A DECADE OF DECISIONS

Today marks 12 years since my baby girl was taken from me. Twelve years of tears and tough decisions - of healing and hoping and praying and pressing pause.

The emotions of that night have never left me. I remember the shock, the fear - and the sting when I stopped at the church campgeound for prayers and comfort. I remember the buried needle on the dashboard, my mother-in-law wringing her hands, and the sound of my husband's voice. And I cry anew.

I remember little of the days that followed, yet all the rawness is fresh. Like a smoky sky, the haze of depression hung low and heavy. I remember the tears of her siblings, the feeling of helplesness, the inability to sleep, and the waves of nausea.

This memory surfaces even as I mourn a friend's failed adoption this week. This was the one - the first time in 12 years I was able to see the beauty in adoption again. This was the adoption restoring my hope that Heaven has a Master plan, and all things are redeemed.

I received very personal promises from God in prayer for this adoption. And while I have a head knowledge that His Word is sure, my shattered heart again begs the question: Why, God?! And what about Your promises?

If there is anything I have learned in the last 12 years, it is that God is close to the broken-hearted. You can't ask questions of someone if you're not speaking to them. So the more questions I have, the more time I spend talking to God. While it may not change the situation, prayer always changes me.

So I bring all my broken pieces, all my shattered hopes, and all my regrets to the Master. He is the weaver; I'm just a dreamer. And I dream of the day where mothers hold babies close to their hearts while being held close to the Heavenly Father.

I continue to live in hope.  And if you're reading this, my singing cuckoo bird, I pray that you are hearing His whispers of hope, sensing His healing hands, and know you are loved.

All My X's

It's funny what middle age can do for a woman. She learns to let the little things go, to care less about public opinion, and to keep a small-but-tight circle of friends.

 

Most profound for me has been the recent urge to make friends with my X's. No, not men with whom I've had relationships, silly. I mean those X's on the care labels of my clothing. Those ones that scream, "Look how big you are! We're the reason you can't shop in 95% of clothing stores!" Those X's that have, for too long, defined too many women. 

 

 

 

I have eaten salads for lunch. I have worked out, and I have skipped meals. I have refused to look in the mirror. I have squeezed myself into ill-fitting clothing to avoid purchasing another X. I have reached a decision to stop doing all of the above.

 

Don't get me wrong: I know I'm overweight. I actually know that I fall into the morbidly obese category. I understand it's unhealthy, and I have shed tears and prayed about the numbers on the scale and the X's on my clothing tags. I am not giving up: I am deciding not let this define me; I will no longer spend every waking thought on this one aspect of who I am.

 

I am a wife and a mother. I am a musician and a loyal friend. I am an estranged sibling, the black sheep of my family, and the life of the party. I am a sinful saint, a reliable employee, and a quiet neighbor. I am a survivor of domestic abuse, a recipient of grace, and the favorite "daycare mom." I suspect each of these roles has contributed to the number of X's that have surpassed my number of chins in some way.

 

Worry solves nothing. Striving hasn't worked either. So, just for now, I'm going to become my own best friend. I'm going to buy clothes that fit, and look in the mirror before I leave the house. I'm going to buy scarves to cover the tags that pop up and tell people how many X's I wear. I'm going to strive to be a better me, one orthopaedic appointment at a time.

 

I have taken a second look at my family heritage scrapbook. I notice that I come from a long line of large ladies. I also notice that their weight decreases as they progress into the post-menopausal years. So here I am, telling myself this condition is both genetic and temporary. I will survive this like I've survived all the other hard chapters: through Christ, who strengthens me.

 

Skip the cookie, but not the cream - the coffee must still taste great! Eat more soup, make more poop. Play Pokémon Go with the 5-year-old - who cares why I'm walking?! Spend time at the park: swinging is great for the abs! The excess of X's shall pass; meanwhile ... I've got enough meat on my bones to ground me through the upcoming tornado season! Positive thoughts yield positive results, right?

 

 

"Never Unfriended" - It's As Great As It Sounds!

It was a simple comment on a devotional, typed from my desk at the office. I truly didn't think I even had a chance of being selected for the Book Launch Team... but I felt impressed to share my heart on the subject of community. That's the funny thing about women: we often get used to rejection, but are somehow determined to conquer it.

The Book Launch invitation came with a digital sample of Lisa-Jo Baker's book, Never Unfriended. I had read no further than the first paragraph of the introduction before I was hooked! When I read the following quote, I knew this book would be one of those rare, life-changing reads:

"We want to matter to the people we think matter."

 

I had spent my entire life trying to matter:

• To my father, who always chose my sister when each parent took one sibling
• To the one schoolteacher who understood the depths of my sorrow after my grandfather passed, but excluded me from attending her wedding
• To the cousin who took my only sibling for a one-on-one drive when he got his driver's license
• To the boy who called me "Darling", but didn't respect my moral boundaries
• To the man I first chose as my husband and father to my children, who beat me mercilessly while pursuing other women
• To my step-daughter, whose attachment issues magnified my own inadequacies
• To anyone. Anyone at all.

 

Never Unfriended unfolded like the pages of an old journal. It spoke of friendship PTSD, of the fear of being and/or welcoming the new girl, and of unresolved conflict. My life was nothing if not a series of all of the above! The sting of rejection and fear of conflict had led me to abandon a number of relationships to avoid more of either. This book is a manual for people who, like me, have grown tired of trying.

 

If you think you are alone in your friendship frustrations, please read Never Unfriended. Rays of hope shine from every page as Lisa-Jo Baker shares both her wounds and steps to healing. Tears will fall and spirits will rise as you read a book that ministers so deeply to the heart that it is impossible to put down. Never Unfriended has traveled with me to the lunchroom, to the bathroom, and to a hotel room. It will continue to travel in my heart.

I am so grateful to have been chosen as part of the Book Launch Team for Never Unfriended! I have been blessed by the fellow Team members, who shared stories, graphics and prayers. Authors like Lisa-Jo Baker, who come alive on the page and seem to sip your coffee with you as you read, are rare treasures. I see every woman through new eyes: I understand now that the challenge is the same for all of us - it is merely our reactions that differ.

 

Near the beginning, the author writes, "No one can make us quite as unsure about ourselves as another woman." The remaining pages are a road map to this eloquent statement near the end of the book: "Our business is to believe the best about people. We are not their judge, their jury, and we are certainly not their god. We are intended to be their blessing. On purpose."

 

My heart's desire is still to matter - but not to the people I think matter. I want to matter because I have made the world a warmer place with friendship offered freely.