Father’s Day

I think most pregnant women throughout their pregnancy think a ton about how their husband will be as a father. I know I did. We’ve always had a very equal partnership and I wondered if that would continue as we grew our family, since I had heard the opposite from so many other women.

Scott goes above and beyond for our son every day. I don’t know a dad who does more for his family and though I try not to get too braggy about all he does for us, I’m always making an effort to thank him and tell him how much I appreciate all he does.

In light of Father’s Day, if there is one day of the year that I am going to brag on my husband, this is it.

It started in the earliest days of my pregnancy. Him making sure I had enough sleep, proper nutrition, exercise, and foot massages – even though he can’t stand feet. It continued when we learned of Luke’s critical congenital heart defect – he researched, asked questions, became an expert on his son’s heart. I watched closely as he redid a bedroom for his unborn son – rebuilt a closet and chose paint color and decor. I saw his physical labor of love and determination to make things just right.

I remember the look on his face the night I was admitted to the hospital in a critical state, with the news Luke would have to be delivered early. He stayed by our side the entire weekend. He took care of us – of everything – when I was not even able to care for myself.

And when Luke arrived and was transported to St. Christopher’s Hospital for Children, he joined him immediately. He texted me photos and videos of our son for 3 days because he knew how hard I was struggling, having to be separated from them. I remember the phone call he made to me, such pride and joy and love in his voice, telling me what a “cool little dude” he is and how I have to focus on getting better so I can join them soon.

Scott was Daddy, but he was also Mommy to Luke in the first few days when I could not be present. He changed our son’s very first diaper, gave him pacifiers, participated in his care, held him and sat and talked to him for hours on end, day and night.

We were supposed to be there together – partners, parents – yet he did it all alone, and he loved him enough for the both of us.

I remember how he researched breast milk and proceeded to inform me of all the many benefits and the differences between foremilk and hindmilk and I recall thinking to myself, “who IS this man?”

I so distinctly remember how on multiple occasions he helped hold my pumping parts in place because I did not have a hands-free bra and hadn’t anticipated that I would need to pump because I wanted to nurse. How he brought me hot compresses, bottles of water, made sure I ate every meal.

I remember how he was my biggest cheerleader and supporter during the toughest days…and how he loved Luke more than anything in this world and would do anything for him, including waking up multiple times a night to feed or comfort him. How he would never leave his side.

I remember the way Luke slept on his chest for hours and how he loved every second of it. I remember the way his face lit up the first time he said “da da,” ate his first solids, rolled over and crawled, and took his first step.

I could go on and on about how he helps so much around the house, cooks dinner for us most nights or does sweet things like wash my car or refill my gas tank when he notices it is low.

And how during the extremely stressful and scary times of caring for a child with multiple medical needs and never-ending diagnoses, tests and procedures, brings you to your knees, he is always there, kneeling right beside me or ready with strong and open arms to lift us all up.

I think the bottom line is that he cares so much about our family that it’s natural for him to be a wonderful partner and father. It’s a quality I very much admire in him and one that I know will set a good example for Luke as he grows and learns about love and relationships.

I feel so fortunate to be able to celebrate Scott on Father’s Day, taking a moment to acknowledge all of the things he does, big and small, and how they make our time together as a family so special. How he always makes us feel so very special and loved.

Advertisements

Faith Renewed 

It’s Spring. And I’ve been caught in my own deep winter for far too long.

The leaves have long since fallen, nature unclenching her fist. And I am brought back to the resounding discomfort that often comes with letting go. The pain of watching something fall from a tightened grasp.

Winter came.

And for me, Winter stayed.

I knelt on the ground, picking up the crumbled and crisped leaf, its vibrant beauty lost from months of cold and snow and rain. And that’s when I realized it – I have been caught up in my own cold winter. Clenched fists, fighting, struggling to stay on that limb and not fall to the cold, barren ground beneath. Hanging on to the bud so tightly, I lost sight of what comes next…

Spring.

An incredible time of growth and renewal. A time when all that once was, turns into everything it can be. A time that could never exist if the trees were not willing to release everything in their due time.

Nature does not resist letting go because it’s afraid of the loss. Nature embraces letting go because it creates space for something new. Something beautiful. Nature does not endure in the name of grief – it endures in the name of possibility.

Sometimes we have to let go of the beauty we once created – a person, a place, a deeply rooted dream. We have to breathe like blowing wind, carrying remnants of seasons past, leaving the ache of absence behind.

We must believe in nature’s greatest act of surrender – trusting that after every cold winter, Spring always comes.

…And I haven’t done a great job of believing.

Trust me when I say, you don’t want to see me right now.

My eyes are tired and swollen from crying. My hair is an unruly mess. My skin is dry and cracked. I’m dehydrated and depleted from surviving on caffeine. My barista has seen more of me than my friends and my at-home coffee Ninja has been on overdrive.

Lately, I don’t even recognize myself.

All I can ever think of is my bed. Sleep. And yet it never comes. My mind racing – it’s like a penned horse, bucking and jerking for the longing of unbridled freedom and the serenity it brings. I’m stuck in the confining corral of my own mind.

I think of all I need to be, want to be, to everyone and for everyone. For myself…whoever that is these days.

I’ve spent months walking through my own personal desert as crisp and cracked as that fallen leaf, and feeling as though at any moment, I would crumble to dust, pieces of me scattered and lost forever. I’d never be whole again.

I never expected to find myself here and I’ve had a hard time finding my way out. I’m still not sure I have the right map…

The landscape was treacherous and the elements fierce. Sleepless nights, discouraging days. I was afraid, isolated, lost. I was angry. I was hurt. I’ve tripped and fallen so many times, the bruises evident for months. I’ve even broken pieces of myself along the way.

But I have not given up. Or rather, He didn’t give up…and I merely pressed forth with His strength.

Sometimes it’s hard to know who you are in the midst of what everyone else believes you to be, or NEEDS you to be.

But that’s one thing the desert is really good at – it lets the sand blow against your rough exterior until finally, you uncover what lies beneath. It forces you to sit with the really hard questions so that you can sit with the really honest answers.

Answers and honesty your heart has known and tried to bury beneath the facades of “I’m okay” “I can handle this”…I’m handling this…right…?

Because sometimes – we can’t. Sometimes our handle on life and what it’s dealt us is the very thing that breaks us…we can break by our own hands. We resist the help we desperately need. We spread ourselves too thin, too often.

We want to do it all and be it all. Not for martyrdom or accolades, but because it’s who we are – we are conquerors, we are survivors, we are lovers and healers and we want it all to be okay. And sometimes, if we are honest with ourselves, it’s not that we no longer want the dream we’d once envisioned, it’s that we don’t know how to let it go and accept the new one.

We cling to the beauty of that leaf, and when it withers away, we are so consumed by the Winter – the loss – that we fail to see the transformation taking place before us. We want to get to the other side without feeling the harshness of Winter or the hot desert as it burns and wears us away.

We push it aside. We cover our ears. We hum a tune so loud we hope it drowns all the noise; sometimes, it drowns us before we can drown it. We punish ourselves repeatedly for what we cannot control.

And then, God reminds us of his faithfulness. He restores us.

We seldom become the people that we are all on our own. We become those people through love and encouragement along the way. We become those people because of those that open their arms and hearts to us when we are finding our way in the darkness. They may not have the map, but they have the compass. They don’t let us forget that Spring will come and with it, the promise – the gift – of renewed hope and faith.

To The Mom Stressed and Worried About Her Child’s Health

IMG_7455

Dear worried and stressed Mom,

I see you. I see you smiling and hustling and bustling through life. Going to work, working from home, in the grocery store, running the roads, the parks, stroller in toe. Happiness and laughter, but with a slight twist of hesitation. I see the shadows lurking in the corners, ready to stomp across the sunshine in your eyes. The imminent gray that grows and swells, and in a moment, will envelope your happy – if you let it.

I see you going about your day, responsibilities and regrets. Worries if you are spending enough quality time with him. Phone calls to doctors and therapists can wait – but they can’t…I see you pulled and stretched, molded and shaped in directions of choice and directions of fear. Like warm, pulled putty in a toddler’s hands, you’re thin, drooping and sagging. Good, bad, insensitive and well-meaning remarks – they all cling to you, lost in the sticky sea of your soul, they become a part of you. Don’t let them become you.

I see you late at night, wearily standing at your kitchen counter, drawing weekly meds. You wait until he sleeps, for this disease has robbed enough of your time together – you will give no more. While most have a junk drawer, yours is chock full of medical supplies and drug interaction pamphlets. I know what’s in your head – with every pull of the plunger, filling a vial higher and higher, flick of the syringe – this isn’t fair.

Doing this isn’t fair. Being here isn’t fair. This life is sometimes so unfair. So full of hurt you can’t explain unless to another who has also been there. You hurt for your child, although they know no different – you do. And you weep inside and out for what they must endure. You weep because you feel helpless, powerless and you must watch them endure.

I see the pain behind the smile. It lurks in the words of positivity you often speak. You can’t fool me. I know you. I know your scared, overflowing, joyful and broken heart. I know it has no bottom for that dear one you adore. I know it stings. I know it’s sore.

Momma, I feel you. I feel your heartaches, your nausea, your headaches, your sleepless nights, the hesitation in your step as you drag yourself forward because –  THERE. IS. NO. OTHER. WAY. I feel the desperation in your longing – the day you pray will come – when worry of health and sickness will wither away, wash away. Please – take all this away.

I hear your heart stop when the doctor enters the room with results. When a fever is never just a fever, a cough is always something more, weekly therapies, visits to specialists and the ER are your normal. I know the staggering halt that encompasses your entire being. When the world stops revolving and begins spinning, spinning, spinning, out of your control. I know you want to make it stop.

I smell the sweet victory when you can overcome that fear – fight the foe with all that is in you, and then nestle tightly in the quiet moments where the intoxicating scent of your child’s head, the stroke of your finger along his soft and fleshy cheek, holding tiny feet in the palm of your hand, is the elixir of all that is right, and good enough, to always bring you back. Back to carefree, worry-free, stress-free. Even if only for a little while.

I see you there. Soaking in every. precious. moment. Because we know too well, Momma, another one of these is never guaranteed.

I see you playing with him, chasing, tickling, giggling, loving. Wholehearted love. Fierce love. Love that defies anything this messed up earth could bring. A love that fights, hopes, and a love that stings like no other when you find you are helpless to the illnesses and diseases beyond your control.

I see you struggling to keep it all together, Momma. Fighting back the tears, the lump that grows in your throat that you never let out – can’t let out – are afraid to let out. I see you change the station because you simply cannot listen to “that” song – not today, not now. Maybe not ever. I see you congratulate a new mom, and I also see you cry in secret as the pain of your own losses, missed opportunities and anger over a cruel disease, overtake you. I know the guilt you will feel – for everything. For being too much, too little, not enough, wanting more, having more than you believe you deserve. For wishing your child never had to endure life living this fear. That you, wouldn’t have to live this fear.

I know that sometimes when you cry it comes out of your eyes, but sometimes, many times, it just stays in your soul.

I see you strong, Momma. I see you now. I’ve seen you in the past and I know I will see you again. Please listen to me. Read my words. Take my words. You are stronger than you know. You have more fire and feist than a pen of wild bulls, because this is your baby – your heart, your soul. When you feel weak and fragile, like you can’t even make it to your pillow – trust. With all that is in you, trust, and keep your faith close. Power comes in times like these. Strength comes in times like these – where in that brave, costly, intentional action of the heart, pure love wholly lives.

I know you, Momma. I hear you and I see you, and we never need words to speak what we know of each other in our hearts. Your worry is my worry. Your fear is my fear. My strength is your strength – so take it. When you are running low and weary from the fight, press on. When your chest is heavy and you can’t breathe, see the beauty in front of you, pour your heart into the joy that is before you. Hold that baby tight and carry him through…and I will carry you.

Peace be still, Momma. Peace be still.