If We're Honest

I'm not a resolution maker and I don't have a "life verse." Mostly because (context is important) and also, it's easier. :) But for whatever reason, this whole year of 2016 God has been continually putting these three words on my heart: Tell the truth.

In our social media-driven world, we are so good at filtering. Literally, our pictures more often than not have filters that can alter the true appearance of what we're posting- glossing over flaws and smoothing out wrinkles. Don't get me wrong, I love Valencia as much as the next person, but I have been convicted recently of applying filters to not only my Insta pictures, but how I share and portray my life as well-- not just on social media, but in conversations and relationships.

Sometimes, I make jokes to avoid talking about hard things.

Sometimes, I fudge the truth lie to avoid confrontation.

Often, I react to situations with disdain or judgment when in fact, I am envious or hurting.

I put a filter over what I say, how I react, what I share. I attempt to portray myself and my life as something it is not- perfect. This is a lie. (Cue Maury Povich)

Why do we do this? Why do we say things we don't really mean, or gloss over our faults and struggles? I do it because I'm afraid. I want people to see me in a certain way, but the reality is- well, that it's not. Real, I mean. We all have struggles and issues and by lying about them or glossing over their impact in our lives we hurt ourselves and as the body of Christ, we hurt others as well (1 Corinthians 12:26). We are not mean to do this life alone-- we need each other! Sharing our hurts and pain may be humiliating but it is so freeing- and what a testimony to God's grace and goodness! How much glory could be given to God by us being truthful and honest! I think about my miscarriages-- I had NO IDEA so many families had been through the same, until I shared my story. Why are we afraid to bear one another's burdens?

Being honest with ourselves and others allows God to begin to heal. It takes the focus off of ME (pride) and puts it where it rightly belongs, on HIM. John 3:30 states "He must increase, and I must decrease." By being truthful about my brokenness, about my struggles, I allow the Holy Spirit to enter and begin a good work, perfecting the situation for His good glory (Romans 8:28). Any good thing in my life comes from God. I can take no credit. The beautiful things God has and will create from our brokenness and strife is mind-boggling.

I'm doing my best to drop the filters (see- being honest here, I'm not perfect! Also I really do love Valencia...) and live an authentic, honest life. Prayerfully consider joining me.

If We're Honest by Francesca Battistelli

Stitch Fix! Or, Why I'm Not a Fashion Blogger

I said I'd do a Stitch Fix blog. I'm 3.5 weeks post-surgery so the swelling is finally pretty much gone, so I decided I might as well get it over with :)

I signed up for Stitch Fix because I have three small children and shopping with them is kind of torture. I was specifically looking for a dress to wear to an outdoor wedding that we went to last week- a cute nursing friendly dress can be hard to come by around here. So I decided to see what the stylists at Stitch Fix would send me.

If you're going to sign up for a fix, my number one tip is to be very, very, VERY specific. About everything. I created a Pinterest board and went to town pinning outfits and styles I liked. I also wrote comments under each pin about what I specifically liked about each piece- like, I love boyfriend jeans and chambray and plaid but just don't do scarves. Or necklaces. Or anything my small children could choke me with. I made sure to link to the board on my Stitch Fix profile.

I also was honest in my Style Profile. I put my correct weight and current chest size (nursing mama here!.. more on this later) and how I prefer my clothing to fit. At the bottom of the page you get to write a note to your stylist in a place called "Your Style Bio." Here is where I probably told them too much information, but whatever I did it worked because my fix was right on. I wrote about being a nursing mom so my chest is SIGNIFICANTLY larger than normal. I also shared that I have giant sprinter thighs but no hips so stretchy jeans are a must, as are a shorter inseam because I am actually not quite the 5'5" that I tell people I am. I also shared the stores and brands I gravitate towards (J Crew is my favorite everything) to help the stylist better understand who I am and what I'm looking for.

My fix came two days after my surgery- my friend Shauna was here and I couldn't wait to try everything on. So I did and then marveled at how pregnant I looked 10 months post-pregnancy ;)

Anyway, here are the outfits I was sent! Silas took all the pictures for me this morning. Because I feel like an absolute moron in pictures by myself, my first idea (thanks Claire) was to take pictures of myself interacting with our chickens but a run-in with the rooster this morning put the kibosh on that. So here's pictures of me.... and only me. Eee!

 Here I am drinking coffee because I don't know what to do with my hands in my Market & Spruce Corinna Striped Dolman Top and my Just Black Adorra Skinny Jean. These jeans are ah-mah-zing. The inseam isn't too long (which is a problem I often have) and the fabric is stretchy enough to accommodate my thighs while fitting to my waist. The top is a tunic length so I could wear it with leggings or jeans. The top is very close to a shirt I had pinned to my Stitch Fix board.


 Here I am vacuuming in heels and a wrap dress because isn't that how everybody spends their Thursday mornings? I had pinned a dress, once again, almost *exactly* like this. The wrap made it super easy to nurse in and it was so, so comfy for the wedding last week. This is also a Market and Spruce piece, the Paddy Bird Print Belted Wrap Dress.

Whoops, my head's cut off but eh, my photographer is 6. This is my favorite thing I got- something I NEVER would have picked out myself, a Just USA Morrie Boyfriend Denim Jacket. I am obsessed with it. I'm wearing it with a LuLaRoe Randy Tee and my Just Black skinnies. And I'm outside because wearing a jacket inside feels silly, almost as silly as posting pictures of myself on the internet. Eh.

And finally, the last thing they sent me is a Bay to Baubles Azalia Stone Bangle. I wear almost no jewelry except my wedding ring and earrings so it was fun to get this in my fix. I've worn it a few times and I like it :)

The total retail cost of all the pieces was over $300, but by purchasing all of them I saved significantly and actually spent less than $200. I have a *very small* clothing budget but I felt the investment was worth it-- I've recently weeded my closet out and reduced my wardrobe by at least half. Also, I'm now three kiddos in and my body's different than it used to be (isn't it strange how you can weigh what you did before kids but look so different? Interesting.) 

I highly recommend Stitch Fix. I've signed up for quarterly fixes but depending on where we are budget-wise (things are pretty tight thanks to lots of stupid surgeries) I may postpone the next one until spring. I'm sure I'll get a "bad" fix in the future, but for now I'm pretty happy with everything I've got. I could have never picked out and put these things together on my own... one of the many, many reasons I could never be a fashion blogger.

That and the rooster, of course.

Here's my referral link, if you feel so inclined :) Happy fixing!

Scar Tissue

The reasons for many of my scars :)

I have six scars on my abdomen.

Some are larger than others, but each of them tells a story. A few days ago I was at my post-op appointment for the hernia surgery I had two weeks ago. The surgeon remarked how he had opted to make incisions lower than normal in case I ever "wanted to wear a bathing suit that shows your abdomen."

Leave it to a surgeon to use five separate words in place of "bikini." Anyway.

I got to thinking about it. The past few years have been big for me in terms of body image/acceptance/love. Negative body image and an eating disorder are in my past- not something I enjoy discussing, so I won't go into the specifics of it, but know that there were many years of struggle to overcome some debilitating habits and, more importantly, some deeply held beliefs. For whatever reason, I had come to connect my self worth with the number on a scale or the size of my jeans or how many of my ab muscles were visible. When I got married it got a bit better, but I wouldn't say I was completely okay with myself until the last couple of years. It was probably a combination of things, but turning 30 and having my third son really seemed to mark a turning point in how I felt about myself.

As a Christian, my self worth is found solely in my savior. At 31, I have been a Christian for almost half my life now, but for whatever reason I had been unable to give up this struggle with pride and anxiety over my body image. Last time we went to Florida, I did hide my abdominal scars. Yet in recent months I've been able to step back from those negative thoughts and question their validity- the number on the scale or tag does not determine my worth. A few extra blemishes doesn't make me unworthy of Jesus's sacrifice-- I was unworthy anyway. My entire being belongs to Jesus and he chose to die for me because he loves me. He loves ME. It is finished. Previously, a doctor mentioning all the scars and how I would want to hide them probably would have made me ashamed. (For the record- my surgeon is a great guy and in no way was he trying to imply I should be ashamed of all the scars, he's just a dude saying what he always says and I'm just a woman reading WAY TOO MUCH into everything.)

Anyway, the scars on my belly used to bring me sadness.

Two are from my ectopic pregnancy, the loss of our first sweet baby.

One is from my C- section with Silas, which contributed to my PPD.

And now, three news ones from a hernia caused by carrying my children.

But where I once saw reminders of sad memories, I realized last night that I now see them as stories of strength. My husband pointed out that each of the scars comes, both directly and indirectly, from our marriage, and our children.  The ectopic pregnancy was devastating, but through it I saw miracles and have been able to share the gospel many times over. The C-section wasn't what I hoped or dreamed but it brought me Silas who now is a healthy, vibrant 6 year old. The hernia was excruciating and the recovery hasn't been all roses, but each time I look at these three new scars forming I'm reminded of how my body changed and grew to make room for my sons.

Jesus's scars have purpose- this sermon by Spurgeon explains that his scars establish his identity, they are his "glories" and precious jewels, his trophies of love. When I will look on his scars I can't even imagine the gratitude and love I'll feel.

My scars, in turn, remind me of who I am- what Christ has done for me, the graciousness of God and the blessings he's given me in this life. They tell a story of redemption and life, and I will never be ashamed again.

A Gift Worth Giving

 

If you're anything at all like me, right now you're stressing out a little bit about how much money you should or should not spend on each child to best bless them this Christmas.  How much is too much? How much is not enough? What can I give them to make them feel special and loved, while at the same time communicate the message that gifts are NOT the point of Christmas? What can I give them that won't get broken to bits or, alternatively, eaten by a curious 2 year old?

Since having my third son at the end of October, I operate in a perpetual state of anxiety.  It waxes and wanes, but it's always there, threatening to steal my peace and joy.  Some of this is hormone induced (I cry at EVERYTHING, including episodes of Team Umizoomi and various Folger's TV commercials).  Some of this is self-induced by my type-A personality (last night I re-loaded the dishwasher after my husband so graciously did it, in order to put dirty dishes in their designated areas and best utilize dishwasher capacity.)  A lot of this, however, is driven by fear.  A fear that I will fail, won't do something right, and someone will figure out that I actually DON'T know what I'm doing.  Spoiler: I don't.

I didn't grow up liking kids.  I didn't coo over babies, I thought they were kind of weird-looking to be honest.  Even when my friends all got married and started having kids, I would do the obligatory hold-and-smile, and then quickly hand them back.  What scary, fragile little things! And then I got the baby bug and had one of my own.  Instantly I was sucked in, to the world of selfless love-- where you just automatically love something (someone!) so much that there is NO QUESTION their needs will be met before your own, that their lives are precious and beautiful.  In 2009, when my oldest was just a newborn, I was meeting friends for coffee and on the way heard that Mark Shultz song with the lyrics, "He's not just anyone, he's my son..." I burst into sobbing, gut-wrenching tears because I HAVE A SON and just for a second, I got a tiny glimpse of what God must have felt when Jesus was suffering.  The people of Panera were very concerned during this outburst.  Lots of free hot chocolate ensued.

Having children brought to light my fear of failure.  It highlighted and exaggerated my imperfections (NO patience, lack of grace for failure, a tendency to be judgmental and critical). That anxiety that has always bubbled under the surface of my life came roaring to the forefront and ruled me.  And I fed it.  Colossians 3:2 says, "Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth."  My husband kindly and gently reminded me of this, and also of Philippians4:8 where we are instructed: "Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things."  I didn't want to raise my children in a home ruled by fear and worry.  As we know, 1 John 4:18 reminds us that "There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love."  As Christians, we do not have to fear the punishment of God.  I have been saved by faith; the goodness of God's grace and Jesus's death and resurrection have taken the punishment that was meant for me, and I no longer need live in fear.  So why do I still struggle with this?

This Christmas season, I have decided to set my mind on the things of God.  I am choosing to be brave in that I am fixing my eyes on "whatever is pure, whatever is lovely" and am consciously closing my mind to fear and failure.  My hope is in Jesus, and even if everything falls apart in my eyes, I know that God's ways are perfect-- his thoughts and ways are higher than mine, and his good purpose will always prevail.  This knowledge has completely changed how I view my life-- even the rough times, such as when my 2 year old was hospitalized last weekend-- have purpose and give glory to God.  I will still cry and worry,and I will always be far from perfect.  But Jesus is changing me from having a spirit of fear to a spirit of hope and faith.  By the grace of God, I will give my children the gift of growing up in a home ruled by his peace, love, and joy.  This is a present far more valuable than anything I can wrap.

Also, it won't break or get eaten.

Jonas's Birth Story

So, birth.  It’s an amazing, wonderful, miraculous thing.  When I was pregnant with Silas, I had no idea what to expect.  I didn't plan or think about it much, to be honest, and though things didn't go as I had thought they probably should, he was born healthy and safe.  With Oliver, however, I educated myself and prepped and planned to the last minute tiny detail.  I WAS GOING TO HAVE A VBAC, and Lord help anyone who got in my way.  And praise God, Oliver also was born safe and healthy, and I literally got everything I prayed for (you can read Oliver’s birth story here; please know Jamie says the long and horrendous labor is my fault because I prayed for an “experience.”  It’s true.) 

As I approached the end of pregnancy with our third son, to be honest, I really wasn't thinking about birth.  I was still visiting my chiropractor, I had contacted my doula, and I had written my birth plan (aka changed the date on Oliver’s plan) but I really just wasn't thinking about it.  I had a lot going on; lots of MOPS meetings, homeschooling my kindergartner, starting up a homeschool co-op with a friend, and potty-training a 2 ½ year old.  Basically anything I could do to stay busy and keep my mind off of pushing a human through my lady bits.  So when I woke up on Saturday, October 25^th, about two and a half weeks before my alleged due date (by the doctor’s dates, my due date was November 11^th; by my dates, anywhere from November 3^rd- 5^th), the last thing on my mind was labor.

I remember telling Jamie around 7:30, as he left to go work for his dad, that I was feeling a little crampy.  I was still planning on running (I had the day before!), as well as doing several loads of laundry and lesson plans for the next few school units.  At about 9:00 I texted Bethany, my doula, to let her know that the remainder of her fee was in the mail.  As an afterthought I added that I was feeling crampy, but it was really not painful at all so I was sure it was nothing.  She asked me a couple of questions, and as I wrote her back I realized that hey, these cramps are coming in regular intervals.  Hmmm.  But seriously, the pain was so minimal I dismissed it.  At her urging I called Jamie and told him I might need him to come home today.  It was now about 10am, and the cramps/contractions were probably 5-6 minutes apart.  I did throw some laundry in, and made sure my boys had pants on (more often than not, they don’t), and after a couple more contractions I called my parents.  I told my dad I wasn't absolutely sure that today was the day, but just in case—could they please come get Silas and Oliver? My mom was there in 20 minutes.  Apparently SHE was ready.  Me, not so much.

Jamie got home around 11, and I was still communicating with Bethany.  By this time everyone was sure I was in labor except me.  It just really seriously didn't hurt.  I mean, there was pressure and it was kind of intense… but NOTHING like last time, when I wanted to lay down and die for roughly 18 hours.  And in-between the contractions I felt FINE.  Like, great.  I chatted with my friend Trisha on the phone for a while; I had to breathe a bit through some contractions but it was nothing.  A little while later I made Jamie take a walk with me (just a couple of miles).  As the contractions hit when I was walking, I started to slow down and breathe.  I remembered Bethany telling me things were getting serious if a contraction hit and I couldn't move, even if I were about to get hit by a truck.  I kept this in mind and *never actually stopped moving* through each contraction—I would walk super, super slowly instead :)  In my mind, this meant things weren't that serious because hey, I was moving! By this time and when we got home it was about 1.  I realized the 2-mile walk had taken well over an hour- guess I was moving a lot more slowly than I thought! Still, I wasn't convinced I was in labor.  

I made myself some lunch and argued with Jamie about mowing the lawn.  I wanted him to get it done.  We had plenty of time! Seriously, I said, I’m not even sure this is real.  Right about then I had my first contraction where I had to vocalize a bit.  Jamie rolled his eyes and said he was NOT mowing the lawn, we were going to the hospital! No, seriously, the lawn looks terrible.  You should go do it, it’ll only take an hour or so… Jamie stomped upstairs to get the hospital bag.  I moaned through another contraction.  I then decided I would humor Jamie and go to the hospital… they’ll just send us home, and then he’ll feel so stupid, I thought.  It was now 2:00.

I texted Bethany and told her we’d head for the hospital around 3.  Or later, if I could drag my feet some more… and of course, at 2:30 Jamie was ushering me into the car.  Each town we drove through was an opportunity for me to try to convince him to stop.  In Mt. Vernon I tried to get him to stop at Casey’s for some water and gum (apparently we already had that).  In Solon I tried to get him to stop at Dairy Queen (just a snack—for him, not me, because at that point I was feeling like vomiting every now and then.  SO obviously NOT in labor.)  In the outskirts of Iowa City I desperately tried to get him to go to Jimmy John’s: “But Jamie, you LOVE Jimmy John’s UUUHHHHH! Go get a Turkey Tom, I’ll wait here UUUHHHHH and be fine UHHHHHH!”

Those UUUHHHs were the sound of me moaning every 30 seconds or so.  Nope, everything’s fine here.

When we got to the hospital I, of course, refused the wheelchair (stupid volunteer, I’m not in labor BUT DON’T TOUCH ME EVERYTHING HURTS I CAN WALK I’M FINE) and waddled up to labor and delivery.  When we got there the nurse ushered me into that room where they check and make sure you’re in labor before they admit you—as we stepped over the threshold I had a contraction and moaned, and Amanda my sweet nurse said, “I think we can skip this… let’s get you in a gown…”  Now THIS I was fine with, because the fewer people who see my cervix the better, in my book (once again, refer to my last birth experience where roughly 37 people viewed it.  TEACHABLE MOMENT PEOPLE.) I got changed and hooked up to antibiotics because I was group b strep positive.  As I was stuck in the bed, I consented to ONE check.  Seriously, I was convinced the nurse was going to say I was a 2.  Maybe  a 3.  When she said 6-7 I was stunned.  Whaaaaat?  Are you telling me I’m having a baby today? Although, if things went like last time (as I was sure they would), “today” probably really meant “tomorrow,” because it was now 4:15 and my last labor was about a gazillion hours long.  So, plenty of time.  Jamie, go home and mow, you can make it back in time no problem.  He did not obey.

My doula arrived at the hospital right about then.  We chatted—she is in her third trimester of pregnancy as we speak, so we had lots to talk about.  As I labored (unhooked from the antibiotics, and also monitored intermittently which was FANTASTIC) I spent most of my time on the birth ball.  I got in the tub for a while, but the water was a little cold and who wants to take a lukewarm bath The staff at the hospital was great—everyone took the time to read my birth plan.  No one offered drugs, they were all fine with all my crunchiness and even offered to save the placenta (there it is! Placenta! Which we declined, BTW). Time passed quickly; though I was having some pretty intense contractions pretty close together, and though they were telling me I was definitely in labor, I still somehow was having a hard time believing that I was giving birth very soon.  As each contraction hit, I prayed and moaned and leaned on Jamie.  I just kept flashing back to Oliver’s labor; his was SO painful and SO long, I had just assumed it would be the same this time around.  When Dr. Smollen checked me at about 6:30 and declared me fully dilated and 100% effaced, I thought she was joking.  I really just figured out I was in labor a couple of hours ago! Where were the other 14 hours of pain and suffering? At about that moment my water broke (probably another reason I was in denial; in both of my other labors, my water broke at the very start) and I laid on my right side to get baby boy in the best position for pushing (still in my head thinking “but I won’t be pushing for at least 10 more hours!”)

Laying on my side I had one SUPER AWFUL HORRIBLE CONTRACTION—the ONLY contraction I actually yelled through (with Oliver, I yelled for a solid 12 hours).  I turned over and yelled something like “I NEED TO PUSH!” and Dr. Smollen came running back in.  It was now about 6:38.  With the next wave of contraction I pushed…. And pushed…. And pushed… and then, at 6:42pm, my wonderfully sticky and gooey boy made his way into the world.  A head FULL of gorgeous long black hair and a face full of vernix that made it hard for him to open his left eye (maybe they were right about his due date), Jonas Charles Johnson was 6 pounds, 13 ounces and 19.5 inches of beautiful baby boy—my largest baby to date. 

I couldn't believe the contrast in labors—while in total I was probably “in labor” for 9 hours or so, I only actually felt like I was in labor for 3 (I only actually acknowledged I was in labor for maybe 20 minutes).  With Oliver, I pushed for FOUR HOURS.  Literally.  With Jonas, I pushed for FOUR MINUTES.  It was glorious.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, it sucked.  It hurt.  But it was SO much less painful than Oliver’s birth I was astounded (if you didn’t read his birth story, basically he was posterior which meant 18ish hours of back labor and stuck on pubic bone and lot of pain and yelling and weeping and gnashing of teeth.  Unmedicated, of course, because I forgot to ask for pain meds.  Basically.)

I got to hold and kiss my baby boy and snuggle him right away, which I've never gotten to do before.  Jamie got to cut the cord when it was done pulsing.  The placenta (there it is again! Placenta!) came out three minutes after Jonas, which was a miracle all by itself.  Literally, absolutely everything we specifically prayed for concerning Jonas’s birth happened.  It was so graceful, so comparatively easy, so beautiful.  I am so thankful for my husband, who supports me on my natural birth journeys, no matter what issues arise.  He loves me and our boys and is truly the best partner, in birth but especially in life, I could ever hope for.  I am also thankful for my birth team—this time, only Bethany the Best Doula in the Land, as well as Dr. Smollen—who I really only saw for a cervix check and pushing, but really that’s fine with me—it made Jonas’s birth such an intimate experience, much more private and peaceful than I have experienced before. 

Life with three boys has been pretty crazy the last three weeks.  I’m sure I’ll share at a later time about the trials and struggles we've already been dealing with (can anyone say “2 year old regression”??), but for now, I am just so thankful to Got for every blessing we've been given—especially, right now, these three boys with three very different entries into the world.  Jonas, we are so grateful for you—get ready for a wild and crazy experience in this wild and crazy world!

Parking Lot Gospel

Today was not one of my finer days.  It started out well enough-- my kids actually slept till 7, we got a good hour and a half in of school, and the fighting was pretty minimal between my boys.  I decided to load up the kiddos in my big, giant, gas-guzzling SUV and haul them to the library to pick up the books I'd put on hold for our next couple of homeschool units.  I also made a list of birthday-party-items I thought I'd get at Hobby Lobby (my new obsession, even though I am probably the least crafty person on the planet. Do you know how many amazing things they have there???)

I should have stayed home.

First, Oliver fell asleep about 5 minutes into the drive (I don't know about you, but it ruins.my.life when my kids fall asleep in the car.  "I took a 3 minute nap! I don't need another one! But I will cry ALL DAY LONG because I AM SO TIRED!!") When I maneuvered my giant SUV into the library parking lot, of course it was full.  But aha! I spotted ONE open spot... squeeeeezed in between a median and another SUV, which was *slightly over* the line, and whose driver was currently strapping a baby into a stroller.

Maybe it's because I'm pregnant/delusional/same thing, but I really thought I could make it.

Yeah.  Remember my GIANT SUV? Not so much.

I ended up scratching this poor woman's (much nicer than ours) SUV while she and her kids watched in horror.  I was in horror.  Silas was in horror.  Oliver, who up until this point had been taking a nice little snooze, woke up and BECAME a horror.

I have rarely felt so humiliated.  How could I ever think my hulk of a vehicle could fit into such a tiny space?? The woman was actually very kind, we exchanged information and the damage will be taken care of (by us, of course).  The boys and I picked up our books and got out of there, abandoning the rest of the errands I had planned to run today.  The whole time, Oliver (who had calmed down but was now fascinated by what had taken place) kept saying, "Mommy, you hit dat car, mommy? You do dat? You say sowwy, Mommy?"  Thank you, child.

I was shaky, but I really lost my composure once I got home.  I just couldn't believe I'd done something so dumb.  In full view of my kids.

I spent some time berating myself for my stupidity, and then feeling sorry for myself because I was so stupid.  And then I realized that maybe it would be a good time to pray.  So I did-- I prayed for the poor woman whose car I hit, her kids who saw the whole thing.  I prayed for my kids, who also saw the whole thing.  And as I prayed, my attitude about the event began to change.  I started to thank God for things-- obviously, I should NOT have hit this car.  But I did.  I screwed up, and I cannot change that.  But the woman was so kind and gracious, when she really could have chosen not to be-- and I wouldn't have blamed her one bit.  I did not deserve her kindness, but I am still thanking God that she showed me such grace.  I got to thinking about how this is an illustration of how God shows us grace on a much bigger scale.  I absolutely 100% deserve whatever anger and wrath this woman had towards me.  But she chose not to react that way, and I'm so thankful.

I also absolutely 100% deserve the wrath of God.  It's true.  Yes, God loves me, but he is also holy.  This means, in the limited understanding my tiny brain can grasp, that unless I can live up to the perfect standard HE (not me) sets, I will ultimately face the wrath of God.

It is pretty obvious that I do not, and in fact, can not live up to these standards.  But praise God, he has made a way to show me grace-- completely undeserved grace.  2 Corinthians 5:21 says, "For he made him who knew no sin to be sin for us, so that we might be made the righteousness of God in him."  One of my favorite verses, hands down.  The hope of the world, summed up in that there sentence.

Though this woman was exceedingly gracious, there will still be consequences for me (insurance rates go up, money out of pocket at not such a great time).  Though my sins are forgiven, and I am spared the wrath of God, I will still face some consequences for my sinful choices and actions.

However.

But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ--by grace you have been saved-- and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus.  For by grace you have been saved through faith.  And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast." --Ephesians 2:4-9

Words cannot describe my thankfulness and gratitude for grace-- ALL grace, which (directly as well as indirectly) comes from God.

I am also thankful for cupcakes, which I purchased and consumed later to heal my wounded pride.

This is my son Oliver, wearing a helmet while I drive, which is probably a good idea.

..On Failing.

I think it's pretty clear from my posts that I do NOT have it all together.  My house does not look like it belongs in a magazine, my kids are not perfect (or even really all that clean), I have issues folding socks and would really rather use paper plates all the time if I could.  I am a Pinterest failure.

Often as mommies I think we inadvertently (or sometimes ...advertently... ? on purpose, I mean) engage in the competition/comparison battle.  We women (generalization alert) spend way too much time comparing ourselves to each other, and then judging one another--- along with ourselves-- based on what we *think* we see.

In my own small way, I am going to combat this by sharing with you a list of things that I am absolutely terrible at.  Next week I may share a list of things I'm good at, but who are we kidding, I suck at blogging on schedule so let's plan for October. (<--One more thing on the list...)

1. Cleaning high spaces.

THIS is a picture of a cobweb in a window in my dining room.  I do not look at these window corners.  I do not, obviously, clean these windows.  My fans also haven't been dusted in maybe a year.  You can usually find a long dusty cobweb strand or two hanging down from the ceiling in  room corner.  I really don't care.
Maybe I should...

2. Weeding my garden.
I love our garden.  We grow lots of yummy things-- sweet corn, all sorts of peppers and tomatoes, herbs, cucumbers, beans, broccoli and cauliflower, etc.  We also grow some not-so-yummy things (KOHLRABI).  Mostly, we grow weeds.  When I quit my job to be a SAHM I had visions of myself spending time on my knees in the garden, my hair pulled back in a kerchief (right? is that what it's called?) pulling weeds while imparting Biblical wisdom to my children, who were playing sweetly nearby.  This has NEVER happened in my almost 4 years of staying at home.  Not one bit of it.  I think I've been in there to weed twice.  And nobody was being very sweet while I was in there, myself included.

3. Saving money/electricity.
I love air conditioning.  As much as I wax poetic about living off the grid, when the rubber hits the road I will almost certainly spend the vast majority of July and August in the basement.  Today in eastern Iowa it's about 92 degrees with 90% humidity.  I spent most of the day outside and really felt like I was melting.  My amazing, hard-working husband works outside, an average of 72-80 hours a week, in this (and worse) heat.  I am conceding my homesteading hat to him.  I am a huge wimp, and am planning on researching solar-powered AC.  Or inventing it.

4. Keeping my mouth shut.
If you read this post, you'll know that I blamed this on my pregnancy hormones.  Most of the time I'm not so rude.  However.  The truth is, if I REALLY and TRULY think I know something to be true, and I REALLY and TRULY believe that you are wrong, there is no stopping me from letting you know.  THIS is something I have to work on.  I am wrong a lot, and it's humbling to admit that-- especially to others.  This is a spiritual battle for me.  I am a know-it-all and I like to, ahem, share my wisdom with others.  If took me a very long time to admit my desperate need for a Savior, despite me *knowing,* intellectually, that I was a sinner.  Realizing that my own justification and reason were NOT enough to save me from the holy wrath of God took several months and years of painful sanctification-- and really still is an ongoing process.

5. Not comparing myself to other women/mothers.
Last year at MOPS I heard something that was a revelation to me.  When we think about our children, and how special and beautiful they are, each in their own way, it would be devastating as a parent to have a child constantly wishing that he or she were a completely different person-- ignoring the strengths and skills and characteristics they were given and spending all their time wishing they had someone else's.  Why, then, as women/mothers/daughters of Jesus do we do this? Instead of being thankful, humbled, and blessed by the gifts God has given me, do I constantly look at other women and envy/covet who they are and what they have? God has created me to bring glory to Him in my current situation-- and I. Am. Blessed.  I need to praise Him and thank Him where I am at, with everything He's given me {and He's given me everything}.

There's a lot of other stuff I'm bad at, but I'm tired.

Is there anything you're terrible at? What has it taught you about yourself, and your relationship with Jesus?

Pregnancy. #nofilter.

At this writing, I am 23.5 weeks pregnant with baby boy #3.

Yes, I know my house is going to be loud and dirty, etc. etc. etc.

Yes, I know I am outnumbered (I was already before, TYVM).

Yes, I know (insert dumb comment about having more than 1.5 children of the same sex).

I know I am not alone in lamenting the plethora of stupid comments that come my way when I'm pregnant. Most of the time, I have no problem fielding such comments-- but when I'm expecting, I seem to have a hard time filtering my responses.  Here are a few of the things that have been said to me when I've been expecting, and my actual, real responses to those people.

Sorry/Not Sorry.

*Conversation at Bible Camp with older woman when I was 30 weeks with #1:
Woman: Wow! Look at you! When are you due?
Me: In about two and a half months.
Woman: WHOA.  Are you SURE? I mean, WOW.  I would've thought you were due yesterday!
Me: Nope, not till October (it was August).
Woman: Well, I hear they're letting women gain much more weight these days.  In my day, my doctor only let me gain 15 pounds!
Me: Huh.
Woman: How much have you gained? I bet it's a lot.  You just look SO uncomfortable.
Me: I've gained the appropriate amount of weight for this point in my pregnancy.
Women: But how much?
Me: As much as I need to.  And I still weigh less than you.

This exchange ended well-- she laughed.  I did not.

*Drunk woman (girl?) at Jones County Fair, 28 weeks with #1:
Girl: OH MY GOSH (didn't say gosh) YOU ARE PREGNANT!
Me: Yep, sure am!
Girl: Can I touch your belly? (Didn't wait for response, starts rubbing belly)
Me: Uhhh....
Girl: It's so round! I can't believe there's a PERSON in there! I just love pregnant people!
Me: Thanks...
Girl: But I hope I'm NEVER pregnant! It's just so weird! And kind of gross! But I love you!
Me: I hope you're never pregnant either.

*Midwife appointment, 32 weeks with #2
Midwife: I see you've gained 6 pounds in the last 4 weeks.  That's too much.  You need to stop eating sugar and bread.
Kara: But in total I've only gained 16 pounds... and my blood pressure is great...
Midwife: But that's just too much.  No more carbs. How much are you exercising?
Kara: More than you, apparently. (Burst into tears, midwife rolls her eyes).
DISCLAIMER: This was NOT the amazing midwife who actually delivered Oliver :)

*Adult student in class I teach, 22 weeks with #3
Student: So did you find out what you're having?
Kara: Yep! We're having another boy!
Student: Oh, gross.
Kara: YOU'RE GROSS.

In retrospect, I am absolutely sure I said some really very stupid things to pregnant people in the past. I would like to take a moment to truly apologize to anyone I might have offended or hurt by my lack of understanding and complete ignorance of what is and what is not funny, acceptable, and kind.

Here is my advice to all non-pregnant people on how to address pregnant women:
"Wow! You look FANTASTIC! Congratulations on your blessing!"
The end.

PS-- I would also like to say that I am NOT on Twitter, so all of my hashtagging is ironic.

5 Things I Learned from Reality TV

This is a picture of my son and his cousin.  They are wearing buckets for hats, which would probably be considered haute couture on Project Runway.

I'm a big fan of Buzzfeed.  Whether it's something incredibly important that I need to learn about myself, like how big of a Harry Potter fan am I REALLY, or something really ACTUALLY important like which member of the Baby-Sitter's Club I am, I always find myself entertained and/or enlightened as I procrastinate.  Today I was inspired to create my own little list, which will probably help you grow as a person in ways you can't even imagine.

My list is called: 5 Things I Learned from Watching Reality TV

THIS IS REALLY IMPORTANT

1. Always carry a fire-starter with you.
I'm a giant, huge fan of Naked and Afraid.  If you're wondering, no, it's not because they're naked (usually pretty gross-- first they're all white and flabby and then they're sun-burned skeletons).  It's because, as you know, I'm a bit of a prepper.  Not as in "I have a stockpile of weapons and seventeen years of toilet paper in my bomb shelter" but as in "I'm not convinced things aren't going to go downhill economically so I have a lot of rice and canned goods."  I like to call myself optimistically pre-Trib, but realistically post-Trib.  These factors combine into a fascination with survival shows.  I love Bear Grylls, but Naked and Afraid is the best.  These people know their stuff-- or they get legitimately injured or deathly ill and have to be e-vac'd off of whatever remote tundra they've been dropped onto.  The ONE BIGGEST TIP I've learned from this show is that whatever Egyptian-Bow-Drill-Hatchet-mechanism you SWEAR worked in your backyard the last 300 times you did it WILL NOT WORK in an actual survival situation.  So stock up on lighters, people. The last thing you want when the zombies come is a wicked case of cryptosporidium.

2. Hats aren't for everyone.
A few years ago I started watching Project Runway.  I'm not a huge fashionista (most of my wardrobe is from Target) but I do love watching creative people create.  I also wish I knew how to sew (more than hems and buttons and the occasional curtain, anyway) so Project Runway is one of my favorites.  I've learned that much of fashion is out of my reach, both economically and aesthetically, but I have noticed that many of the hats attempted by Project Runway alumni are utterly ridiculous.  Don't get my wrong-- they are glorious and amazing, but like much couture fashion, if you ever tried to wear one you'd probably be mistaken for an extra terrestrial.  Hats work for Posh Spice and all those other London-ers and Ketucky Derby-ers.  Hats, however, do not work for everyone.

3. Listen to your elders. 
I love Deadliest Catch.  I love watching how these people make their living in the toughest way I can imagine.  I also love Mike Rowe's voice.  Anyway, if you ever want to spot a train wreck a mile before it happens, watch a cocky greenhorn on Deadliest Catch.  About ten minutes into hauling their first set of pots (see how I used crab-fishing-terminology there? Not quite sure what it means or if I used it correctly, but I feel like part of the of the Northwestern crew right now) the newbie who was sure he was the good Lord's gift to crab fishing is slipping all over the deck in his own vomit, whining that everyone is mean to him and he can't keep up.  All these things are true, of course, but things would probably go a whole lot better if he would have kept his mouth shut, tried harder, and obeyed every order given to him.  Who wants to get on Freddie Maugatai's bad side? AN INSANE IDIOT, THAT'S WHO.

4. Pick up your crap.
Hoarders is a sad, fascinating show.  Every time I watch it I'm equal parts disgusted and saddened.  I'm disgusted because, let's face it, someone living in literal feet of their own literal excrement is at the top of the grossness scale.  I'm saddened because there are people in this world who have to-- or, as it may be debated, choose to-- live this way.  Yet once it's on, I have a hard time turning it off.  And seriously, it's been a great motivator for me when I'm lazy and tired and just don't feel like picking stuff up-- because here in Iowa in the summer, if you don't wash your dirty dishes fairly soon, you will have ant colonies take up residence in your kitchen.  And while ants aren't cockroaches or possums or cat skeletons, they can be kind of icky.

5. Make ice cream.
I love the Food Network.  I fancy myself a decent home-cook, and I love to try new things.  I love watching Chopped-- where four elite chefs compete to make the best meal out of crazy mystery basket ingredients like pig's ears and squid lips and root beer.  I have noticed, however, that the person who wins is almost always the person who makes ice cream for dessert.  You'd think the rest of the world would notice this and the judges would be having ice cream on nearly every show, but I guess it hasn't caught on yet.  Seriously, everyone who throws their twinkies and olives and hot dogs in some heavy cream and sugar into the ice cream machine is guaranteed to be the winner.

So there you go.  An utterly useless list of things that you needed to know to improve your life.  Once again, you're welcome.

Tell Me, If You Understand

Recently, in my quest to read the Bible cover-to-cover in a year, I read through the whole book of Job.  It’s certainly a story we’re all familiar with, and if you’re feeling self-pity, I recommend reading it for some perspective.  I've been going through a difficult time lately after experiencing another miscarriage.  It was very early, and physically I’m absolutely fine, but I am still a bit of a mess emotionally.  Having experienced a devastating loss in 2008, I honestly thought that if we ever had another miscarriage I would be prepared and it wouldn't be “so bad.”  Well, on one hand, it’s really not.  The experience itself was much less traumatic, what with me keeping all my organs and various body parts this time.  I knew fairly soon that things weren't okay, and I was able to prepare myself for what was coming.  I also have two amazing, hysterical little boys to focus on now—and I really have been appreciating much more lately what blessings they are.  But the sorrow I felt after a few days really took me by surprise.  I then started to feel, on top of the sadness, guilt and even shame for being sad.  After all, I have two AMAZING kiddos.  Some people, who would give anything for a child, have none.  I decided to tell very few people about the loss, only my immediate family members, my closest friends, and a couple of other people who needed to know for various reasons.  If no one knows, I won’t have to talk about it, and then, basically, I won’t have to think about it.

I changed my mind.  Well, God  changed my mind with His Word (funny how that works).  If you’re familiar at all with Job, you’ll probably recall how his friends and even his wife encouraged him to “curse God and die.”  I can’t even imagine how Job felt.  His whole life was wrong.  His children were dead, his livelihood was destroyed, everything he thought he could count on was gone.  Everyone loves to quote Job 13:15: “Though he slay me, yet I will trust him…”  And yes, this verse has been a comfort for me—a constant reminder that no matter what, Jesus loves me and I need to CHOOSE to trust and obey Him. But the verse and context that really stood out for me during this time was Job 38, when God answers Job in his lamenting.  You can read the whole passage here (and please do!) but for the sake of space I’ll share the brief verses that were most impactful:

Job 38:4-7
“Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?
Tell Me, if you have understanding.
 Who determined its measurements?
Surely you know!
Or who stretched the line upon it?
 To what were its foundations fastened?
Or who laid its cornerstone,
When the morning stars sang together,
And all the sons of God shouted for joy?”

I don’t believe God was “scolding” Job for his grief.  There is never any shame in coming to God with our mourning, sadness, burdens.  The Bible tells us that God keeps track of our tears (Psalm 56:8), and in Luke 12 He makes it very clear that He loves us enough to know the very number of hairs on our heads.  In fact, I believe God was comforting Job—giving Job reassurance that even though he (Job) had no understanding of what was happening or why, God did.  Even if Job couldn't grasp the purpose, EVER, of the mess of his life—God did.  Even when Job wished he had never been born, to avoid the torment that would be become his world, God reminded Job who was in control. 

What happened to Job was a thousand, million times worse than anything that has happened to me.  Yet sorrow is sorrow, and grief is grief.  Job was not ashamed to lament before God—why am I? When I lost my first baby, SO MANY PEOPLE came to tell me about their miscarriage.  I had NO idea it was so common.  Nearly everyone I spoke with shared with me their pain, and then how God helped them through that time.  It was so comforting to me.  Why do we, as a culture, turn away from each other, and from God, during times like this? As I read Job, it became clear to me that what God was calling me to do was to OWN and SHARE my grief.  Indeed, where was I when God made the world? How can I ever understand Him, or His purposes? I may not this side of heaven, but I can certainly trust Him enough to obey Him, and praise Him through every circumstance of my life.

Maybe you've never had a miscarriage (and I certainly pray you don’t!) but every one of us experiences pain in some form.  I encourage you to be honest, with God and with others.  "Tell me, if you have understanding..."  Indeed, we should share-- with each other-- if we have understanding.  Take comfort in Him who knows your pain and sorrow, and if you trust and seek Him, He WILL one day wipe every tear from our eyes. Many, many blessings, dear friends!

The Very Worst Homeschooling Mom in the World

*Child-version TMI warning

Recently, we've made the decision to homeschool our children.  This post is not about why, or for how long, or even how we came to that decision.

This post is about my utter failure, and then subsequent triumph, to teach my then-3-year-old how to spell his name.

I became aware of the fact that I should probably be doing SOMETHING to educate my child in February of this year, when we went a cousin's 4th birthday party.  Silas, 3 at the time, couldn't tell you an A from a B, or that things such as letters existed.  He could sing the ABC's, count to 20, tell you all the colors of the rainbow (and even count to 10 in Spanish, the only time I'll ever be glad that Dora exists), but the concept of letters and them having meanings was completely foreign to him.  As I watched his sweet, bright cousin spell her whole name, I made a goal to teach Silas to recognize his name by the time he was 4.

I didn't want to spend any money on any sort of curriculum (come on, he's 3) so I decided to go about it the old-fashioned way: by the seat of my pants, no idea what I was doing.  I introduced Silas to letters-- we did puzzles and sang songs and did flashcards and read, read, read, read (we read A LOT in this house) but it just didn't seem to be clicking.  In March we reached the 1 month mark and he still couldn't sight recognize a thing.  I decided to pare down my ambitious goal and just teach him one single, stinking letter-- the letter "S."

I kid you not, we spent HOURS on the letter S.  We continued with our flash cards and puzzles.  We drew the letter S in various forms-- sidewalk chalk, shaving cream, markers and crayons and even using pull-apart Twizzlers.  I would think he was finally getting it-- I would see an "S" on a sign or in a book and would ask him, over and over, "Silas! What letter is this?!?"

Blank stare.

"You know it! It stands for... SILAS... it makes an "esssssssss" sound like a snake??"

Blank.

I felt like the very worst homeschooling mom in the whole, entire world.  How could I expect to teach my kids math (which I barely understand myself) if I can't even communicate the STUPID STINKING SORRY LETTER S?????

And then, one day in August, a month before his 4th birthday, a breakthrough.

Silas was in the bathroom, and I was doing something else upstairs.  He started yelling, loud and urgent:

"MOM! MOM! MOM! COME HERE RIGHT NOW MOM MOMOMOMOMOM!"

I thought he had fallen or cut himself or that he was drowning in the toilet, so I raced as fast as I could to the bathroom-- only to find him standing, pants down and half-naked, proudly next to the potty, pointing with his finger and a bright, excited look in his eyes.

"MOM!!! MY POOP IS AN 'S'!"

And... it was.

And, being the mother of boys that I am, I wiped his butt, and gathered him in a huge hug.
"IT IS! IT IS! I'm SO proud of you! I am SO happy your poop made an S!"

And then we said goodbye to the S, and flushed it away.

He learned the rest of the letters in his name within the next two weeks.  I owe it all to the potty.

A very proud Silas

Up On the Mountain

For a while now, it’s been my husband’s and mine conviction to let God plan our family.  If you know me, you’ll recognize that it took a lot for me to get to that place—a lot of prayer, time spent in the Word, and a lot of Biblical counsel from Godly men and women.  I adore my children, but mothering hasn’t always come easy to me.  Yet once I did get there—get to that place where I put my total trust in the Lord to deliver the children in our family according to his perfect plan—it didn’t turn out like I thought it would. 

 
Have you ever experienced a situation like this? Where you desire something good, acceptable, and perfect (Romans 12:2)… and instead of everything falling into place, you have to wait? And wait, and wait, and wait?

Just FYI: This post isn’t (really) about my fertility.  Bear with me.

When I chose to turn over the number of and space between children to God, He really did a number on me.  I grew up believing I’d only have 2 (maybe, if things got crazy, 3!) children, because that’s all I knew. (I’d like to make a disclaimer here—this is our personal conviction.  If you are reading this and do not share this conviction, please do not be offended.  I believe this is a non-salvation issue; for us, it has been a sanctification process.  Also, if you have had a struggle to have any children at all, or have not been able to, please know I do not mean to equate what God has taught me with your pain and your journey.  This is merely meant to encourage anyone who wants something “good” and has been told.. patience, Grasshopper.  End disclaimer).  When God changed my heart, He went all out—I honestly went from being terrified to have “too many” children to DESIRING a “quiver full” (Psalm 127).  I longed for a large family, and because it had taken SO MUCH for me to get to that place, and because it was a “good” desire…. I assumed that instantly, I would get it.  I was on that spiritual mountaintop we've all been on—I had found such communion and joy in the Lord, I couldn't imagine ever questioning or doubting ever again, because God has revealed Himself to me! I had finally surrendered! Even if I would never admit it, I really believed, deep down in my heart, that all God needed from me was surrender, and then He would bless me.

Imagine my surprise when things haven’t turned out this way.  I have friends still in their 20’s and very early 30’s who have 5 and 6 children, and will almost certainly have more… and here I am, believing and practicing the same things, and I have 2.  I realize that I am young, and have plenty of time, but patience isn’t my strong suite.  And please know that on this earth, my two boys are THE greatest blessings.  But it is my heart’s desire to have more children, so with every passing month that it doesn’t happen, I start to question what’s going on—with my body, with my life, with my faith.  I started wondering WHY God would put a longing in me for something that he LOVES: children!, if I wasn’t going to have any more children RIGHT AWAY, or even, not at all. 

Recently, I’ve come to see that this struggle I’ve been having isn’t necessarily about the size of my family.  It’s not about how strong my faith is, or how amazing my witness is, or about showing the world how different I am because I love Jesus.  All of these things are GOOD—we should want what He wants, desire for His desires, love what He calls good and hate what He calls evil (Romans 12:9).   

This is something more personal.  It’s between me and God.  It’s about doing what I thought I was doing initially—giving up every ambition and hope, every dream, even if it is good, to the will of God.  In those moments when I reach the “peak,” I believe Him completely. 

And then we come down the mountain, and live life as we must, in fact, as God calls us to—through refinement and struggles and persecution.  Maybe, for you, your desire and hope is a Godly husband or wife.  Maybe it’s a career to provide for your family.  I have dear friends who have a heavy burden to care for the orphan through adoption.  Yet every time they move forward, in faith, God shuts doors and opportunities are lost.  How can this be? How can a God who loves us deny us “good” things?

You see, if I trust Him, I need to give up any expectation or goal or dream to Him.  If I want to obey and serve Him, and be in a right relationship with Him, I need to acknowledge and accept that He is going to use painful situations to teach me.  God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son, for goodness’ sake! And he was willing to do that. Through this time of hoping and waiting, I have come to realize that even though I’ve “come down from the mountain,” and my expectations aren’t coming to fruition, God is using this circumstance to refine me.  I have got to get to that place, where I thought I was the first time, of when I say “not my will, God, but yours”—I really mean it.  I need to turn that easy obedience into practiced obedience, and that easy trust into implicit trust.  I need to come down from the mountain, yet remain in the spirit of my experience there. 

He wants us to desire good things. 

Mostly, He wants us to desire Him.

"This I Know"-- my new song obession, by (who else?) David Crowder

Up on the mountain

Where You taught my soul to sing

Amazing grace the sweetest thing

This I know

And then the storm rushing in

And here I am again

This I know

Take me up to where I was

When I never wanted more than You

Lift me up to feel your touch

It wouldn't be that much for You

This I know

This I know

This I know

This I know

Up on the mountain

Where You took me by the hand

Taught me to dance again

This I know

Up on the mountain

Where You took this heart of stone

Put life back in these bones

This I know

Take me up to where I was

When I never wanted more than You

Lift me up to feel your touch

It wouldn't be that much for You

This I know

This I know

This I know

This I know

Today I Baked a Cake: A Poem

A little poem for my faithful readers.  AKA my Grandma.  Ha ha.

My little men helping me in the kitchen

Today I baked a cake
I made it with my sons
It wasn't hard to make
We all had lots of fun

I measured out the flour
We spilled some on the floor
We baked it 'bout an hour
And then could wait no more

I set it out to rest
High upon the counter
I noticed I hadn't dressed
Nor had I even showered

I warned my sons I was watching
I told them not to touch
While I was busy washing
I didn't hear too much

If you have toddlers playing
Their laughter is so dear
But when they're disobeying
Silence you will hear

Alas, my chocolate
Confectionary treat
Was scattered around the faucet
And underneath my feet

"I wonder who did that!"
They said with a chocolatey grin.
I guess now we'll have a chat
About how lying is a sin.


This is a true story.  I made another one.
The end.

Advice to a 19 Year Old

I recently read this blog post which made me laugh really hard.. mostly because it described me to a "T" around the age of 21.  If you're not aware, I have actually been engaged twice-- once, of course, to my wonderful husband of 7 years, and once to.. someone else.  I'm not going to go into it, and I wish nothing but the best for that person, but to make a long story short-- it was a terrible decision, and we would have BOTH been miserable, and ending the engagement was one of the best things we could have ever done.  Anyway, I was reflecting on who I was THEN, when I got engaged at the ripe old age of 19, and who I am NOW, 10 years later at age 29.  If I could whisper in the ear of my 19-year-old self, and give her a little advice, I would say the following:

Summer 2003! Left to right:
Me, Trisha, Erin, Gretchen, Stace
All beautiful sisters in the Lord, all still friends of mine today

*If you feel, in your gut, that it's wrong-- it is.  I love reading advice columns ("Dear Prudie" is always interesting...) mostly because, on the outside, it is pretty obvious what the person is asking for-- permission and/or absolution.  Many of us know what the right thing to do is when faced with decisions, and yet we waver, I believe, because of our inherent sin nature.  James 4:17 makes it pretty clear: "Therefore, to him who knows to do good and does not do it, to him it is a sin."  Whether we knew we were wrong getting into the situation in the first place and don't want to deal with the consequences, or we suddenly have to do something very difficult and are trying to avoid getting hurt or hurting someone else.  Doing hard things has become a mantra of mine for this very reason-- I used to ignore or put off making a decision if it was going to be hard.  But trust me, the longer you put it off, the harder it gets for everyone involved.

*Don't buy that Ashlee Simpson CD.  Not only is it terrible, but CDs will be obsolete in about 10 years. And then you will be ashamed that you ever owned such a CD.

*It's okay to feel lonely.  Feeling this way is what draws you to the ONLY ONE who will never leave you or forsake you: Jesus (Deuteronomy 31:6) Stop trying to cling to people and relationships that are unhealthy just because you're scared to be alone-- God is giving you this opportunity to learn to lean into and trust in Him completely.

*When you pray, listen.  1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 says, "Rejoice evermore; pray without ceasing; in everything give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you."  Pray unceasingly and yes, ask God for the things you (think) you want and need, but mostly, concern yourself with listening and obeying what He tells you.  I have never audibly heard the voice of the Lord, but I *have* heard His voice. Being in the Word is so crucial-- much more so than having a date tomorrow night or getting an A on that project that's due next week.

Si and I at an ISU football game--
Almost exactly 10 years after the top picture was
taken! How time flies, and things change, PTL!

*Shovel the driveway when it snows, and don't use it as a trump card when you get into an argument with your roommates.

*10 years seems like forever.  Right now, it's MORE than half your life.  But trust me when I say that the next 10 years will fly like you can't believe.  Use these 10 years wisely-- trust the Lord, listen to Him, and be patient.  His plan and will for your life is so much more than you can imagine-- some incredibly hard, hurtful times, yes, but these times will draw you near to Him and you will learn to praise Him in all circumstances.

*Last, but certainly not least-- just so you know, the toilet in the basement is actually NOT a black toilet, it is white, and it needs cleaning.

Never Say Never

I've been told that "Never Say Never" is the motto of one Justin Bieber.  However, I'm more familiar with the phrase thanks to the Neverland Pirate Band.

 A couple of weeks ago, I bribed enticed encouraged my husband to do something he swore up and down he'd never do-- run a road race with me.  It was a lot of fun, even he agrees, but it got me thinking about things that I just KNEW I'd never do before I had kids that are now every-day occurrences for me.  Here is a list of things that I have actually done after having children.  Be warned, this is the truth, which is sometimes not pretty.

1. Forget to change the sheets that my water broke on.
2. Sleep on said sheets for approximately six weeks.
3. Breast-feed, uncovered, in front of numerous unknown people, not because I don't value modesty blah blah blah, but because I forgot my cover and decided I didn't care.
4. Have a colonoscopy and have no problems talking about it with people I do as well as do not know.
5. Forget that I left the TV on E! after watching a Katy Perry special (not even a fan) and realize 20 minutes later that my 3 year old is watching an episode of Sex and the City.
6. Very loudly discuss luteal phase defects and implantation bleeding at Olive Garden in front of our 18 year old male waiter.
7. Go out in public with urine and spit-up (also known as vomit) on my clothing.
8. Know about urine and spit-up before I leave and decide changing clothes is too much work.
9. Get a little addicted to the Wendy Williams show when Silas was a newborn and we didn't have cable.
10. Wear leggings as pants, see #8.

Just to tempt fate, I'm now going to include a short list of things I am 100% I will never, ever, EVER do in the future.
1. Eat my own placenta.

Happy Parenting!

This is a picture of Silas and I at the Freedom Fest Balloon Glow.

As you can tell, he is in the process of picking his nose.

Which he then wiped on me.

Do Hard Things

I am far from perfect.  I'm so far from perfect, I can't even tell you what perfect looks like or where it's located.  I yell, more when I'm tired or hormonal.  I use the TV as a babysitter when I shower (or blog, thanks Jake and the Neverland Pirates).  Sometimes, I let my kids eat those nasty little powdered sugar donuts because they were good while we went grocery shopping.  I'm sure there's a million other things I do wrong, but I'm going to stop listing them because it's making me a bit depressed.  Anyway, I'm not perfect, but there is one thing that I've gotten pretty good at over the last 3 years and 8 months of my life.  Let me explain it to you.

I once read the first four pages of a book called "Do Hard Things" by Alex and Brett Harris (you know, the little brothers of Joshua Harris).  I only read the first four pages because, at the time, I was 24 and had no kids and therefore no cares in the world so accomplishing monumental tasks in my life consisted of making sure I was at work before 9 (or 9:30, let's be honest here) and that my grad school papers were in on time (I know there are a myriad of people who have accomplished a lot of amazing feats by the time they're 24-- including having children, but I wasn't one of them).  Anyway, the premise of "Do Hard Things" involves challenging young people to defy current cultural expectations of their generation and work hard, cast off any sense or feelings of entitlement, set one's goals SUPER high, and go after and achieve those goals-- whether that be climbing a mountain or starting a business or going to college, etc.  At 24, I had accomplished some wonderful things-- I had a job I loved, an amazing husband that God had given me, a house, etc.  Yet I had a fear of failure, as many people often do, and therefore I never set a goal that I didn't already know I could achieve.  I didn't really quit things, I just never did anything very difficult in the first place.

Then we decided to start our family.

If you've read my blog before, you're probably familiar with this post where I share our experiences and struggles with having children.  We have been so, so blessed and are very humbled that God has chosen to give us these two amazing boys, and we pray that someday (really, any day now would be okay, Jesus.... :) he would choose to grow our family.  If you have kids, or have been around kids, or have been a kid, you know that they're an awful lot of work.  And here's the thing about them-- you don't really get to give up. When I first had Silas, my oldest, I was overwhelmed and terrified and probably had more than a touch of PPD, in retrospect.  I felt incredibly incompetent and relied heavily on my God, my mother, and my friends for support, guidance, and love.  It was SUCH hard work, and it was, hands down, the hardest thing I had ever done, both physically and mentally and spiritually.  There were times I went down into the basement in the middle of the night and screamed as loud as I could (don't worry, I didn't startle anyone, as Silas's screams were still louder than mine).  There were times I stuck him in his swing and let him cry himself to sleep as I stared at him because I didn't know what else to do.  So many times, even though I loved him more than my own life, I felt defeated because I just didn't know how to handle this tiny, wrinkly human being-- and my friends were juggling 3 or 4 kids with what seemed like ease.

When Silas was about 10 months old, I went to a week-long Bible camp with my friend Amy.  I'd been to the camp several years before, and always came away refreshed and renewed and excited by the Word of God.  Every other year I had looked forward to it eagerly.  This year, however, I was dreading it.  Why? Because of Silas.  I had to take my still not sleeping through the night 10 month old baby to a dorm room on a not-baby-friendly college campus in a town 2 1/2 hours from home, by myself.  I almost didn't go (seriously, I couldn't even handle a Wal-Mart trip with the kid by myself), but something told me I should power through.  So I did.  I hauled my kid, myself, the pack n play (which ended up being a waste of space because of course he could only sleep ON TOP OF me the whole time, super restful if you're wondering), and ton of other baby junk to Pella, Iowa for a whole week away from my husband and family.  The week I was dreading (I cried on the way) ended up being one of the best experiences of my life.  Not because it was easier than I thought it would be (if anything, it was harder), but because God used the pastors (shout out to Lew and Dave Miller!) to tell me exactly what I needed to hear, not necessarily what I wanted to hear.

The message? Do. Hard. Things.  Well, not that exactly, but the words the pastors spoke about God leading the Israelites through the wilderness, and how we, as believers, may live in the wilderness indefinitely-- and we need to praise God anyway- and not just anyway, BECAUSE we are in the wilderness.  The wilderness is where God teaches and refines us.  He draws us to our knees and humbles us and then pulls us back up stronger and more reliant on him.  2 Corinthians 2:10 is a verse many of us are familiar with- "Therefore I take pleasures in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then I am strong."  I knew this verse, but I had never experienced it.  I was most definitely in the wilderness, with this whole motherhood thing.  I was running away and looking for excuses and reasons to be my "old" self-- my childless self, my selfish self.  But God had chosen me to be a mother, and that self was GONE, whether I liked it or not.  And what I learned at camp was that God was pulling me through the wilderness (I wasn't going willingly) to make me a mother who raises her children in his image, truth, word, and love.  Having and raising my family is hands down the hardest thing I've ever done (and I detassled for five years, folks).  Instead of shying away from the exhaustion and utter fear I was experiencing, I need to cry out to Jesus and embrace it.

At camp I remembered the title of that book, and realized that God was calling me to do hard things-- the hardest thing-- and give up myself, my expectations, my hopes and dreams and fears, and dive headfirst into his calling for me, at this moment in time-- being a mother.  As I laid wide-awake in bed that night, my back aching and my breath short because my 10 month old was sound asleep on my chest, I decided that I would not turn away from the challenges God was calling me to.  I would embrace every difficulty as an opportunity to teach as well as learn, a place to plant seeds in my child(ren) as well as grow myself.  I would trust God even when things were unimaginably hard-- that he had a purpose for this circumstance and would eventually work it for good.

I can honestly say that from that moment on, my life has been different.  The Holy Spirit completely changed my attitude, my mind, and my heart.  I still get frustrated and angry and lose my temper.  Yet I honestly look at every challenge I face as a mother-- from big things like how to raise my children to love truth and righteousness, to small things like how to get them to stop spitting on each other-- I always have a peace that comes from God.  I know that even if this is taking a loooong time (and with little ones, EVERYTHING takes a long time) that there is a purpose for it.  I know and understand that anything worth doing is hard. "And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the reward of the inheritance, for you serve the Lord Christ." -- Colossians 3:23-24

I may never climb a mountain, or run a marathon.  I may never get my PhD or write a book.  But I know that I will rely on the Lord to raise my children to know him, serve him, and love him.  And that, my friends, is the hardest, most rewarding, and most important thing of all.

Now if you'll excuse me, my children are both yelling because, apparently, they're both trapped in Oliver's crib.  I best investigate, or else they'll both be soaked in spit momentarily (that "how to get them to stop spitting on each other" thing is a real problem).

This is a picture of Silas at around 6 months old.

This also is a pretty accurate representation of how I felt the majority of Silas's first year of life.