Rest is a Four Letter Word

The thing about rest is that the more we know we need it, the more we realize we've forgotten it, the more we seem to find ways to avoid it. That common adult problem that feeds out of the idea that "busy-ness" equates importance, that common fear that if I stop what I'm doing even for a moment, my world might come to a loud, crashing halt; these things cause me to run from rest. And if you are like me, you are really too tired to run in the first place.

But just like I have to find ways sometimes to command my soul to praise or to be thankful or to turn towards God, I have to find ways to command it to rest. To accept that gift that I cannot and am not made to do everything all the time without stopping. That the very rest that I run from would actually cause the rest of the chaos to abate a little bit.

So, like all things in my life, it comes back to control. When can I plan to rest, when can I make it happen. Rather than receiving. Rather than stopping without a managed plan of attack. Just a ceasing. Wouldn't that be amazing? Just stopping, without guilt, without remorse, without lists of things to do when the rest has finished. Just letting my soul enter into the rest it's already been given.

This post was written as a part of Five Minute Fridays. Check it out and give it a shot next week!

The Naming

It's been over four years since we lost our second child. That first year was full of pain and secrets and transitions. The second year was full of questions and anger and the first stirrings of healing.The third year was full of hope and waiting. This fourth year has seemed to roll all three years into one huge, emotionally chaotic experience. One constant, though, through these four years has been the namelessness of that little one. Calling he or she an "it" or a "baby" but never being able to refer to that child with a name. It's kept that baby distant from me. Nameless, far, removed. 

When I first began to share what had happened, that loss, people always asked me how far along I had been. And each time I was asked that I was reminded again that our culture, including myself, thought of the pain as less real, as that child as somehow less human, the earlier its death had occurred. So with each asking of that question and each increasingly timid response of mine, I felt that my pain should be somehow less than it was. This wasn't really a baby, it seemed. Just a positive pregnancy test. Just a blip on a screen. Nothing that should have had a hold on me.

But it did. SHE did.

I've written recently about the time I spent at a retreat center. During that time, God was very present. And though I hadn't spoken to Him about our miscarriage in a very long time, I felt the freedom to bring it up again. To bring the loss back into the light. To ask some hard questions. And all the while, I grew tired of saying "it." I began to wonder, for the first time, if it would be alright for me to name this child. This faceless little one that I never met. And the moment I asked the question, I already knew the answer. Why not? God already knew this little one, had already given her a name, knew her intimately. Why shouldn't I? And as I sat there, just listening, just being quiet, I knew two things. I knew she was a girl and I knew her name was Amara.

How do I know that? No idea. Does God regularly speak audibly to me? No. But there was just this absolute quiet and a sudden knowing. And I have never been more sure of anything in my life.

That night I got home and looked up the meaning of the name Amara. I've actually never met anyone with that name. I hadn't chosen it in the short time we had to plan for her birth. And as I looked it up, I was astounded to see that it means "eternal beauty." After all, this is the only kind of beauty that I will ever get to see of her. The beauty of getting to carry her little body for a short time and the beauty I will see in her when I one day pass on and finally meet her. Eternal. Not earthly. Not here and now. But someday. And forever.

Recently I stumbled onto an e-book titled "Naming the Child." In this book, the author, Jenny Shroedel, describes infant death as "the forbidden room." It's a place no one wants to go, an off-limits place full of painful memories, secrets, images. A place no one wants to engage or deal with its stirred-up questions.

But it's a place all too frequented by so many of us. Because we don't want to speak of it or burden others by the silent deaths, we keep them silenced. We don't name these little ones. And for some people, I recognize, the naming will only be too painful. It's not what they need. But for me? This has been a long-awaited step of healing. Naming this child, naming this daughter has once and for all helped me to unashamedly declare that she IS. She is not a positive pregnancy test, she was not just a blip on a screen, she should have and still does have a hold on me. She always should.

For three of these years I have worn a sapphire necklace just about every day, the birthstone of the month she should have been born. Sapphires, a symbol of truth, sincerity and faithfulness. And the day I named Amara, I stumbled upon the following scripture:

"For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, 
but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, 
and my covenant of peace shall not be removed, says the Lord, who has compassion on you. 
O afflicted one, stormed tossed and not comforted, 
behold, I will set your stones in antimony and lay your foundations with sapphires."  Isaiah 54

I would never have asked for these four years. I would never have wanted to lose our daughter. I would never say those trite words that "this is for a reason," like some have said to me, but I do know one thing. Amara is a gift. And the years I've experienced after her death have been years that have changed me in different ways than maybe her birth would have. I'll never really know. I cannot. But since I cannot change the fact that I will never know her this side of heaven, I can continue to hope. I can be reminded that God's steadfast love has not departed from me during this time. I can, every time I glance down at my sapphire, be reminded of a precious baby girl who is a part of this family and is treasured.

Amara. Of Eternal Beauty. You have been named. You are no longer an "it."

You never were.

With a Little Help From Our Friends

Many of us don't like to actually need other people as much as we like being needed. No one says it out loud, but we keep count in our heads, a sad little tally list of how many times we've helped someone compared to how much he or she has helped us. We don't want that tally to slip heavy on our end, being indebted to someone or owing anyone anything. We like feeling in control of it all and keeping just the right balance in our friendships so that we're really never quite vulnerable with those around us.

The Beatles, however, recognized that that is a foolish way to live. In their famous song, they pose question after question about what someone might do in lonely or hard situations. And time after time, the answer to the question is to "get by with a little help from my friends." Perhaps even more famously for our generation, we remember the Joe Cocker version which was the theme song for The Wonder Years and anytime we hear that song we think of our younger friendships and first loves, of our own Pauls and Winnie Coopers.  Either way, the understanding is that the friends are just there, they are supposed to be a part of it, it only makes sense to call on them all the time. No tally marks, no keeping count, just honesty, laughter, hard work and life together.

Just this past week, we were in some serious need of help from our friends. Ever since we got the phone call about our move to Wisconsin, we've been doing all those fun little house projects to get ready for going on the market. They have been virtually never-ending. And as we looked at our timeline, we realized there was absolutely no way we could do it without help. We looked at our schedules, we thought long and hard of any way to do it without inconveniencing those around us, but the bold truth was that we could not do it alone.

So, as much as that little voice in me that wants to be able to handle everything on my own was screaming inside, I sent an email. An email asking for some help from our friends around here. Help mulching, painting, staining, cleaning, entertaining our son...you name it, it was probably on the list. And the funny thing was, once I sent the email, I didn't feel funny or skittish about it anymore. It just felt good. It was remarkably freeing to ask for help.

And the response? Well, these pictures can probably speak for themselves but on a cold and windy weekend, countless numbers of our friends and their children gave up time and energy to make this happen. They smiled, they laughed, they joked with us, they brought us food, they stayed for countless slices of pizza, they bolstered our resolve to finish these projects. We are overwhelmed by their generosity and friendship, not to mention their stellar power-washing and shoveling abilities.

Whether or not our house sells quickly, the generosity of our friends this past week has reminded us acutely of one thing: it will not be easy to leave this place. We have truly gotten by with a little help from our friends, friends to whom we will not easily say goodbye, friends who have shown me more deeply that there is nothing to do with tally marks and keeping score in true friendships. You help when you can and you ask when you need it. Bottom line. Anything else is playing games. And life is just too short to waste time on the wrong kinds of games.

A Long Explore

We're big fans of A.A. Milne around here, at least as far as his portrayal of Winnie-the-Pooh. No Disney books for us, thank you very much, not about Pooh Corner, anyway. They can't touch Milne's humor and dialogue. One of my favorite phrases that he uses in the book is when the characters go on "a long explore." There's something about that phrase that encompasses the whole experience of wandering- the new discoveries, the excitement of the unknown, the totality of the experience, not just the act of tromping around in the woods, but a long walk with purpose.

When my husband decided to go back to school at the age of 30, I knew this is what we were in for. A long explore. While many of my friends were settling down into the homes they'd be in for the long haul, thinking about the next ten years of schooling for their kids, committing to things past a year at a time, we have continued on with the art of transitioning into our 30's. These last three and a half years in NC have been amazing, but we knew when we got here they were just the first leg of the long explore. That somewhere on the horizon would be another move, most likely to a place with which we were unfamiliar. So, like good explorers, we set up camp, ate, drank and were merry, but always in the back of our minds wondering when it would be time to break camp and move on.

That time is now.

Just a few weeks ago my husband received an offer for a postdoctoral position in Wisconsin. The Midwest. This woman has never lived further than 2 hours west of the Atlantic ocean.  I have never lived in a land-locked state. I have never seen a Great Lake. My husband has never really experienced below-freezing temps and doesn't know the joys of ice-skating. My son thinks a big snowfall is when you can't see the grass anymore. Oh, he has no idea.

So, we are busy around here. Busy getting our house ready for the market, sifting through possible living scenarios out in Wisconsin, harassing colleagues out there to give me the 411 on life in Madison, living life as much as usual while we're still here and praying hard for our adoption to go through before we move so we don't have to start over with our paperwork. Basically, all the preparations one needs for the next leg of the journey, besides the goodbyes. They can wait a few more months. 

And if it's one thing this leg has taught me it's that no time is too short a time to be worth it, as long as you're willing to live in the now. I can be confident in moving to this next place because I've seen how good we can have it in such a short span of time. We are moving on having made lasting friendships, having found things we loved to do that we never expected and stronger as a family for the time we've spent here.

So, as much as it'll be hard to say goodbye this summer (and I have had the Boyz II Men song on said subject repeating in my head for days now), this place has left it's mark on us. A mark so clear that we're hoping that when the final leg of the long explore comes, it'll lead us right back here for the permanent settlement.

Until we know though, we're going to live each day here with just as much buy-in as we did a month ago even as we prepare to get back on the road. And we'll do the same in Wisconsin until it's time to pick up camp that one, likely, final time for a while.

After all, there's still much to be discovered in this life and a long explore has been just what we needed.

Overwhelmed...In a Good Way

Just a few weeks ago I had the chance to do two much needed things.

One, I went on a hike with a dear friend. The hike was not for exercise, it wasn't for exploration. It was for the sole purpose of yelling. She and I walked for about a 1/2 hour to a secluded location on the Eno River here in NC. We spent a minute or two feeling awkward and making sure no one else was around and wondering who might go first. Then, we yelled. Sometimes we yelled thoughts, sometimes questions for God. Other times, we just let out the tension inside.

And friends, it was so good. The foolishness of being out in the middle of the woods screaming became nothing compared to the miraculously cathartic moment we both experienced. It was obvious that God was listening and that he was not afraid of what we had to say.

Second, I went on a day of retreat. I packed up my backpack, put on one of my favorite books on cd and drove two hours. Two hours away from all the stress of waiting for a baby, all the responsibilities of hearth and home and job. I turned my cell phone off and didn't even bring my computer. And for 8 hours I didn't talk to anyone but God. I hiked, sang, napped, listened, sipped way too many cups of coffee, sat on ice cold benches in the woods and dark, warm, meditative rooms inside. I ate a good lunch that I didn't have to prepare. And I wrote. After two full months of no writing, I filled my notebook with 28 pages. Pages filled with emotions (which we all know are hard to identify sometimes), questions, anger, sadness and yes, even hopes and joys for the first time in a long time.  My most recent blog post was the result of that day.

And leading up to that day I had asked a few people to be praying for me. To help me want to actually spend that day away with God. To be willing to be honest with Him about how I was feeling. To give me hope that He is there in the midst of what felt like abandonment.

The freedom of having people in your life with whom you can be totally honest and then also trust to be totally honest back even if it's hard is sort of indescribable. But people like this are in my life and, man, have I felt overwhelmed after inviting them into this. In a really good way.

Over these past weeks, after my breaking point, I have felt surrounded. After my last post, my explanation of where I've been for two months, the comments, emails, texts and phone calls were such physical, tangible evidence of the gifts I've been given in the people around me. And on top of that, that day I took away and the days since then have been full. Full of peace, full of hope, full of desire to spend time with God, full of the knowledge that God is with us in this and that He, too, is waiting and sad and hopeful all in one. That he's not withholding some huge gift from us out of vindictiveness or to teach us some elusive lesson, but that He's here beside us, just like these friends, waiting, offering comfort, steering us towards hope. I can't describe what a freeing lesson that has been. To trust again that he's not causing us this pain but that He is here in the pain...well, it's a relief, is what it is.

So thanks. Thanks to those of you who read this blog faithfully and encourage me to keep writing. Thanks to those of you who send me little emails or notes reminding me that you, too, are waiting eagerly for the next chapter of our story. Thanks for sharing your stories and prayers with me so that I can pray for you- it's a privilege. Thanks for your honesty, when it's hard and when it's sweet. Both are welcome. Thanks for being God's presence around us when we weren't sure where He was.  I have found hope again and I have been reminded of how good I've got it. I'm overwhelmed.

And sometimes being overwhelmed is exactly what you need. 

Asking for Spaghetti

They call it "transition". That point in labor when a woman's body goes through its final, most agonizing changes before she is ready to push. It's that moment when you think it will never end, when you think it virtually impossible that your body can survive what you are going through. And it's the point where even the most stubborn of us women, the ones most committed to going natural, consider the drugs.

That's why for many people who choose this route, there's a code word. As Reed and I prepared for a labor that we hoped would go natural, we were told to find a word that had no relation at all to the process. A word I'd have to specifially use to ask for drug intervention, rather than just saying "yes" to the offer of an epidural or screaming out "give me the drugs!" in the midst of an interminable contraction.

We chose "spaghetti." I don't know why. Maybe we assumed that Italian food would be the furthest thing from my mind while I labored. (For the record, we were wrong. I don't remember a lot about labor but I do remember asking how soon after it I could eat. I was pretty darn freakin' hungry.)

Then came the big day. Or, should I say, the big "middle of the night." And like most women who have gone natural, I hit that point where I thought there was no possible way I could continue without the likely result of my body splitting into two. I can remember just a few specific things about that moment: the helpless look on my husband's face and how hard it was to catch my breath. I remember wanting the drugs and asking for them and my husband dutifully, if hesitantly, telling me I had to use the right word. And I knew he was right. I had to ask for spaghetti.

When it came down to it, I didn't ask for it. That moment of getting outside the pain to make the decision gave me what I needed to push past it and wait it out. And let me be clear- I'm not saying there was anything noble or heroic in my choice- if anything, my refusal was probably yet another shining example of my twin vices of stubbornness and pride. But, refuse I did. And I was glad of it - we turned the corner shortly after and had our son in our arms less than an hour later.

In about two weeks we'll have been on the waiting list with our adoption agency for 12 months. Add to that the months and years of waiting and asking and it's been over four years that we have been waiting for this baby. Four years.

And these last few months? The months during which I haven't blogged, not even once? They have been some of the hardest months of my life. I have felt angry, exhausted, frustrated, sad and hopeless. I have felt distant from and abandoned by a God I have loved and served for almost 30 years. I have felt cynical when people speak of Him as faithful and loving.  He has seemed silent and I have felt alone. I have sat in my alone-ness and not told anyone. Not friends, not my husband, not my God.


A few weeks ago, I had one of those moments. A moment of "transition". When I felt I couldn't breathe, when I didn't know how I could go on waiting on this adoption, how I could continue to mourn the loss of our baby and deal with the lack of closure on our infertility. The pain was too acute. And I told someone. Actually, I told a few someones. People I knew wouldn't just offer trite words of encouragement. People who would let me be angry and confused and who would enter into that pain with me.

And in the opening up to others, I felt the first stirring of God in this. And I sensed him saying "Will you just say the word, already?"

Just as in labor, I had two choices. I could push through or I could ask for spaghetti.


In my stubbornness in my first labor, I think it was ultimately good that I didn't say the words. But this "labor" is different. This whole "pregnancy" has been different. I feel like I've been pregnant for years and that my labor has lasted for months. So this time, I'm asking for some spaghetti. With meatballs, thank you very much. There is only so much pain the human body can take without labor progressing, you know.

And any stubbornness and pride I have right now, any reliance on my own strength, is just plain foolish. I need God to help me, to sustain my hope and strength during "transition". I cannot do this alone. I have tried the last few months and I am damn near exhausted. I need to be told that it's almost time to push. In the meantime, maybe I'll let the spaghetti kick in a little so I can relax. Maybe I'll actually push into God's presence and continue to let my friends in on what's been going on.

Call it carbo-loading. But I'm planning on getting as much help as I can now, fueling up for that last final stage of pushing, whenever it comes. And yes, like any rational laboring woman, I am hoping and praying that it comes soon. No one wants to be pregnant forever.

When the Wait is Not Alone

Just last week my son and I were having one of those moments. You know, those sweet, warm moments when your kid is this real person and the conversation you are having is something you could only dream of having during those screaming, tantrumy, unreasonable earlier moments in his young life.

"Mom", he said, "when are we gong to get my baby brother and sister?"
"I don't know, buddy."
"Will it be soon?"
"I don't know. I still hope so."
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"I'm really ready to be a big brother."

I know you are, kid. Believe me. I see the way your eyes light up in the store when some other recently blessed family is pushing around a little baby in a stroller.

I see your hesitating steps when we pass them and how you want to reach out and touch that little one and play and dream of life with siblings.

I love the way you think of our little neighbor as your little sister. How you ask if I can invite her over to play with you, even though she is only a year old and I hear how you talk about "sweet baby May" to everyone you meet, proudly, as if she is yours somehow.

How you hold her hand and lead her around the yard and pull leaves out of her mouth so she doesn't choke and how you laugh and delight in her just like the adults do in her life.

How you read books to her when we go places together in the backseat, all the while dreaming of when that baby strapped in the middle will be your own little sibling. I see you. 

I pray along with you every night when you ask God, yet again, to "please bring us a baby brother and sister." And I ache with you those nights when you don't feel strong enough to pray it. Sometimes I don't either, so I understand. I understand.

I hear the longing in your voice when you talk about our family's future. About what we will do when it's more than just the three of us. Of what car trips and vacations and decorating the Christmas tree and simple family dinners will be like. I love that you dream all the time and that your dreams are never empty of hope.

Most of all, I love that I am not waiting alone. That you are as much a part of this as your Daddy and I. That when we suffer the disappointments that are an inevitable part of this process, you somehow know and you sweetly comfort us. How do you do that? How in the world, at 6 years old, can you possibly know what we need?

I know you can't read this yet. Maybe someday you will. Maybe by then our family will look different and you will have forgotten how long the wait was and will only remember the reality of its completion.

In the meantime, hold on little man. Keep waiting with your mama. I can't promise you anything, but I know this: it's always better not to wait alone.