Facebook, Friendship and the Trials of Seventh Grade

Her text came through at a moment that I wasn't ready to read it.

"You are isolating yourself again," it read. I glanced at it, ignored it, and moved on with my day. It's a pandemic, for goodness' sake. EVERYONE is isolating him or herself. There's no problem here.

Except, there was. There IS, really.

About two weeks ago, I decided to get the heck off facebook, for the most part. I found that watching people call each other names, watching bullying, watching the extreme ways in which we are willing to be keyboard warriors that shout and rant from the privacy and seclusion of our homes was taking a huge toll on me. Particularly on top of all the uncertainties with the pandemic. It was affecting the way I parent, how I do my job, which thoughts and voices I let set up shop in my head during the day. It was sucking time from my day and energy from my soul. It was distracting, disheartening and, most of all, paralyzing. 

But why? 

As I have slowly detoxed from that world, God has brought something sharply into focus for me: Seventh grade is still a big part of how I do life.

Seventh grade was 30 years ago. I really only remember small details of that period in my life. A lot of what I know about it is what my mom has told me. Apparently I cried. A lot. Probably more in that year than I have total in the 30 years since. I dreaded school.  I isolated myself because the risk of friendship became too painful. I had very few friends and basically none at school.That was the only year of my life where that was true. I have mostly loved school, craved learning. I was mocked for being smart, left to sit alone at lunchtimes. In recent days, I've started to remember how closely I watched the clock on the wall in the cafeteria, begging for free time to finish. It's made me wonder if my inability to sit peacefully in the now, to practice mindfulness and presence, is rooted in that wish for time to hurry up and finish then. I started my struggle with insomnia, a struggle I deal with to this day. I started running to dissipate the anger and sadness, a practice that has served me well, but has also sometimes taken the place of the hard work of lament and healing. 

Mostly, though, in this past week, it has become clear to me that the way I view female friendships, the way I retreat and isolate and keep to myself, is largely a product of that time. I don't trust women. I don't trust that they aren't gossiping. That they don't have nasty things to say behind my back or, honestly, straight to my face. Have I had some truly amazing friendships with women since 7th grade? Absolutely. However, do I assume those women are rare and unusual? I do. Do I avoid all women's ministry events at church? 100%. 

As I think about how I feel after I spend time scrolling or commenting, I recognize that facebook doesn't bring out the best in me. Nor in many of us, if we are honest. It reinforces my assumptions. It tightens and defines the boxes I have built. It allows me to villify and "other" people and it drives me inward. Bottom line, it usually makes me worship and focus on what I can do or say or believe much more clearly than who God is or what He is doing or saying. 

And that's a dangerous place for me to linger. 

Seventh grade still has power. But I don't want it to. I have never really sat down and hashed it out. I've never truly asked God to heal me of those deep wounds. To show me the ways I have let the pain of that year drive my relationships for 30 years now. So while I am grateful to facebook for unearthing how clearly that period still has power, I also know that it's time for a real and true break so I can lot God do the deep work of healing that He is clearly in the business of doing.

If you have been a friend I have pushed away, I truly apologize. If you have been a friend I have othered or vilified, may God reveal that to me so I can ask for forgiveness. If you have been a woman who has pursued me and tried to love me and been met with rejection, please know that I am working on this. I truly am. Part of what God has been showing me during this pandemic is who I truly am, in all the areas that are good and beautiful but also all the areas that still need growth.   

In the meantime, I'm going to sit back and breathe. Journal. Paint. Run. Speak with humans face to face. Stay pretty much off of social media. Garden. Try to find my laughter and smile. Love and serve the heck out of humans on my ambulance. Pursue my husband. Use my punching bag. Pull out the guitar. Have amazing conversations about justice and shalom and grace because those things give me life. And just ask God to heal. To reveal. To redeem. And to infuse my soul with hope that this pandemic WILL one day end and that I will come out of it stronger, kinder and a better friend. 

Moment of Grace

I was about twenty feet behind them, a string of boys on their bikes, following each other down the trail, my husband in the lead as I brought up the rear running as fast as my body would allow. Twelve, five and three...peddling away, smiles on their faces. No more training wheels. Moving faster than I could possibly keep up. 

The sun was dappling through the trees in that peaceful way it does in the hours before sunset. Irises in bloom, summer perennials peeking up, starting to bud, knockout roses dazzling in deep pink.

Over it all, a light breeze, a calm.

Something I could feel that went deeper than just the gorgeous weather and the moment in which no one in my house was arguing or struggling or crying or needing.

A moment of grace.

It's that feeling when the world comes deeply, but peacefully and hopefully and joyfully, into focus.

It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it takes my breath away. It's as if God is shouting "wait, listen, look, remember this moment."

Remember it, because not all moments can be like this. Remember it, because so many moments are simply the ordinary. The mundane. Not necessarily ugly or lacking in beauty, but they pass us by because of that very ordinariness. They just ARE. Cooking dinner, watching that soccer game, dropping another kid at school, waving to the neighbors, mowing the lawn, riding our bikes together.

We just go through most of our days and it's fine.

But every once in awhile, we get that gift. That special warmth in a moment, that strange but clear urging to stop and drink in what's around us and be grateful. Those moments don't always come when something is going well and they don't necessarily stay away when things are challenging.

But, oh how I love them.

I am a doer. Not someone who easily stops and ponders. Not someone who spends hours gazing or dreaming. I appreciate people who do that well. But I am not one of them. Even when I try to sit in my backyard and admire the garden, I inevitably stand up and start weeding, because, well, it needs to be done. And the doing is part of the joy for me.

But I feel like for those of us like me, we need these moments to stop us dead in our tracks. To remind us that there can be purpose to slowing down. Reason in stopping. Joy in simply being.

And in that moment, even though I was sprinting and breathing hard and looking at the back end of my string of boys who were hurtling with full abandon down a bike trail, I felt like I was still. 

My soul stopped it's churning, for about 20 seconds.

And I just drank in the deep beauty and privilege of a healthy family and a beautiful neighborhood and a generous husband and a glorious spring and a blooming garden and meals on the table and a newly accomplished goal.

And oh, friends, I am so grateful. I never expect those moments and they come so infrequently.

I am amazed at their staying power, at the ability God has to use them to shore up and encourage and remind us of the possibilities and joys we can wake up to every single day, no matter what challenges lie ahead.

God, in all his grace and wisdom, knew I needed that. And I am so glad He did.

How Facebook Became God

Click. Read. Like. Scroll. Comment. Repeat.

Simple actions with great power. Power to encourage, power to wound, power given and power taken.

And power, when wielded loosely and unwittingly, can be a terrible thing.

Two weeks ago, I had a frank moment of revelation that life couldn't continue on as it was. I felt exhausted, angry, frustrated and powerless. And I felt it all the time.

I was addicted to clicking on my browser, to watching Facebook load, to seeing the number of notifications pop up in the right corner. To knowing there were things to read, videos to watch, photographs to see, stands to take.

Addicted to the god on my screen.

You see, we can make god a lot of things. It can be the thing we care about the most in our lives, like making money or our families or our belongings. It can be the ideas or opinions we hold dearest, like politics or religion or our philosophy of parenting. It can be what we spend all our time and energy working towards or thinking about, like money, career, even happiness. It can be what we depend on the most for affirmation and identity. And it can be to whom or what we relinquish all our power.

Facebook, my friends, can be a dangerous place. Because on Facebook, all of those possibilities, all of those things we look for in or assign to our god can be found.

And when we give it too much time, we give it exponentially more power. The power to make us feel (though elusively and vaguely) connected. To feel good, to feel right about something and surround ourselves with only people who agree. We give it the power to affirm our identity or to plummet us to a point of despair. We give it the power to control our emotions, our thoughts, even the direction our day might take. We give it the power to keep us mired in what's on screen instead of what surrounds us.

This affects the very core of who we are, who we were created to be.

As a Christian, I believe I am created in the image of God. Made beautiful in his sight, brought into relationship with Him through the life, death and resurrection of His son Jesus and invited into abundant life through His Spirit. A life that is submitted ultimately to the power of God but that lives in the power that He then gives me, power to deal with all that life has, fighting with joy, hope and the knowledge that I am never alone.

When Facebook is god, this all changes. I see the ugly in myself and others more acutely. I feel the pull and destruction of comparison, rather than the deep challenge and joy of honest encouragement in real relationships. I am blown here and there all day long by anger and frustration and petty humor and confusion and the need to be affirmed by "likes" and comments. And it doesn't end when I shut the screen. It translates into real life in quicker cynicism, deeper sadness, chronic distractedness, shorter attention spans and fewer true relationships.

That, my friends, is not abundant life. It is the life of someone who has paid homage to the wrong god.

I have been off of Facebook for a little over a week now. At that point of revelation I knew I had to stop. That all the rage and chaos I was feeling inside was a result of a bad decision I was making over and over and over again in the vain hope of feeling less lonely, more connected, more aware and informed. Every time I opened my computer I was looking for something I really could not possibly find there.

Purpose. Life. Joy. Friendship.

Those first few days I felt lost, almost adrift. Like something had died or been taken away from me. As a stay at home parent, sometimes Facebook was my only means of communicating with other human adults during the day and I missed it. I longed for that feeling of being with people, even though that feeling of connectedness was just an illusion.

Sometimes we are so used to the poor version of something that we will cling to it believing it is full of riches.

I knew, though, from truly worshiping my first love, the God of the Universe, that those were not really riches. So I waited.

And soon things changed. I knew this was a moment straight from God. A gift in the midst of a chaotic season of life to take stock. To pray. To make some decisions. To invite some close friends into prayer and dreaming and hoping for what life can be.

When there was a calm moment of a child playing independently, I cleaned up the kitchen or sat for a moment and prayed for him, instead of quickly trying to get online.

When there was a child waking up from a nap, I didn't feel annoyed or interrupted because I had to shut my computer in the middle of completing a thought on a political post.

When the house was quiet, I pulled out my guitar or my journal or a book. I walked outside and dug in the dirt. Or wrote a letter.

I smiled more.

I made it to the gym and didn't wonder the whole time if there were things I was "missing" in being offline.

I initiated more dance parties around the house.

I spent more time with actual adult human beings.

I said yes to some really, really good things, both in my personal daily rhythms and in my community.

I complained less.

I hoped more.

I began to long for time with Jesus in a way I hadn't in awhile.

And in all of it, I stood up straighter. I felt less burdened, less distracted, more tuned in to what was immediately around me.

Was life perfect? Of course not. It can't be. I had a stomach bug, a toddler was working on molars, life in all its noise and grit went on. But it went on with my head held a little higher. With my hope fastened more surely on God, not Facebook.

Getting off Facebook wasn't a cure-all. It was one step, one big step for me, in saying no to a major, destructive distraction so that I could say yes to the many more beautiful opportunities I was no longer seeing.

And let me make something clear. I don't think it is Facebook's fault. I chose to be on it all the time. I kept turning to it again and again even as I felt myself changing. I gave it the power it held over me.

Some of you are thinking it sounds crazy. That something so silly could not hold so much power.

But let's not kid ourselves...whether it is Facebook or career or romance or any number of things or ideas or people, we all have that innate tendency to look to something or someone to define us, to fulfill us. We search for it in small ways or in big ways, but we are always looking. And the way I see it, life is one long journey in figuring out how to keep my eyes fixed on God, not on the things of this world. One never-ending decision to wake up and choose peace, choose joy, choose hope and love.

To choose God.

And any time I start to choose something else first, all of me suffers. I learned it 30 years ago as a young Christian and again a hundred times since.

Each time it sticks a little longer and grows a little deeper, by the grace of God.

So, I am taking it one sweet, slower, facebook-free, God-seeking moment at a time right now. And loving it.

The Stillness and the Knowing

I sit this morning watching an amazing view- huge, breathtaking mountains, blue and white, shadowed and light, all stillness and calm from a distance but teeming underneath with activity. The scent of pine fills the air. There is no sound of cars or human chatter...just birds and a light hum from far off in the distance.

I sit on the cold stone steps of an amphitheatre set in the side of a mountain. Inside the buildings around me people are hard at work - thinking, creating, dreaming.

My view of the Rockies as I write this morning. 

Those are all things I really like to do.

Today, though, I am just being. Just soaking.

The air is chilled but the sun is bright and I know that in a few hours I will no longer need my coat. I am grateful for an early spring here.

The words of Psalm 9 spring to mind:

I will give thanks to the Lord with my whole heart; 
I will recount all of your wonderful deeds.
I will be glad and exult in you; 
I will sing praise to your name O Most High. 

Those are the only words I can really find surrounded by such beauty.

This week, the world is still for me. I am still mother, still wife, still friend and daughter and sister, still new business launcher. But primarily this week, I am just me. Whatever that means these days. It is easy not to see myself in the day-to-day rush. To cook and love and listen and sing and to be found fully in those most pressing roles I fill in this season of life.

But this week I get the privilege and gift of stepping back. Slowing down. Walking, not rushing. Sleeping. Eating slowly, savoring food.

And friends? It is good.

I had a pastor a long time ago who would preach a sermon and then, after offering practical ways to implement his message, would offer grace as an aside to parents of young children. Draw near to God in new and different ways, forgive yourself, know that old habits might not work well with sleepless nights and unpredictable wake times and cranky, teething toddlers. Find ways to continue to know your God, but know those ways might look different than they used to.

For someone like me, who likes consistency, habit and predictability, that aside was a gift and a challenge, both of which I've been learning to accept even more so this second time around the young child phase. Grace, flexibility, stolen moments of peace in the midst of the good chaos.

This week I get to take my time, though. My prayers won't be during my showers or at red lights. My reading won't happen just in those ten minutes of pre-bed stupor. It will be quiet enough and still enough to listen.

I will slow. And revel. And fill up for the next round of joyful adventures that parenting and life brings.

So as I gaze this morning at a creation so beautiful there are no words, I claim this week for joy and rest. For connection with my God and my husband. For the finding of the current me, the seeing of the good work that God has done in me even when I've been too tired this last year to see it.

I breathe in and out, I rejoice, I hope. I gratefully receive this most precious of gifts.

This week I will be still and know that He is God.

The "Good" Thing

Confession: I raised my voice to my eight-month old baby this week. The older child had been chattering at me ALL THE LIVELONG DAY so my head was ringing with noise and the littlest one was refusing to eat again and would only calm down when I gave him his pacifier but would then take said pacifier out, throw it as far away from himself as possible and then scream again because he wanted the aforementioned pacifier. Irrational, selfish behavior, if you ask me. And my brain had had enough. I cracked.

Some days I just cannot work with these people.

And you know what else? Pretty much every day I am aware of just how bad I really am at this whole parenting thing.

The strange thing is, though, I've found that when I'm willing to be honest with people and confess to how badly I feel like I'm failing, about what it's really like behind all the cute pictures on facebook and the laughing baby in videos, I am almost always reassured by them that I am a good parent. Without any investigation into what exactly I have or have not done for (or to) my boys that day. It's a blanket reassurance that I usually don't think I have earned. And I've said the same words myself, time and time again.

But here's the thing. If I read half the blogs and articles out there, I would be assured that I am a "good" parent because when asked I would emphatically declare that I love these boys. And I do. So much that it knocks the wind out of me when the oldest climbs a tall tree and I have to push through those intense feelings of fear of him falling or I can't see if the youngest is breathing on the monitor during a particularly unusual stretch of sleep and have to tiptoe in and place my hand on his back to make sure it's rising and falling. Of course I love them.

I know, however, from experience that love has never prevented me from doing selfish, frustrating and, sometimes, completely irrational things of my own. Love is not always really enough. At least not human love. Love doesn't prevent me from having a bad day, from taking it out on them and then beating myself up until I'm in tears of my own when my husband finally walks through the door. Love does not in itself make me a "good" parent.

So when I read these articles reassuring me that whatever decisions I am making, they are my own to make as long as I love my kids, I get a little nauseated. Really? Whatever decisions I make are fine as long as I love these kids? I know for a fact that I make decisions that will probably make them wonder what the hell was wrong with their mother when they are older. I know for sure that I don't always choose selflessness or care for them over my own self-preservation. I know already what they'll tell their therapists some day. But because I love them, I am a "good parent". Or so I am told.

Here's the problem as I see it. If I approach parenthood from this perspective, that I am GOOD because of something I feel for them, I'm going to be in pretty big trouble. I spent most of my 20's trying to shake off the "good enough" gospel. That if I just followed the rules, checked off the boxes and FELT good about God, then I myself was good, I myself was on the right path, I myself had done enough to be loved by Him. Trying to shake off that gospel and replace it with a deep thankfulness for God's forgiveness, mercy and grace for me, a deeply flawed sinner, has been a long process. A hard process. One I am still working through.

So why in the world would I want to approach parenting the same "good enough" way?

I am not a good parent just because I love my kids. I am not a good parent when I make the "right" decisions and we all know that in today's hyper-competitive mom culture, those decisions are under constant debate anyway. I am only a good parent when I am letting God love them through me. To be honest, though, I'm often so self-focused, so unforgiving towards my own shortcomings, that I have a lot of trouble moving out of the way so He can do that. But if the gospel of truth tells me that I am a loved daughter of God because of what He has done for me (and not because I am good enough for Him), then the gospel of parenting dare not lead me in the opposite direction. I cannot earn being a "good" parent through my decisions or my emotions. I am going to make mistakes, some huge, some tiny. I have been given a huge responsibility, one which I cannot fulfill without a really overwhelming dose of God's grace to me every day. And yes, a lot of days, when I look at the emotional detritus, the physical mess of my home, the tear streaked faces of one or all four of us, those days will look like failures. This, it seems, is my greatest struggle as an adult. To have been good at almost everything I've ever tried, to realize how fully I've relied on my own self-sufficiency and to continue to cling to it even in failure as I parent. Oh to be set free from that scrutiny, to wake each day to rely on the only Good Parent, and invite His boundless love, patience, creativity and energy into my sleep-deprived and self-focused soul. What would that feel like?

The deeper problem of earning the status of "good parent" through my decision-making skills or my love for these boys is that in so doing I also take on the twin demons of self-righteousness and fear-driven anxiety. In reality, much of my parenting is done as if I don't know the God of grace. It's done in fear and exhaustion, in juggling these twin demons, in judgment of myself for the ways I fall short, and paradoxically, self-righteous judgment of those who do this parenting thing differently than I do, which is why we all get so upset and roast each other over nursing and organic food and spray sunblock or whatever the new thing is we are supposed to be hyper-vigilant and angry about. Good parents versus bad parents in the daily showdown of who is making the best decisions for their kids. Ugh. And interestingly, it is no better for me to think of myself as a "bad parent" as it is to think of myself as a "good parent." Both distinctions are too caught up in my own abilities, my own issues, my own fears. Both distinctions do not see the fuller picture of who I am in God; broken but redeemed, failing but victorious, unlovable but loved.

So, please, let's stop telling each other we are good parents, especially when we don't know what the day has looked like. I'm sure we're all not quite as quick to share those moments of shame with each other but maybe we should be. Maybe if we could trust that we'd listen and not just blanket or negate our feelings with the "good parent" gospel cliché answer (or, just as bad, accuse each other of being bad parents), we'd share when we yelled at our children or locked ourselves in a closet so that no little hands could touch us one more time. Rather than sulk around in guilt or put loose band-aids over feelings of failure, we might actually work through the deeper issues that are being driven to the surface by, in my opinion, the hardest freaking job in the world.

What if, instead of platitudes, we answered with questions, listened well and directed each other's hearts to repentance and grace? Wouldn't that be more powerful and enduring that simply offering the "you're a good parent" speech when we struggle? Doesn't that road offer us a way out of ourselves whereas the "good parent" speech turns us back inward, focuses us on our own abilities, our countless exhausting decisions?

Then maybe I could end the day not in shame and exhaustion, frustration and anger, but in the quiet knowing that whatever my failures that day, it is not up to me to be that perfect mom. That the next day is a new day, one I can start by moving out of God's way and letting Him figure this parenting thing out for me. And where I am quick to anger and slow to forgive, His grace can slow me down and remind me to take each moment less chaotically, to lean into His love and mercy for my children and myself and to be committed to asking the good questions that point myself and my other parent friends away from ourselves and towards the only One who really has the answers and the patience for this parenting thing anyway.

The Christmas Creep

It's the night before Thanksgiving and I am pretty much done with my Christmas shopping. The last time I was in a store on Black Friday I was a sporting goods store employee dealing with harried, rude customers with a nasty turkey hangover fighting over the newest Columbia jacket. (You know you had one. You wore it every day to high school with jeans, hiking boots and a flannel shirt.)  I vowed as I left the mall that afternoon that I would never be responsible for subjecting any other human being to what I experienced that day. And I've kept my vow.

Here's the deal. I do my best to be done with Christmas shopping by November 1st. Sometimes that happens, sometimes life prevents it. Most years this has meant that I don't have to deal with the crowds or even the decorations and pop Christmas music being played over and over. And over. For the record, if you are sick of that music, think about the people who hear the corporate holiday cd played thousands of times over the course of the season. I'm surprised they don't all rebel and start throwing merchandise at the speakers (or us) by December 1st. Some of you might be thinking I'm crazy and why in the world wouldn't I want to shop to Justin Bieber's version of some previously sacred tune? The answer is simple: I want the Christmas season to actually be about Christmas. And the way America is going, that's getting harder and harder. The Christmas creep means that I've got to be finished shopping before Halloween to avoid the overblown Christmasland of the stores. Really, people?

I want to make something clear. I love Christmas. The reason I shop so early and am finished with that aspect of it is because I love Christmas so much that I actually want to be able to enjoy it. To remember what it's actually about. To not have December be my busiest, most stressful month of the year. To let my son see a mom who is just resting, soaking in the joy of the expectation of her Savior, rather than running from store to store frantically buying stuff, so busy that I even forget to do our advent calendar with him in the mornings. I want what he experiences in that final month before Christmas not to rile him up for what will be under the tree but to be a chance for him to continue to learn about this God who loved him enough to send his Son to earth in the form of a little baby- to really ponder that unbelievable, world-altering, life-changing good news. To cultivate in him at a young age the idea that Christmas isn't about Macy's or Santa or, to be blunt, him. I want the story of Christmas to saturate our household so much that when the day actually arrives the presents under the tree aren't the focus because it's not what we've been waiting for. Jesus is the focus because HE is what we've been waiting for. For the record, this is why we don't do Santa or Elf on the Shelf around here. I never want my son to think that Christmas morning is about him or that it's some kind of reflection of how well he has behaved this year. We give gifts because we give them. Not because he deserves them.

And I've decided that there is one kind of Christmas creep that I should be supporting. Advent is this beautiful time when we often get better about creating and implementing family traditions that point to our Savior. And why, for goodness sake, shouldn't that creep into the rest of my year? I should be creating these types of traditions for February and June and October, not just late November when we're setting up the advent calendar and manger scene and wondering, yet again, what this Jesse tree thing is. Sure, we talk about God around here, we say our prayers, we discuss what we learn in Sunday school and read the Jesus Storybook Bible to our son like everyone else our age seems to do, but what daily practices are we implementing into the life of our family to make sure that we are not just worshiping our own family life but that we are actually worshiping God?

This advent, with the shopping done and the decorations going up this coming weekend, I'm looking forward to peaceful mornings over coffee to ponder this question. How can the real Christmas creep into the rest of our year? How can I cultivate an atmosphere of joy and expectation of encountering the living God well after we take down the tree and turn off the Christmas lights?

And how, for the love of all that is good and holy, can I avoid hearing any more Justin Bieber music ever again? 

An Open Letter to My Pregnant Facebook Friends

Dear Facebook Moms-to-Be,

I'm really excited for you. I truly am. Nothing quite matches that feeling of expecting a child, of knowing that a little person is growing inside of you and preparing for that moment when he or she enters the world and irrevocably changes your family for the better.

I loved seeing your announcement, that wonderful post that let the world know that in just a few short months that little bean in your ultrasound picture will be with you and in our lives as well.  I look forward to the pictures that you'll post right after labor. (Though PLEASE don't post during labor.  Maybe I'm old fashioned but I feel like those hours of hard work and labor don't need to include wifi breaks.  They should be private and treasured between you and whoever is helping you out! Wait until you're done and then open up your laptop again.)

I'm sure I'll click on pictures of your baby as he or she grows up and maybe even the occasional video, too.  After all, I love posting pictures of my own child and it's wonderful to see kids growing up, achieving all their firsts and seeing how they change you, my friends, along the way.

But here's the deal.  There are women, lots of them, who cannot experience what you are experiencing.  They have prayed and cried and waited, many for years, and have never seen that little stick turn blue. Or maybe they've seen it turn blue one too many times and never ended up holding that little child in their arms.  Possibly they've undergone painful procedures and tests, have had to change their diets and inject drugs in public bathroom stalls and endured insane mood swings to attempt to get their bodies to cooperate with the whole pregnancy thing.  They've likely read one too many stories about women who chose an abortion rather than give that child up for adoption to women like them who have yearned for a baby for years.  Maybe, like me, they've had the opportunity to have one child and experience pregnancy only to turn around and have any future pregnancies denied them due to the hazy diagnosis of "unexplained secondary infertility."

Whatever the case, facebook can be a hard place.  I want to rejoice with those who rejoice. I really do click on your announcements and though I usually experience a concurrent surge of grief and jealousy, I am excited for this new little life that will enter yours.

What is very difficult for many of us who struggle with infertility is those many posts that complain. That complain of pregnancy weight gain. That speak of fatigue because of a little fetus doing flips during the night.  That daily update us on how hard pregnancy is and how they hope they won't be pregnant again any time soon.    

Because many of us would give anything to have pregnancy weight gain. Or to be kept up at night from a kicking baby.  To have to even think about the idea of fearing another pregnancy too soon.

Do I think you should never complain? Certainly not.  Did I complain when my ankles were swollen and during that awkward period when I grew from "flat belly" to "chubby" but before I hit "baby bump"? Sure. But I didn't complain about it to hundreds of people. Those were the things I talked about with my husband or my mom or a close friend who I knew didn't struggle with infertility at the time.  The immediate world didn't need to know about it and I had already known several friends who had had trouble getting pregnant and had learned at least a little about the arts of discretion and sensitivity in this area.

So, please hear this plea from a gracious and loving standpoint and from someone who has made her own insensitive mistakes along the way.  We are excited for you and will come to (and sometimes host!) your baby showers.  We are usually grateful to hear about your pregnancy via email or phone before you post on facebook if we know you well enough to deserve such a heads up- it helps us prepare for the big announcement that will inevitably incur hundreds of likes and comments, as well it should.  We do want to know. We do want to rejoice.

But know, too, that it often hurts. Sometimes just a little bit deep down or sometimes it hits us on a tough day, when our miscarriages or stillbirths or our unfulfilled longings for pregnancy or our broken adoptions are just right at the surface.  And we don't want to rob you of your joy - that wouldn't be fair or loving of us. But I would love it if when you sought to share your complaints you sometimes, just sometimes, took pause to think of doing it in a way that reflects that you have mourned with those of us who've mourned and that you know we're out there.  And that maybe you value us more than you value a few "likes" on a status that is maybe not so necessary to post.

We live in a world where we're told to do anything we please and the effect on others be damned.  I hope that, at least in my own little facebook world, we can live as though that's not true. Aware of how we affect the people in our lives, choosing to put others ahead of ourselves, making choices that honor God and love people well, rather than just choosing the action that gets the most response from people.  My hope is that those of you who have never been affected by infertility, who haven't even know someone who struggles with it, will know just a little more of how you can support those of us who have had lives enmeshed with this struggle.  There are probably more of us in your life than you are actually aware. 

And my hope, too, is that you WILL keep posting those adorable pics of your babies.  On my good days, they give me hope, they remind me of what's to come and they allow me to rejoice with you.  And that rejoicing always reverberates through my own soul, helping me to wait more patiently and love more exuberantly while I do. 

Thanks for listening,

Carolyn