tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-307170792024-03-13T19:05:38.789-07:00Redeeming ThemesI've moved! Come see the new blog at redeemingthemes.comAbbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.comBlogger164125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-26088850597782002232014-09-01T21:12:00.000-07:002014-09-01T21:12:03.199-07:00I've Moved!It's been quiet here on the blog these past few months, but I've been busy - swimming and playgrounding and vacationing with my little family, but also finishing my book proposal, transcribing interviews, and updating my blog! <div>
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Please follow <a href="http://redeemingthemes.com/">this link </a>to redeemingthemes.com and check out my new and improved blog. Thanks to those of you who have followed me here the past eight years - I hope you'll keep reading on my new page. </div>
Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-5932829478932134742014-08-05T07:53:00.001-07:002014-08-05T07:54:40.295-07:00Eight Months<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You are coming into your own, Celia Joy. You are still full of smiles, but new skills and opinions are surfacing every day. <br />
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On vacation last week, I rocked you to sleep one afternoon, your damp forehead nestled against my shoulder. I looked at you in the mirror and saw suddenly how big you have become, how your face has matured, how your frame has stretched. Your babyhood is fleeting Celia, slipping away from us daily, and it is both sad and exciting.<br />
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You're on the edge of mobility. You've been sitting without support for weeks now. You can roll and scoot your way backwards across the floor. Every day, your ability to stand while holding on to the ottoman or play table increases. You can even pull yourself from sitting to standing in your crib and take wobbly steps across the floor when I hold on to both of your pudgy little hands. <br />
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But you want more. I can see it in your searching eyes, hear it in your frustrated cries. You want to be able to do it all yourself, and I see in you echoes of your big sister's determination, <a href="http://redeemingthemes.blogspot.com/2012/07/fifteen-months.html">her all-consuming desire to "go-go." </a><br />
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You're eating more solid foods now. You love applesauce, sweet potatoes, and avocado and can pop frozen peas and sweet potato puffs into your mouth with ease. You love gulping water from the sippy cup you can hold yourself.<br />
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You can clap and wave, and you're playing with sounds. You especially love saying "da-da," and I think you might know what it means. I've only heard you say "ma-ma" once, which makes me a bit sad, until you are in your crib at 5:30 a.m. saying "da-da" and I get to roll over and tell your Daddy you are calling for him. <br />
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Your demeanor is still pleasant, <a href="http://redeemingthemes.blogspot.com/2014/05/six-months.html">characterized by joy</a>, but you are no longer passively watching the world go by. You are finding your voice, pulling and grabbing your way into the world, into the little universe of our family. We will miss your sweet, snuggly days, but we look forward to knowing more of you, to the ways our family will grow through the gift of your emerging personality.Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-41854791791746116702014-07-08T06:21:00.003-07:002014-07-08T06:25:19.858-07:00Why Vacationing with Kids Is Worth It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">Prior to kids, I looked forward to our week-long summer beach trip all year long. It was a precious opportunity to sleep late, enjoy leisurely conversation with my husband and family, read my way through piles of books, and nap in the sunshine to the sound of ocean waves.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">When Ellie was just a few months old and parenthood was still new, we took her to the beach for a long weekend with my parents. I remember that trip clearly: the rhythm of feedings that had to be continued, day and night, the difficulty of squeezing in a few hours on the beach in between naps, the never-ending stuff that had to be carted with us everywhere we went. </span><br />
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I learned that summer that vacation with a child was, well, pretty much like being at home with a child: days filled with caring for the needs of another. If anything, vacation threw off our routines and made us all extra tired and cranky. I sometimes wondered if it was worth it, especially the next summer, when one year-old Ellie started every morning of our week-long beach trip well before 5 a.m. </div>
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Amy Julia Becker describes this phenomenon well in her recent post entitled "<a href="http://www.christianitytoday.com/amyjuliabecker/2014/june/when-summer-vacation-is-hard.html" style="color: #7d181e; text-decoration: none;">When Summer Vacation is Hard</a>." She's right about pretty much all of it: the high expectations we have for vacationing with our children, the difficult reality of traveling with babies and toddlers, the increasing pay-offs as children age. </div>
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What Becker doesn't address, however, is what those of us with small children are supposed to do about this, besides look forward to the days when our children are older. Do we, as one of my Facebook friends suggested in response to the article, skip the family vacation and spend our money on a couples trip sans kids? Do we adjust our expectations, drink extra coffee, and hope for the best? Do we just stay home?</div>
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All are valid choices, even good choices. There is wisdom in recognizing the limitations of this season of life and not investing a lot of money and energy on vacations that are far from restful. </div>
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But, fresh off a weekend trip to the beach with another family, well aware of the burdens of vacationing with a toddler and a baby, or in this case, two toddlers and two babies, I'd like to suggest another approach: embracing the realities of stressful car rides and sandy bath tubs and dinners where no one gets to finish a sentence, choosing to believe that the chaos and the extra work and the missed sleep are all, in fact, worth it.</div>
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They are worth it, in part, because my three year-old can now appreciate and remember the experience. She is old enough to spend a blissful day at the beach digging and splashing and sipping juice boxes, and her delight is mine too, a delight worth the days of laundry, packing, and driving that made those few happy hours possible.</div>
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But there's more than that. Vacationing with kids is worth it because it is real, because in the clash between expectation and reality, desire and duty, our truest selves emerge. We receive the gift of seeing ourselves and others as we really are: in our pajamas, before coffee, before make-up, when our toddler was up in the middle of the night and our baby is screaming for breakfast. It isn't always pretty, but it is how real relationships are made. </div>
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When I think back on this weekend, on the other trips we've taken with our kids and other friends and family members, I can think of many of these real moments: of tantrums and snappy comments and tension and occasional outright arguments. They've often felt like the moments that need to be endured in hopes of getting to the good stuff: the post-bedtime ice cream and pleasant conversations, the laughter. </div>
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Don't get me wrong. I'd rather it all be easy and fun. But I can look back and see that I know my family and friends better, that our relationships are deeper, because I took my kids on vacation with them. </div>
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In a culture where so much of what we call relating happens virtually, via status updates and filtered images, there is real value, I think, in doing life together for a few days, even and perhaps especially when doing life involves the ceaselessly hard and very real work of caring for small children. </div>
Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-59657385583514576392014-06-14T18:23:00.002-07:002014-06-14T18:24:19.544-07:00For My Husband on Father's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You love them.<br />
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I know this because I see what you do. I see you roll out of bed night after night, the first one up to change diapers or wet sheets. I see you welcoming a pancake making assistant when I know her presence makes the process longer, more difficult. I see you say no when it would be easier to say yes. I see you put aside money each month for their college funds. I see you hold and tickle and snuggle and just enjoy being with them.<br />
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I know this because I watch them with you. I see the big one's face light up when you come home from work, watch her put down her toys and run full force across our little court to your arms. I hear her request a Daddy-Daughter Date, beg for a run with you in the jogging stroller. I see a smile spread across the little one's face at the sight of you, her cheeks round and joyful. I see them both in your arms, and there is trust and contentment and peace.<br />
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I know this because you grieve the one we lost. We mourned her together, and I was never more sure I'd married the right man. You wore the cuff links with her footprints to your brother's wedding. When you pray for her, there are still tears. <br />
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You love them.<br />
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There are lot of things I could say about you on Father's Day, but I think this is the most important one. Our girls know the love of their father, and in that, you are giving them a priceless gift.Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-63270572267636433532014-06-11T07:23:00.000-07:002014-06-11T11:02:58.092-07:00Two Years<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Two years ago, when you'd been gone just a few days, when our grief was fresh and deep and consuming, I just wanted to get away, to be somewhere bright and happy and healing. So we packed your big sister in the car early one morning and drove to the beach for the day. <br />
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We left early and ate McDonald's in the car while she slept, tracing the familiar back roads through Maryland and Delaware to Bethany Beach, where I've vacationed nearly every summer of my life. We spent the day in the sun, digging and splashing and eating our favorite French fries, and it felt good to be a family and to enjoy life even while our hearts were full with the missing of you.</div>
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Last year, we repeated our journey near the one-year anniversary of your death. We decided to make it a yearly pilgrimage, a way to remember you, to keep your life part of the rhythms of our family. </div>
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Then, your little sister was growing in my belly, and our grief had softened, mellowed. Still fighting pregnancy-related fatigue and nausea, I spent most of the day in my beach chair, watching your Daddy and sister run in and out of the surf. At night, after dinner, we stood <span style="background-color: white;">with our feet in the
lapping waves. Your Daddy thanked God for you and your life and asked Him to take good care of you for us. His voice broke, and
my eyes welled with tears. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">We went again two weeks ago, both of your sisters in tow. It was a colder day than the previous years, the air misty with cool rain when we arrived. We ate the lunch I'd packed indoors, at your great-grandparents' beach house table, and we talked about you to Ellie. She'd been too small to understand the previous years, but we wanted her to know about you, to grow up understanding that you are a part of our family.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">She wanted to know why you died. She wanted there to be a way to make your heart start beating again. And then, finally accepting that this could not be, she wanted to die too and go to Heaven to see you. Your Daddy and I hugged her and cried with our arms wrapped tight around her, and then we all went to the beach where she ran and played like her normal water-loving self. We stuck Celia's toes in the water for the first time, and we all reveled in her shock and then delight.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Ellie talks about you every few days now. She knows she has another little sister. She's learned how to say your name. She still wants all of us to come see you in Heaven.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">I'm glad she is learning to know the little bit of you that she can, glad that your life is teaching her and all of us something of eternity.</span></div>
Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-11979794674217234862014-06-04T06:55:00.002-07:002014-06-04T06:55:49.684-07:00Three Plus Two Months<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"What causes quarrels and what causes fights among you? </i></div>
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<i>Is it not this, that your passions are at war within you? You desire and do not have, so you murder. You covet and cannot obtain, so you fight and quarrel." -<span style="text-align: center;">James 4:1-2</span></i></div>
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For months, everyone's been telling me that three is a harder age than two. Still, the intensity with which you are willing to battle over the smallest of things continues to surprise me. This morning, it was the long-sleeve Ravens shirt you were determined to wear, even though it's supposed to approach 90 degrees this afternoon.<br />
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"I want to be cold," you wailed, even after I suggested a compromise: you could put the long-sleeve shirt on top of a short-sleeve one until you got too hot. <br />
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A few times recently, at the height of your distress over losing a battle of the wills, you've stubbornly declared, "I want God to take the whole world apart," as if to say that if you can't have your way, the entirety of creation might as well be destroyed.<br />
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It's made me smile to hear you say that, even in the midst of my frustration and, yes, anger with your outbursts. It's an apt way to describe it, that desperate desire for control we all feel from time to time. Sometimes, it really does seem like if we can't have things our way, the world should just come to an end. <br />
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I'm trying to remember this Ellie-girl, when our battles arise, that though it feels like you and I are at odds, like I simply need to win, the truth is that we are both fighting the same thing: the cravings of hearts that want to control. You want to wear sparkly black shoes and white socks with jean shorts, to eat chocolate for lunch. I want peace, quiet, order. <br />
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I can delude myself into thinking that my desires are more valid and therefore more important. Perhaps they are. I've had about 30 extra years to refine them. But the deeper truth is this: we are both desperate sinners, and we both in desperate need of a Savior. <br />
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If you being three can teach us both this, it will be a good year indeed.Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-45914034244472057932014-05-28T07:38:00.000-07:002014-05-28T07:38:22.280-07:00Reading<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've started reading again. The past few nights, I've found myself curled into my easy chair with a book. A genuine, for-pleasure, not-for-my-kids-or-for-Bible-study book. Two books in fact because (gasp!) I actually finished one book last night and then started another. <br />
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It's hard for me to explain this sudden renewal of my love for reading, my choice to finally pick up two books that have been sitting on my nightstand and coffee table for almost a year. Perhaps its the fact that our Hulu Plus queue is finally empty. Or maybe a friend's recent mention of one of the books was enough to get me started. I'm not entirely sure.</div>
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I can tell you this with certainty, however; I am not reading again because I've finally gotten my life in order. Last night, while I read, there was a long task list waiting on my phone, clean laundry wrinkling in my dryer, even a poopy cloth diaper sitting in the bathroom, waiting to be rinsed. Gross, I know, but the point is made. I am not reading again because I've found free time.</div>
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In fact, I think perhaps I'm reading again because I've realized there will never (at least in the foreseeable future) be free time. I will always be tired. There will always be things to do. No amount of running around all night is going to get me caught up. </div>
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I think perhaps I am finally learning to choose rest, to carve out little spaces for my soul in the midst of all the chatter and craziness of life. For most of my parenting career, I've been fleeing my weariness with the satisfactions of productivity or with the mindless distractions of Facebook and TV. </div>
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But in reading again, I'm starting to remember. Reading feeds me. It helps me think and dream and process and be still long enough to know what I am feeling. It helps me write. It helps me be me.</div>
Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-44083020787476544362014-05-28T07:23:00.000-07:002014-05-28T07:23:21.442-07:00Six Months<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
You smile. A lot. You smile when I come into your room after a nap, a big grin lighting up your whole face when you see me. You smile when someone says hello to you, then shyly bury your face in my shoulder. You smile at your sister, eyes tracking her while she spins and sings and dances.<br />
<br />
The other day, your Daddy said to me: "I hope she's okay. She just smiles so much!" And I laughed because he's always the one telling me that I find crazy things to worry about.<br />
<br />
You are more than okay, baby girl. You are a beautiful, babbling, bouncing source of joy in our lives.<br />
<br />
You regularly start my mornings at 5:30 a.m. You eat and sleep on your own terms, making it impossible for me to plan my day and difficult for us to leave the house. You can't crawl yet or sit for more than a few seconds, but you're no longer to content to rest in a bouncy seat for long periods of time. You want to be held, carried, played with. And thanks to your GI issues, I'm still eating more quinoa than I'd ever imagined possible.<br />
<br />
You do not make my life easy, my Celia, but you do make me smile. Your demeanor is characterized by joy, and your joy is contagious. Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-22033318746236692322014-05-08T12:10:00.001-07:002014-05-08T12:13:58.787-07:00For My Struggling Friends On Mother's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
This will be my fourth year celebrating Mother's Day. It's not a huge deal at our house, but I have pleasant and sweet memories from the past three years - getting to sleep in, not having to cook, walks and playground time with my little family.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
But I know Mother's Day isn't a simple holiday. For many of us, it evokes not only gratitude, but also griefs and disappointments. It calls attention to what we've been given, but also to that which is missing and that which might have been. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I still remember five years ago, when I wasn't yet a mother. We'd been trying for almost a year with no success, and I was certain something was wrong, that we'd never be able to have children. CJ and I went to church that morning and I watched the mothers stand and be recognized, tears brimming, and when we left after the service, the tears just wouldn't stop. Somehow we ended up on the roof of a parking garage in downtown Fairfax, and I sobbed.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Last year, I stood in church, ever so grateful for my Ellie girl and for the baby I'd recently learned was growing inside of me, but still missing Avaleen. There were no tears that day, but it was bittersweet.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I think the tricky thing about Mother's Day is that many of the mothers most worthy of recognizing are the very same mothers it's hardest to honor. Hallmark doesn't make cards for their situations.</div>
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<div>
I think of my friends who've lost babies this year, who held them for a few short moments and then had to let them go.</div>
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I think of my friend who's a single parent, who pours herself out day after day, serving her children in the face of unimaginable suffering. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I think of my friends who long for babies, who wait and wonder and weep.</div>
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<br /></div>
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These women would probably tell you that they are weak and hurting and lonely and afraid, but this Mother's Day, I want to honor them for their faith.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
It takes faith to love a baby you know you might lose. It takes faith to stay engaged with a thankless child. It takes faith to joyfully snuggle other people's babies, even as you long for one of your own. It takes faith to keep crawling back to Jesus' feet, even when you don't understand His ways.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Thank you, my dear friends, for living out that kind of faith. I watch your lives, and I see Jesus. Even if Mother's Day can't feel happy for you this year, I pray that you will taste some measure of joy in the very real presence of a God who sees, who knows, and who cares very deeply about each one of your tears.</div>
Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-24933485908111256142014-05-08T12:06:00.002-07:002014-05-08T12:06:28.077-07:00Race Day Reflections<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
On Sunday morning, I ran a <a href="http://www.braintumorcommunity.org/site/TR?fr_id=2220&pg=entry">race</a>. Actually, more accurately, I put one foot in front of the other, very slowly, sometimes running, often walking, for 3.1 miles. When I signed up, I had high hopes of being in shape by the time this race came around, but the honest truth is that before crossing the starting line, the only running I'd done in over a year was chasing my toddler at the playground. I was (and am!) woefully out of shape.<br />
<br />
Still, it was a gorgeous morning, and as I pushed the jogging stroller around the front of the Capitol building, I couldn't help but be thankful for the opportunity to participate. There was beauty in the glistening sunshine and the hum of the crowd in an otherwise quiet city, and there was even deeper beauty in the thousands of people running and walking for love, carrying the names of those lost to and those fighting brain tumors on their sweat-drenched backs. <br />
<br />
I'd sent CJ and Ellie on ahead after the first half-mile, knowing I'd only slow them down, so it was just a sleepy Celia and I as we neared the finish line. "Go Moms and Dads!" cheered a supportive onlooker from the sidelines to myself and several other parents with jogging strollers close by.<br />
<br />
To my left, one of those dads suddenly slowed to a stop, lifting a toddler out of her seat and setting her feet on the ground. I realized what was happening as I passed them by. He was letting her run the last 100 yards or so of the race. <i>How sweet</i>, I thought, <i>what a great way to give a kid a positive running experience, to let her taste the joy of the finish line even though she's not old enough to do the real work of getting there herself. </i> I made a mental note to tell CJ what I'd seen, to suggest we let Ellie try something similar at the next race. <br />
<br />
It wasn't until the next day, when I thought back on that moment again, that I heard the gentle whisper of God's voice illuminating what I'd seen: <i>You are like that little girl, Abby. So often in your life, I've let you cross the finish line. I've let you taste the adrenaline rush and the thunderous applause and the outstretched hands. And like that little girl, you've thought you'd run a race, been proud of your accomplishment. But the truth is, I carried you. I pushed you. I set your feet down near the finish line, when all you had to do was take a few, simple steps.</i><br />
<br />
I thought back on all my successes in life, and I realized it was true. My childhood, my education, my mind, my financial resources, my health, the care and support of my friends and family - these are all gifts that have been given to me by God, gifts that have enabled me to go to school, to write, to care for my family. And yet, so often, I've thought that I've been responsible for my successes in these areas, that I have achieved by my own strength and determination. In short, I've been proud.<br />
<br />
But in His mercy, God is beginning to show me glimpses of what has always been true - that behind each little victory in my life, He has been there for a long time, pushing me along, carrying me through the difficult patches, and in His kindness, allowing me to taste the joys of the finish line.Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-80984464415728450372014-04-17T08:28:00.000-07:002014-04-17T08:28:13.929-07:00Four Months<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
I wrote last month about what a delightful baby you were.<br />
<br />
And you are delightful still. Your smile. Your cheeks. The way you snuggle into my shoulder when you're pretending to be shy.<br />
<br />
But the past month has been a harder one. You're so excited about your newly acquired rolling skills that you often wake yourself up to practice them in the middle of the night. You are no longer quite so content to sit in a bouncy seat or lie on the floor; you are ready to go further than your tiny muscles will allow. And even though I'm no longer eating much of anything, your GI issues have continued and even regressed.<br />
<br />
I am tired. I miss chocolate. My arms and back ache from carrying you. <br />
<br />
But, sweet Celia, the simple truth remains: I'm so glad you're here. Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-25668806436121955872014-04-03T08:40:00.000-07:002014-04-03T08:40:16.002-07:00Three Years<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Once, I worried I would never be able to have a child. In fact, in the long year before I got pregnant with you, I was convinced you would never exist. Your Daddy wasn't concerned, but I, ever the pessimist, was sure that something in my body was not right, that a baby would never come.<br />
<br />
But here you are my Ellie girl, full of chatter and wiggles and endless ideas. <br />
<br />
You are three today, and I can scarcely believe it. The baby we prayed for all those months is growing up into an observant, joyful, precocious little girl, a girl who loves dancing and puzzles, dress up and baby dolls, building and coloring, a girl who says delightful things like "Would you care for some of this, Mommy?" and "I'll see what I can do, Daddy." Sometimes, I look at you and at your sister, and I feel quite simply, overcome with gratitude.<br />
<br />
You see Ellie, ever since I was your age myself, I've wanted to be a mommy. I've wanted to have a home full of life and laughter. I've wanted to spend my days at libraries and playgrounds. I've wanted to make ants on a log and paper dolls and to play house. Even as I went to college and pursued a career, I wanted most of all to be a mommy. I couldn't imagine doing anything else.<br />
<br />
And now, finally, I am a mommy. For the past three years, I've had the fearful, wonderful privilege of being your almost constant companion, your diaper-changer and lunch-maker, your ouchy-healer and cuddle-giver. I've felt more tired and more powerless than I'd ever imagined, but I've also known more joy than you will ever understand, until, perhaps, the day you have a baby of your own.<br />
<br />
I want you to know Ellie how grateful I am for these first three years of your life. Your name means "God has answered," and you, my child, have been an answer to prayer - not only the prayers prayed by your Daddy and I in the year we waited for a baby, but also to the often unspoken yearnings of a little girl's heart and to the whispered longings of young, single woman.<br />
<br />
Ellie, I still struggle sometimes to believe that God is good. It is easy for me to see all the hard and broken places in life, to get stuck there, wondering where He is in the pain and the darkness. But today sweet girl, as we celebrate three years of you, I see His goodness all over you. I see it when you smile at the pleasure of speaking your latest "silly word." I see it in the pitter-patter of your feet running to greet me when I come home from an errand or meeting. I see it in your tender affection for your baby sister. Most of all, I see it in the simple reality of your presence here with us, a sweet fulfillment of my heart's desire, a generous gift from a God who is indeed, good.Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-47611934942863130162014-03-28T11:41:00.001-07:002014-03-28T11:42:12.897-07:00A Letter for Rachel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wrote this letter for the daughter of a friend, whose baby was born at 24 weeks and lived just a few short hours in her arms...she's given me permission to share it here as a tribute to her sweet baby girl.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Sweet Rachel,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I never got the chance to
meet you. Few of us did. You spent the few short hours of your life in
the loving embrace of your Mommy, one of the bravest women I know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I never even got to see
you inside your Mommy’s belly, watch your growing body make her stomach swell,
feel your little feet kicking against the confines of her womb. In fact, I don’t think I've even seen your
Mommy in ten or more years, since we lived in the same college dorm and worshiped together with other students in our campus fellowship. I've seen pictures of her and your sisters
and your Daddy on Facebook, and we've exchanged a few e-mails. But I haven’t really been a part of your
family’s life in any meaningful way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't know you Rachel,
and I don’t really know your family all that well, but I do know a few things
about you, things that I want somehow to make sure you know too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">First, I want you to know
that your life was very real. It was
real to your Mommy and Daddy and to your big sisters and to so many of us who
prayed round the clock that you would be born healthy and strong. It was real to the doctors and nurses who
fought for you to live. Most
importantly, it was real to the God of the Universe, who made you and knew you
in all the ways we wish we could and so many more. Your life, as short as it was, was real, and
your absence leaves a big, big hole in a family already grieving the loss of
your Daddy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Second, I want you to know
that your Mommy is an amazing woman.
Even from my distance, I can see that clearly. She loved you, deeply and selflessly. Even when your Daddy died suddenly, even when
she found out two days later that you had spina bifida, she loved you. In the midst of her own deep grief and the
very sobering realities of your health, she took the time to tell me that she
felt blessed to have been chosen by God to care for you. She risked her own body in hopes of giving
you a stronger, fuller life. And when
you came too soon, too small, too fragile, she simply held you. She loved you Rachel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I believe you are in
Heaven now, that in ways I cannot begin to understand you know the full
realities of selfless love. But I hope
you can see too that your short life on earth, spent in your Mommy’s womb and
then ever-so-briefly in her arms, were a beautiful picture of what you now know
in full – selfless, sacrificial love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I see your Mommy, I
see Jesus, and I hope that as you look at Jesus, you see a bit of your Mommy
too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I look forward to meeting
you one day, Rachel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Love,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Abby<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">p.s. If you meet a little girl named Avaleen,
please give her a big hug for me. </span><span style="font-family: Garamond, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-17166699791838591362014-03-27T11:53:00.002-07:002014-03-27T11:54:03.765-07:00Three Months<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Your middle name is Joy. We chose it in faith that your birth, almost exactly one year after your sister's due date, would be a joyful, redemptive occasion, that after the painful experience of losing one child, we might be able again to taste the joy of holding a healthy baby in our arms.<br />
<br />
I expected that bringing you home would be joyful and healing and beautiful, and it has been all of these things. I am very aware of just how precious your little life is, of the miracle of your steady breaths while you sleep, of your warm body in my arms. <br />
<br />
What I didn't expect was how much your middle name would suit you, not only because you came after what was lost, but also because of you and who God made you to be. <br />
<br />
You have been a delightful baby, Celia Joy. In spite of some gastrointestional issues that I know often make you uncomfortable, your demeanor is characterized by peace, contentment, and yes, joy. You do not demand attention, but respond to it with a smile that makes your still-blue eyes sparkle. You are quiet by nature, but you coo eagerly when I have a moment to sit and talk to you.<br />
<br />
I am still learning to know you, watching as your personality begins to unfold. But I want you to know this my baby girl: these first three months of your life have been a great joy. They've been joyful in part because your life is a gift after a great loss, but mostly, they've been joyful simply because of you.Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-77341415421694150582014-02-26T12:08:00.000-08:002014-02-26T12:08:12.018-08:00Two and Three-Quarters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Two and three-quarters. That's precisely how old you were when your baby sister arrived, after many long months of anticipating her arrival.<br />
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I'd worried about your adjustment, about how you'd handle sharing my attention after two and three-quarters years of demanding most of it. <br />
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But from the beginning of Celia's life, you embraced her with joy and understood that she belonged with us. I will never forget coming home from the hospital with Celia snuggled in her car seat, walking my still tender body gingerly toward the front door, and seeing your colorful "Welcome Home Celia" sign and your face plastered against the glass, beaming.<br />
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You've had your moments of adjustment for sure, but they've been brief and uncharacteristic. Mostly, you've loved your sister. You've loved her not just in the typical toddler fashion - the plentiful smothering hugs and sloppy kisses - but you've also loved her with maturity and grace, learning to entertain yourself more as I take care of her, trying to understand what makes her sad and how you can help to fix it.<br />
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You are two and three-quarters my Ellie girl, but you are a little mother, a nurterer, a life-giver. Watching you become a big sister has been one of my greatest joys.Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-56193682006688888372014-02-21T12:49:00.000-08:002014-02-21T12:49:03.494-08:00Where I Am<div>
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When people see me these days, with a toddler and baby in tow, they usually ask how we're doing, how our adjustment to being a family of four is going. </div>
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My answer is always the same, "We're doing really well. Celia's a really chill baby, and Ellie's adjustment has been smooth." </div>
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And I mean it. To be honest, these first almost-three months as a family of four have been better than I could have imagined. </div>
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Celia is a peaceful baby, generally content unless she's tired or hungry, problems I can understand and easily solve. Pop her little pink pacifier in her mouth, and she snuggles herself right to sleep. Set her down on her play mat, and she'll entertain herself quietly for half an hour. Put her to bed at night, and she generally wakes up 8-12 hours later.</div>
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Ellie adores her sister and has risen to the occasion of sharing my attention with surprising grace and patience. She has her moments for sure, but her overwhelming response has been one of love. </div>
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I know I am blessed. With her reflux issues and general fussiness, Ellie was a challenging enough baby that I fully appreciate what a blessing Celia's temperament is. And I have good friends whose toddlers struggled to adjust to their baby siblings. I've seen how exhausting and difficult that road can be. </div>
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All that to say, I'm very grateful, grateful not only for the relative ease of these transition months, but also for the two sweet, healthy girls I get to spend my days with. Last night, after bouncing an unusually fussy Celia to sleep and then joining CJ to sing "Amazing Grace" to our tucked-into-bed Ellie, my eyes brimmed with tears. </div>
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My girls are here. Unlike my Avaleen, I get to hug them and hold them and dance with them and make them smoothies and play Tinkertoys and dress up with them. Their lives are beautiful, amazing gifts, and I still really can't believe they've been given to us. </div>
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Don't get me wrong. Being a mom of two kids is hard. The days are long, and juggling the needs of two little people doesn't leave much time for anything else. My back aches each night from all of the carrying and lifting and bouncing. Celia's had some gastrointestional issues that have required me to cut not only dairy, but many of my other favorite foods from my diet. And when Ellie skipped her nap three days in a row last week, I thought I might go crazy without those treasured moments of silence. The introvert in me is struggling to find the places of solitude, rest, and reflection I need to feel like myself, to truly connect to God and to others.</div>
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Those are real challenges, and each one of them has left me in tears on at least one occasion. But mostly, I just feel blessed. Tired, overwhelmed, and disconnected from my heart, but blessed. I prayed for these girls; God answered; and it is a sweet, sweet thing.</div>
Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-3755037841400205822014-02-21T12:45:00.000-08:002014-02-21T12:45:04.740-08:00Where I've Been<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
As you may have noticed, I haven't been doing much writing the past few months, for what I assume are obvious (and joyful) reasons.<br />
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But I've missed it. And my soul needs a way to process all the thoughts rolling around inside me, the little snatches of insight that come in the shower or while I'm drifting off to sleep but mostly get lost in endless diaper changes, dishes, and laundry. <br />
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So thanks to a wonderful babysitter, I'm trying to push my brain out of the fog of feeding schedules and coloring pages and find my way back into writing again. In the weeks to come, you can expect more regular posts here as well as some updates on my book progress. <br />
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Thank you for your patience during this time of transition. It feels good to be back!Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-62830018442639229592014-01-22T18:13:00.002-08:002014-01-22T18:13:39.296-08:00Introducing Celia Joy<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i>Celia Joy Waldron</i></div>
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<i>November 26, 2013</i></div>
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<i>8 pounds, 10 ounces</i></div>
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<i>21.75 inches</i></div>
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Her name means "heavenly." We chose it because we'd prayed she'd be a fighter, strong enough to survive to birth, a life-long fighter for heavenly joy in her own soul and in the souls of others. We chose it too because we trusted her life would be a source of heaven-sent joy to our family, a gift especially precious after the loss of her sister Avaleen last year.</div>
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She's here now, almost two months old already, and I don't know how else to say it except that she fits. She fits snuggled under my chin, fast asleep in the middle of the night. She fits nestled in her Daddy's arms, peacefully watching the world go by. She fits on her sister's lap, the perfect size for eager little arms to embrace. She fits in all of our hearts, fills in some of the spaces Avaleen left behind. She fits in this crazy little entity that is our family, already a calm and peaceful presence in our busy, noisy lives. </div>
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She belongs with us, and we're ever so grateful she's here.</div>
Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-50036806484852442332013-11-24T11:28:00.000-08:002013-11-24T11:31:53.844-08:00My Three Girls<div style="text-align: center;">
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A few weeks ago, two dear friends of mine gave me a necklace as a baby gift of sorts. It's a simple silver chain with four circles, a large one to represent me and three small ones to represent my three girls: the two year old I care for every day, the baby I never got to hold, and this little one we get to meet next week. <br />
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It was a beautiful, thoughtful gift, and I cried putting it on for the first time, so grateful that my friends chose to acknowledge the lives of all three of my precious girls. I love wearing it, love running my fingers over the three tiny circles and thinking about each of my three children, about how I know and love each of them in such different ways.<br />
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As the birth of this baby draws near, I find myself reflecting often on what it means to be a mother of three, to hold my love and care for three different little ones in balance. I think of Ellie and all the changes coming her way, of the attention she will lose and the joy she will gain. I try to pour as much love as I can into her now, to let her know just how cherished and valued she is and always will be, even as the way I relate to her must change. I think of Avaleen, who would likely have been celebrating her first birthday this week and of how different our lives would be if she were here, if we had the privilege of knowing her. <br />
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And I think of this new baby, of what feels like an incredibly long road to her birth. I think of loss and doctor's visits and tests and waiting and nine months of fear and anticipation and anxiety. I think of the moment I will hear her first cry, and I pray it will be a sweet, redemptive moment, that in meeting her some of the pain of losing her sister will be healed. But I know too that she is her own person, and I pray also that we will be able to see her that way, that her life will be defined by the unique person she was made to be, not by the sister who was lost before her.<br />
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My brain is full of all these thoughts, jumbled together, unclear. I'm not sure how to hold things in balance, how to be a good mother to each of my three girls at the same time. I feel very aware of my limitations, my humanness. My emotions simmer just below the surface of my smiles, sometimes breaking into unexplainable overflows of tears.<br />
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I do not know what I am supposed to feel at a moment like this. I'm not even sure exactly what I am feeling in this moment. But I do know that God has given me three girls, that each of their lives has been a gift, that I am blessed to be their mother and to carry them as I do right now: in my arms, in my womb, and in my heart.Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-19446559872152765482013-11-08T10:58:00.000-08:002013-11-08T10:58:02.653-08:00Pregnancy After Loss: Embracing Joy<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i>"When the Lord restores the fortunes of his people, let Jacob rejoice, let Israel be glad." </i></div>
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<i>- Psalm 14:7b</i></div>
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I read this verse the other day, and then I stopped and read it again. I'm sure I've seen the words of this exact sentence many times before, glossing over what seems to be an obvious point of instruction: when God blesses you, be thankful. Or to put it another way, when things are going better than they were, be happy. It should be a no-brainer, an easy command to follow, and yet I realized for me, it is not.</div>
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God has restored my fortunes. He's answered our prayers and given us a third daughter, one we will meet, Lord-willing, in just a few weeks. It is a sweet, beautiful, healing thing to be pregnant again after a miscarriage, but I'll be honest. That's not where my heart's been living most of the past eight months. While I've certainly felt joy and gladness many times, I haven't camped out there. </div>
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Instead, I've been living with fear of more loss and grief to come, sometimes a deep, crippling terror, but more often a subtle, gripping sense that something could go wrong at any moment. I wake up every morning wondering, <i>Is she still with us? </i>Soon, a kick or punch reassures me, but it doesn't take long until things are still, and I wonder again. It happens so often I don't even notice it most of the time, but the fear is there, constant. </div>
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When joy does bubble up, when sweet friends surprise me with a day of pre-baby pampering, when Ellie talks about how she can't wait to hold her baby sister, the fearful thoughts are not far behind. <i>How would you return these baby gifts if she dies? What it would be like to explain to Ellie that Baby Sister is gone forever? </i></div>
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I think of dear friends who'd give anything to just be pregnant right now, who struggle daily with the burden of unanswered prayers, and I feel guilty that I can't simply rejoice in what I've been given. It seems like it should be so easy. But the truth is, it's not. I struggle to embrace joy, knowing full well that sometimes joy dies, that the greatest gifts can also become the greatest losses.</div>
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I know God is patient with my fearful soul, but I also know He doesn't desire me to live in fear. So I am praying for help with the most basic of commands, that I might see that God has restored my fortunes, that I might, quite simply, be glad.</div>
Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-25390661802662924282013-10-25T05:22:00.000-07:002013-10-25T05:24:39.721-07:00His StoryLast Saturday evening, I sat in the living room of a couple I'd just met and listened while they shared the story of their past four years, a story marked by five miscarriages, the unexpected death of a best friend, and a baby they were told by doctor after doctor would certainly not survive birth. They bounced this sweet, so very alive baby on their laps as they talked, a tangible reminder of answered prayers in the midst of so much unexplainable loss.<br />
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On my way back to Virginia the next morning, as I rounded the Capital Beltway near the lofty peaks of the Mormon Temple, Pandora began playing a song I didn't recognize and can't remember really, a song about God and the way He builds His kingdom, the sort of song that is supposed to inspire believers to march forth and do great things for God. I generally like this sort of song, like to feel inspired by grand visions and lofty missions.<br />
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But today, I thought of the family I'd been visiting and of all the families I've been talking to the past year. I thought of the collective pain of their stories: decades of waiting for babies who didn't come, dozens of babies lost, lifetimes of pain and struggle and lingering questions and doubts. I thought of all the things these people might have done for God if they hadn't had to spend all this time suffering, and I tried to reconcile the reality of their lives with the advance of God's kingdom, with His call to reach more people with the good news of salvation.<br />
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It didn't make much sense to me. Why would God allow His children, the very people He's appointed to spread His message, to languish for years in pain and suffering, to wrestle with questions, to doubt the very truths He wants them to share with others? To me, it would seem the gospel would advance best and most efficiently through the strong and healthy, not the broken and the suffering, the grieving and the doubting.<br />
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But in that moment, God reminded me of another story, the story of Ruth. I thought about Naomi losing her husband and both of her sons, coming back to Bethlehem far from an exemplary spokeswoman for God's kingdom. "Don't call me Naomi," she says. "Call me Mara because the Almighty has made my life very bitter" (Ruth 1:20). <br />
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And yet, in spite of her pain and the resulting bitterness, God worked - both in her lifetime, to bring her joy again in the form of a grandson, and after her death, to bring <i>the</i> Savior through the bloodline of that grandson and to include her story in the greatest book of all time. Her life, messy and broken as it was, became part of the advance of God's kingdom in ways she couldn't have ever imagined, even on her death bed.<br />
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I realized in that moment that my vision of kingdom advancement to this point has been very people-centered, based on strategy and vision and human initiative. And while I do believe God calls us to think strategically about carrying the gospel forward, I am learning this is not the only, or even the primary way.<br />
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I am learning this: the gospel is His story. He writes it. And He's very comfortable with not only our sin, but also with our suffering selves, with the wounds we carry with us. He advances His kingdom not by leading a parade of the triumphant and mighty, but by carrying in His capable arms the injured and limping, those of us who sometimes can manage nothing more than to whisper His name.Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-2373621704347159312013-10-18T11:29:00.001-07:002013-10-18T11:33:52.363-07:00Pregnancy After Loss: Flashbacks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On Wednesday morning, I learn that an acquaintance's sister has just experienced a stillbirth at 39 weeks - sudden, unexpected, and unexplained. I read the e-mail over and over, and I keep thinking of this baby's nursery, neat and ready, its emptiness no longer one of sweet anticipation, now a painful reminder of bitter loss. I think of our own nursery, of the newborn clothes folded into tidy rows in the drawers.<br />
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Later, I meet some friends at the playground. The other moms all have two children, a baby and a toddler each, and then there are Ellie and I and my very pregnant stomach. It's a clear fall day, sun filtered through falling leaves, and the mom chatter flows freely, addressing toddler tantrums, infant sleep, and how to fill the long days. <br />
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I have things to say about all of these topics, but today I do not want to talk. Ellie wanders to a remote corner of the park, and I follow her, happy for some distance from the others. She climbs up an aging piece of playground apparatus, and I spot her, making sure she does not slip or fall.<br />
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Tears spill down my cheeks, and I do not know why exactly. I wipe them with my sweatshirt sleeve while Ellie happily spins a steering wheel and slides her way across a swinging bridge. <br />
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I know I am sad for this woman I do not know, for her loss that is deeper than any I have experienced. At first, I think I must be afraid for the baby inside me, and it is true. I am. The seven weeks I have left suddenly feel very long.<br />
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But I know somehow, that there is more, that these tears are for Avaleen too. I am reminded today of the horror of death and of the little girl that might be here with us, toddling her way through the leaves and eating mulch.<br />
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I drive Ellie home and let the tears flow. Sometimes, there is nothing else to do.<br />
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<br />Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-10265199287219419462013-10-15T18:41:00.002-07:002013-10-15T18:41:59.235-07:00Life Right Now<div style="text-align: center;">
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My brain swirls with things to do: meals I want to freeze, piles of clutter to tackle, Pinterest projects I want to make for the girls' new rooms. CJ says I am creating projects, orders me to stop and relax and rest.<br />
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And then there is this book I am writing, so many more interviews to transcribe and chapters to draft. My goal is to have most of the rough draft done before the baby arrives. I know I won't have much time after.<br />
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It all seems so important. I wake up each morning hardly knowing where to begin, watch my to-do list getting a bit longer each day. There are only seven weeks left, maybe fewer.<br />
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In a rare moment of quiet, I read Matthew 6:31-33: "Therefore do not be anxious, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all. But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you."<br />
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And I know, in the moment I read this, that I am to write, to leave meals unfrozen, rooms undecorated, clutter in piles. I am to write because God has asked me to, because that is to be my priority right now. When this baby is born, God will provide ways for us all to eat and function even if I am unable to prepare in advance the way I'd like.<br />
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This seems like a small thing, an easy step of obedience, but it is not. My soul wars against being told to choose the uncertain value of writing over the seemimgly certain value of plans and preparations. I'd love to be a full-time nester, not a full-time mother and a part-time writer. <br />
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But my calling is clear. God has spoken. I know there is joy in obedience, as hard as that obedience might be. Lord help me.Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-84322255800500893442013-10-03T06:25:00.000-07:002013-10-03T06:26:37.776-07:00Two and a Half<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If you'd asked me last week what I thought of you being almost two and a half, I would have said it wasn't my favorite age. We were in the thick of it then, this thing called discipline, particularly with your responses when you didn't get your way: throwing, hitting, running away. When prompted, you would tell me that you were sorry, but I wondered if you really meant it, especially when we were right back in the same predicament just twenty minutes later. <br />
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But this week something happened, and suddenly you're all about making good choices and saying please when you need something and generally being a content and pleasant child. Not a perfect child, but a different child. I can't explain the shift, but I'm grateful for it, for however long it may last. It's allowed me to stop focusing so much on where you fall short, but instead to see and remember what a delight you are to me at this age.<br />
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I love your ever-expanding vocabulary and the sentences that roll off your tongue with such confidence. "Ellie," I say. "Do you want to take any of your new library books upstairs to read before bedtime?" <br />
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"I'm okay with what is already up there," you reply immediately, walking toward the stairs, and your Daddy and I look at each other and laugh.<br />
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I love your love of reading, your expanding attention span for longer books. I love that several times a day you request to "cuddle" on the couch with me and read, that my library card is getting more use than it has since I was a child myself.<br />
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I love all the little things we get to do together, just you and I, in these special last few months before Baby Sister makes her appearance: walks to the playground, ballet class, and craft time. You love to help me with everything: putting groceries in the cart, washing dishes, making dinner. You can't wait to help take care of Baby Sister. <br />
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You'll be an amazing big sister I know. But I treasure these days with just you. Happy two and a half, my sweet girl. Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30717079.post-84408949553346036282013-09-27T08:50:00.003-07:002013-09-27T08:50:55.647-07:00An Overdue Book UpdateI realized this morning it's been quite some time since I've mentioned my book here on the blog, and it occurred to me that some of you might think it's gone the way of some of the other writing projects I never quite finished. While that would be a fair assumption, I just want to say that the book is still very much in progress and very much a priority.<br />
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I've been interviewing lots of families these past nine months: families who've suffered infertility, miscarriage, and stillbirth; families who've adopted, fostered, and pursued fertility treatments; families who had children after loss and families who didn't. I've written four chapters so far and just last week started the process of sending my book proposal out to agents. I have ten weeks left until baby girl is due to arrive, and I plan to spend as much time as I can during those ten weeks conducting a few more interviews and mostly writing, cranking out as many chapters as I can before, Lord willing, life here is consumed by change. <br />
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It's been healing to talk to all of these families and to try to put their stories into words. As I've listened to them, I've felt less alone in my suffering. I've seen my faith built by how God has met many different sorts of people in many different ways. And I've had the privilege of spending time with a colorful assortment of families God has built. In their homes and at restaurants, over dinners and Play Dough sessions and at soccer games and picnics, I've watched them together, and I've seen the beautiful way God makes families out of pain and heartbreak and disappointment. They are not perfect families, but they are families full of love and joy. God's fingerprints are all over them.<br />
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Last weekend, I flew to Maine to spend time with and interview a couple who's adopted five children from Ethiopia. This week, I've been working on writing a chapter about another family who's grown primarily through foster care and adoption. On the front end of each family's story is a lot of pain and disappointment, greater suffering related to childbearing than anything I've experienced myself. In order to welcome children into their homes, each family took great risks and still face many unknowns about the future. But it is clear that each of their children feel loved and safe, clear that God has led each parent to embrace risk with faith.<br />
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I won't share too much now about all I've been learning through the process of listening to and watching and asking questions of these families. After all, that's what the book is about, and I hope I can convince you to buy it some day! <br />
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But I will say I've been thinking this week about stories and about how God often writes the stories of our lives in ways we never would have chosen for ourselves. I've been thinking about my plans and dreams for family and home and life and about how much time and energy I pour into making them become reality, about how much I struggle when, in in big ways or small, my plans fall to pieces. I've been realizing that my goal in life ought not to be to make my agenda come to fruition, but rather to respond to what God brings into my life - be that motherhood, writing a book, or talking to a friend - with faithfulness and obedience, trusting that He is doing good things, things seen and things unseen.<br />
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It sounds simplistic when I write it, but there is something profoundly freeing there too. I don't need to focus on achieving or creating what I think should be. I need to set my eyes on serving and responding to the One who has good plans for what will be.Abbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356268832849283922noreply@blogger.com5