wear

Despite Alder's good day yesterday, all the loving support from friends and family near and far, I still struggled. I knew this would be a long, bumpy road, I just assumed my bumps would correspond with Alder's. Now I know better. This journey is a bit like watching a baseball game: you're sitting in your seat, twitching a little to jump out and swing your own bat but doing your best to be still and watch. (Hey, if you're lucky maybe at least you've got some pop corn as a distraction.) And then. BAM! You're hit by a ball out of left field, and what you're left with is a black eye from spectator sport. 

That's what yesterday was for me. And today, I've got not a black eye, but two puffy ones, swollen from the tears compiled. It started out as somethings small: a quick, harsh word that cut deeper than he intended; a rude, insensitive phone call from a social worker with prying, painful questions; a nagging worry and disappointment that Alder's scan didn't just read, "all clear;" yet another inquisition from said social worker; the slowing of my milk production from stress, or who knows?; the grande finale--the realization that my wedding rings, handed over just before my helicopter ride, have vanished. Too much. Just too much. Everything is out of my control, and thanks, but no thanks, God, I just don't want another "growing moment." I'd rather just wallow. 

And I lost it. I lost it more than I've lost it since last Friday when they first took my baby away. Lost it like I lost it when my water broke and I thought that my child would certainly die, and my own life was hanging in the balance. Everything was lost, lost, lost, and all I could do was sob. And shout. And say angry things to Sam and to God, who didn't seem to care a whole lot about my own emotional state. I cried so much I started to hyperventilate, which, who knew, is also dangerous after a c section. Insult to injury: don't cry too much or you might pop your insides open. Insert giant eye roll.

Eventually, I calmed down just enough to crawl into the sheets and tell God I'd really rather not talk to Him tonight, thanks. But, Glory to God, we don't serve a God who answers our whims, or who hides His face when we call out in a rage. And today, I am so, so, thankful that not only does He stay with us while we push Him away, but He gently turns our faces back to Himself. 

So, yes. He still woke me last night. And as I staggered, exhausted, to go pee again, I could feel the soar wrapped around my waist, the tightness of my scar. My Alder wound. They were right about crying too hard. Too late now; my whole body ached. My wound ached. Wound..."He was wounded for our transgressions..." I began in my head. Oh, there you are, Lord. Good evening. Would you like to talk again? 

I pulled out my phone, (maybe a little begrudgingly,) and googled the reference. Two popped up, the first in Isaiah. I read through it, but it just didn't seem like that was quite what He had for me this night, so I flipped to 1 Peter 2:13-25:

Be subject for the Lord's sake to every human institution, whether it be to the emperor as supreme, or to governors as sent by him to punish those who do evil and to praise those who do good. For this is the will of God, that by doing good you should put to silence the ignorance of foolish people. Live as people who are free, not using your freedom as a cover-up for evil, but living as servants of God. Honor everyone. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honor the emperor.

Servants, be subject to your masters with all respect, not only to the good and gentle but also to the unjust. For this is a gracious thing, when, mindful of God, one endures sorrows while suffering unjustly. For what credit is it if, when you sin and are beaten for it, you endure? But if when you do good and suffer for it you endure, this is a gracious thing in the sight of God. For to this you have been called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you might follow in his steps. He committed no sin, neither was deceit found in his mouth. When he was reviled, he did not revile in return; when he suffered, he did not threaten, but continued entrusting himself to him who judges justly. He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed. For you were straying like sheep, but have now returned to the Shepherd and Overseer of your souls.

Again, I was washed over with the Lord's gentle redirecting of my heart. It's amazing how, these days, sanctification feels much more like taking a bath than it does going through the fire. I come out feeling refreshed, restored, reliant. I always associated repentance as carrying such guilt, but no. The Lord's discipline truly is all gift. Guiltless, weightless, cleansing.

Last night while I wallowed, He prepared comfort. He prepared hope, He prepared joy and abundance for my soul. In 1 Peter, Peter speaks of enduring through our suffering, because through suffering, we get become more like Him. For the first time in my life, I understand  something new about what it means to be more like Jesus. It's not only that we take on His attributes; it's certainly not that we become God. It's more of a longing to find ways that He has made marks upon us resembling His own. I pine for these love scars. And I have one, at least: I have an Alder wound from where they took my baby; Jesus has a Gina wound from when he came to get His baby back. And He promises to come for me over and over and over and over again. Even when I think I'm lost, for Him, I'll forever be found. 

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Panting

My "middle-night reading" last night came to me when I woke up to pee, (again,) and the short walk to the bathroom had me panting. They say that this is typical with a c section; your body subconsciously takes short, shallow breaths, avoiding the pain that can come with breathing deep. 

"As the deer..." I hummed a bit. And then, for the first time (how did I not notice this sooner?) I remember: my son, Alder, he, too, pants. Right now he's on an Oscillator, the very earliest of ventilators, and to illustrate its job the nurses all say it makes baby "pant." When I go to sit with him, watch him, read to him, sing to him, pray over him, it's easy to see what's him breathing and what's the oscillator doing the breathing for him. Those tiny vibrations shaking his entire, bitty body are the electronic variation. The balloon effect swelling his whole abdomen is his own doing. I don't mind how he's breathing right now, so much as my boy gets the oxygen he needs. 

Somehow, the realization that Alder and I are both learning to breathe stops me in my tracks. What was once a mundane, 'yeah, I've heard this passage a gazillion times. Tell me something new?" bit of Scripture turned technicolor for me last night. I raced for my Bible and flipped to Psalm 42 (whole chapter. Italics mine):

"As the deer pants for flowing streams,
so pants my soul for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God,
for the living God.
When shall I come and appear before God?
My tears have been my food day and night,
while they say to me all the day long,
Where is your God?
These things I remember,
as I pour out my soul:
How I would go with the throng
and lead them in procession to the house of God
with glad shouts and sons of praise,
a multitude keeping festival.

Why are you cast down, O my soul,
and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
my salvation and my God.

My soul is cast down within me;
therefore I remember you
from the land of Jordan and of Hermon,
from Mount Mizar.
Deep calls to deep
at the roar of your waterfalls;
all your breakers and your waves
have gone over me.
By day the Lord commands his steadfast love,
and at night his song is with me,
a prayer to the God of my life.
I say to God, my rock:
'Why have you forgotten me?
Why do I go mourning
because of the oppression of the enemy?"
As with a deadly would in my bones,
my adversaries taunt me,
while they say to me all the day long,
"Where is your God?"

Why are you cast down, O my soul,
and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
my salvation and my God." 

Satisfied for now, I took some time to pray and pump, climbed back in bed, and drifted off to sleep much more quickly than on previous nights. 

And when I woke, while I showered, God revealed something else that I missed in the night, knocking the wind out of me and reducing me to a puddle like the one gathering at my feet. Alder and I, we both pant. Physiologically for the same reason, spiritually perhaps we are on different pages... who can say? But this truth holds fast for both of us: Jesus, Son of God, He pants, too. For us. For me! He pants so much for me that He, before the creation of the dawn, etched my name into the palm of His hand, and then took on flesh--fully God and fully man--so that He could suffer, pant, suffocate. Just to be with me. Not out of need for me--I offer nothing in return but my own brokenness--but out of love for me. How had I missed it? God's love for me is so strong, so incredibly intense, that it knocks the wind out of Him. 

I don't think I'll ever forget that. How can I encounter a truth like that one and not be transformed by it? Even more--how can I encounter that kind of hope, that kind of love, and not proclaim it to all creation? 

So be comforted and be encompassed, dear brothers and sisters, by the all consuming, passionate desire our Rock and our Redeemer has for you. He will not abandon you, leave or forsake you. He will pine for you with a love so deep that you could drown in it a thousand times. And that. That is enough. 

The day I fell

Two weeks ago to the day, I was laboring in a hospital bed, straight off a chopper, surrounded by unfamiliar faces--sorrow filled faces--faces that silently told me everything I needed to know about the chances my Baby Alder would make it through the day. In the space of a few hours, our Thanksgiving boy had transformed into an impossibility, a danger, a grim statistic.

And I wept. I wept and wept like I have never done before. I wept so much that I could have filled the entire Atlantic. Up until that day, I had never known a pit so deep, so black, so entirely without hope. The weight of losing my child, my Alder, was so heavy that even typing these words makes my throat clench and the words come slowly. 

Hours passed. Monitors beeped. Magnesium Sulfate performed its (secondary) task of causing wretched flu like symptoms. Contractions charted. Procardia plummeted my blood pressure. My tongue swelled from thirst, water denied thanks to the magnesium. And I suffered, wondering where my God was and why He was allowing this to happen to us. 

My brother-in-law came in my big sister's stead; she had left earlier that day for a girl's trip in Florida. The timing couldn't have been worse, but John came. And his timing couldn't have been better, for the words John spoke to me that night changed my life. As I lay sobbing in bed, face red and wet and desperate, I told John, "I don't know how to stand under this. Tell me, how can I stand under this weight?" And he replied, "Gina, you don't have to stand. You just fall into His arms." 

"Will He catch me, John?" I asked. "Will He catch me?" 

I don't remember his response. I just remember his gentle smile. My weeping continued; my fear continued; my total darkness did not become light. But I realized then, in that very moment, that the burden of trying to stand and to "be strong" under this immense pressure would be fruitless: my back would break; my soul would be crushed; my heart would be hardened against the only One who could truly comprehend my sorrow, because He Himself suffered with and for me. He had already chosen to catch me, long, long ago, before the creation of the world itself. Jesus. 

These past two weeks, the Lord has shown me that it is in this very place, the place of falling unreservedly, completely lax into His strong and mighty hands, that He lifts us up to soar like eagles. "The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit," He promises in Psalm 34:18. "He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds," Psalms 147:3. "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted," Matthew 5:4. 

Through complete surrender, the recognizing of my very real weakness, and wearily collapsing in His arms, the Lord raised me up to His face, snuggled in for a caress, and carried me tenderly through the coming days. Here, here is where I want to be: weak, powerless, completely dependent on His strength.  

"But He said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong." 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 

So, dear friends, I proudly shout to the mountaintops of my weakness. There isn't a strong bone in my body. But my God is a strong, fierce God. And He is mighty to save.

My New To-Do

The Lord has been waking me in the middle of the night for a couple weeks now. This is a new phenomenon for me, the 8 hour girl, but I'm OK with it; I don't mind missing losing sleep if it means gaining precious alone time with my Father. Last night, He woke me out of a sound sleep and I checked my phone: 1:00. I called to check in on Alder. Everything's fine; up on blood gases, lowered blood sugar; he's a happier boy after his lung injection. All praises! So I picked up my phone to see notifications, and opened a message from a friend. It was short and sweet, containing a single verse on water colored background: 

"Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the battle is not yours, but God's." 2 Chronicles 20:15 

Chronicles isn't the typical go-to book for wallpaper texts. Intrigued, I looked up the chapter and the Word of God spoke so clearly that I could hardly breathe. Here is chapter 20:1-31 of 2 Chronicles 20:15. (I'm aware it's a long read. But trust me. It's worth it. Plus, I've included it all here so you don't even have to do any searching/flipping around for it.):

"After this the Moabites and Ammonites, and with them some of the Meunites, came against Jehoshaphat for battle. Some men came and told Jehoshaphat, “A great multitude is coming  against you from Edom, from beyond the sea;and, behold, they are in Hazazon-tamar” (that is, Engedi). Then Jehoshaphat was afraid and set his face to seek the LORD, and proclaimed a fast throughout all Judah. And Judah assembled to seek help from the LORD; from all the cities of Judah they came to seek the LORD.

And Jehoshaphat stood in the assembly of Judah and Jerusalem, in the house of the LORD, before the new court, and said, “O LORD, God of our fathers, are you not God in heaven? You rule over all the kingdoms of the nations. In your hand are power and might, so that none is able to withstand you. Did you not, our God, drive out the inhabitants of this land before your people Israel, and give it forever to the descendants of Abraham your friend? And they have lived in it and have built for you in it a sanctuary for your name, saying,"If disaster comes upon us, the sword, judgment,or pestilence,or famine, we will stand before this house and before you—for your name is in this house—and cry out to you in our affliction, and you will hear and save.’ And now behold, the men of Ammon and Moab and Mount Seir, whom you would not let Israel invade when they came from the land of Egypt, and whom they avoided and did not destroy—behold, they reward us by coming to drive us out of your possession, which you have given us to inherit. O our God, will you not execute judgment on them? For we are powerless against this great horde that is coming against us. We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you.”

Meanwhile all Judah stood before the LORD, with their little ones, their wives, and their children. And the Spirit of the LORD came upon Jahaziel the son of Zechariah,son of Benaiah, son of Jeiel, son of Mattaniah, a Levite of the sons of Asaph, in the midstof the assembly. And he said, “Listen, all Judah and inhabitants of Jerusalem and King Jehoshaphat: Thus says the LORD to you, ‘Do not be afraid and do not be dismayed at this great horde, for the battle is not yours but God's. Tomorrow go down against them.Behold, they will come up by the ascent of Ziz. You will find them at the end of the valley,east of the wilderness of Jeruel. You will not need to fight in this battle. Stand firm,hold your position, and see the salvation of the LORD on your behalf, O Judah and Jerusalem.’ Do not be afraid and do not be dismayed. Tomorrow go out against them, and the LORD will be with you.”

Then Jehoshaphat bowed his head with his face to the ground, and all Judah and the inhabitants of Jerusalem fell down before the LORD, worshiping the LORD. And the Levites, of the Kohathites and the Korahites, stood up to praise the LORD, the God of Israel, with a very loud voice.

And they rose early in the morning and went out into the wilderness of Tekoa. And when they went out, Jehoshaphat stood and said, “Hear me, Judah and inhabitants ofJerusalem! Believe in the LORD your God, and you will be established; believe his prophets, and you will succeed.”And when he had taken counsel with the people, he appointed those who were to sing to the LORD and praise him in holy attire, as they went before the army, and say,

“Give thanks to the LORD, for his steadfast love endures forever.”

And when they began to sing and praise, the LORD set an ambush against the men of Ammon, Moab, and Mount Seir, who had come against Judah, so that they were routed. For the men of Ammon and Moab rose against the inhabitants of Mount Seir, devoting them to destruction, and when they had made an end of the inhabitants of Seir, they all helped to destroy one another.

When Judah came to the watchtower of the wilderness, they looked toward the horde, and behold, there were dead bodies lying on the ground; none had escaped. When Jehoshaphat and his people came to take their spoil, they found among them, in great numbers, goods, clothing, and precious things, which they took for themselves until they could carry no more. They were three days in taking the spoil, it was so much. On the fourth day they assembled in the Valley of Beracah, for there they blessed the LORD. Therefore the name of that place has been called the Valley of Beracah to this day. Then they returned, every man of Judah and Jerusalem, and Jehoshaphat at their head,returning to Jerusalem with joy, for the LORD had made them rejoice over their enemies. They came to Jerusalem with harps and lyres and trumpets, to the house of the LORD. And the fear of God came on all the kingdoms of the countries when they heard that the LORD had fought against the enemies of Israel. So the realm of Jehoshaphat was quiet, for his God gave him rest all around.

Thus Jehoshaphat reigned over Judah. He was thirty-five years old when he began to reign, and he reigned twenty-five years in Jerusalem. His mother's name was Azubah the daughter of Shilhi. He walked in the way of Asa his father and did not turn aside from it, doing what was right in the sight of the LORD."

While this story seemed vaguely familiar, the contents leaped off the page and held new life for me last night. A new promise, and, dare I say? A personal promise. Last night, in the middle of the darkness, God whispered light into my heart. A promise that not only will He never leave us, but that He will deliver us from the very present evil which we now face. A promise that one day, He will bring our Alder into our home. For the very first time since this ordeal first began, I felt a sense of reassurance from the Lord, that His will IS for our littlest one to be under a roof with us, to live together as a family of five. I don't know when that day will be, and I don't claim that the path to get there will feel certain or speedy. But I know that the Lord always keeps His Word, and last night He spoke one into the depths of my heart.

The people of Israel, God's chosen beloved, were in distress. Enemy armies were encamped around them and they were in extreme danger. Not just their soldiers, but also their little ones, their wives, and their children. They were afraid and they "did not know what to do." So they ran to God. They prayed and fasted. And the Lord met them there, promising to fight their battle for them. 

Then? Then, they worship Him. And they send at the forefront not their strongest warriors, but their singers, (!?!?) to declare the glory of the one true God, the God who is faithful, the God of love. And then they wait. And they watch. And God works. Their enemies destroy one another, and in the morning, they are utterly decimated without a single Israelite having lifted a finger against them. The Israelites lifted not their swords but their prayers, and prayers are powerful, powerful weapons. 

Not only did God defeat their enemies for them, but then He gifts them with the spoils. Abundant spoils, so much so that they could not carry them all in one trip, or even two! Not only does He meet their needs, but He blesses them richly and beyond their hopes or expectations. 

So many glorious gifts in which I've reveled all day. And All from this one seemingly random, Old Testament passage. 

Last night, through His Holy word, the Lord spoke a promise, and He gifted me with a "to do' list during these tumultuous days: Pray. Fast. Worship. Sing. Wait. Watch.  

And He will bring our Alder home to us. And the spoils of that provision will be far richer than what we could possibly imagine or conceive. 

Knit Together

I woke up in the middle of the night last night at around 4, which has become the standard for me of late. I wasn't particularly worried about Alder; the nicu team here is fabulous and has promised that no news is good news, but still, I'm a new mom of a preemie baby, and I couldn't resist the urge to check in. The report was fine: some small declines in a few of his stats, (oxygen levels increased by 5%, a sugar spike, slight increase in blood gases...) All in all, about what you expect, or even better, for a baby born at 24 weeks 5 days gestation. My mind at ease, I said, "thank you," and hung up the phone in hopes for a few more hours sleep. And then.

And then I started praying for our boy. And the Lord gifted me with some pretty amazing words to speak over his little growing body, words that I couldn't have possibly imagined up on my own, words that, two weeks ago, would have seemed like someone else's prayer. And as I prayed, I contemplated last night's post. The plagiarized Psalm 139. (I don't know if you knew this, but God loves it when you plagiarize His words back to Him. He's been telling me so lately.) 

"For you formed my inward parts; You knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made..." (vs 13 &14) 

These verses, commonly known, have been dear to me ever since that sixth grade assignment where I had to memorize the whole chapter. (My little sister totally outshone me on that one; I can't compete with an 8 year old who can perfectly rattle off the whole chapter in perfected Gospel minister mimicry.) They became even dearer when I witnessed the miracle of life in the form of my first two children. But now? Now they mean something different. Last night, I worried.

What do you make of those words when your baby should be in the dark mystery of your womb, in the safe, unknown inside of you, but has arrived despite your best efforts to keep him there? What do you do when You, Mama, Safe One, Protector, Lover, Nurturer, have become the very person causing his body to rapidly decline? When your womb becomes not cocoon, but battleground? When your baby now grows in a box?

At that point, these words become not worship, but lament. As they began to sour in my soul, the Lord intervened with this conquering truth: He alone is the one who knits us together; He alone is the one who makes us fearfully and wonderfully; If He can knit us together in the secret, dark, mysterious unknown, can't He surely continue that same work in the open? If I can trust Him with my son's development inside of me where I cannot see, how much more should I trust Him with Alder's life outside of me, where I can actually watch Him perform this wonderous knitting? Even more incredible than that: He has gifted me, Gina, Alder's mommy, with the great privilege of watching my son grow in the miraculous, radiant light of God, Creator and Sustainer of everything that is and that was and that will have breath in this world. What a blessing that is! And oh! How gently He rebuked and reoriented my eyes towards Himself, gifting me in return not with consequence, but with grace and peace and newness of heart. He is so, so kind and gracious with us! 

I give praise to Him, too, that He ordained that we should exist in the 21st century, a snippet in history when Alder and I both have a fighting chance of survival. Alder needs constant and immediate medical attention and intervention. But medicine does not create, it maintains--mimics, even, but it does not knit. The One True God, the Holy One of Israel, our Rescuer, Redeemer, the great I AM, only He can make something from nothing. Only He form life from dust.  

I also do not make presumptions upon the outcome of Alder's story. I must actively choose to lay my child's delicate life at the foot of the cross. But time and time again I have witnessed the Lord's miraculous work in our daily lives. I believe He has brought us thus far. He will bring us to 5:00, 6:00, and to tomorrow. And tomorrow He will bring us to the day after. He will carry us daily, even when the days are black and the last thing I want to do is to sing His praises. He will not forsake His beloved. And, out of the pure goodness of His magnificent and abundant grace, He has called even me His beloved daughter, Alder His beloved son. That and that alone is what gives me strength for today and hope for tomorrow.

"Those who hope in the lord will renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint." Isaiah 40:31

Joseph Alder Fornecker

Psalm 139

1 O Lord, you have searched me and known me!

2 You know when I sit down and when I rise up;

you discern my thoughts from afar.

3 You search out my path and my lying down

and are acquainted with all my ways.

4 Even before a word is on my tongue,

behold, O Lord, you know it altogether.

5 You hem me in, behind and before,

and lay your hand upon me.

6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;

it is high; I cannot attain it.

7 Where shall I go from your Spirit?

Or where shall I flee from your presence?

8 If I ascend to heaven, you are there!

If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!

9 If I take the wings of the morning

and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,

10 even there your hand shall lead me,

and your right hand shall hold me.

11 If I say, "Surely the darkness shall cover me,

and the light about me be night,"

12 even the darkness is not dark to you;

the night is bright as the day,

for darkness is as light with you.

13 For you formed my inward parts;

you knitted me together in my mother's womb.

14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

Wonderful are your works;

my soul knows it very well.

15 My frame was not hidden from you,

when I was being made in secret,

intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

16 Your eyes saw my unformed substance;

in your book were written, every one of them,

the days that were formed for me,

when as yet there was none of them.

17 How precious to me are your thoughts, O God!

How vast is the sum of them!

18 If I would count them, they are more than the sand.

I awake, and I am still with you.

19 Oh that you would slay the wicked, O God!

O men of blood, depart from me!

20 They speak against you with malicious intent;

your enemies take your name in vain.

21 Do I not hate those who hate you, O Lord?

And do I not loathe those who rise up against you?

22 I hate them with complete hatred;

I count them my enemies.

23 Search me, O God, and know my heart!

Try me and know my thoughts!

24 And see if there be any grievous way in me,

and lead me in the way everlasting!