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.

Little House in the Iowa Cornfield, or, Farmer Girl, or, By the Shores of Lake Wandu

The actual Ingalls Homestead in De Smet, SD

For as long as I can remember, I've been a little bit obsessed with Laura Ingalls Wilder and her Little House  book series.  I started reading them in second grade, and haven't stopped since.  I still work my way through all of the books once every couple of years or so, and though I have probably read the books ten times each, every time I read them I love them a little bit more.  When I was in third grade (shout out to Mrs. Blin!) I even dressed up as Laura and made a little storyboard for a book report, sunbonnet and all. Recently, I learned that the brother of a dear family friend is the owner and operator of the Ingalls Homestead in De Smet, South Dakota, and I've made it a personal mission to get my family there for a trip ASAP.  My husband, who has never read the books, has a hard time understanding my enthusiasm for such a trip.  He doesn't get my pop culture (pioneer culture??) references every time there's a snowstorm and I tell him to tie a rope between the back door and the garage.  Anyway.

I think this lifelong love of the story of a pioneer family probably has something to do with my current obsession with homesteading.  If you're not familiar with homesteading, it's living pretty much like Ma and Pa Ingalls did-- being able to be self-sufficient and self-sustaining from your own home.  I love the idea of being able, if need be, to survive and thrive "off the grid."  Our belief that this may be a necessity, and that we could even attempt such a lifestyle, comes from a couple of things:

1. The belief that we may live through the Tribulation and/or Zombie Apocalypse.  Could be the same thing.
I like to say I'm optimistically Pre-Trib, but I'm not the world's greatest or smartest eschatologist.  Better to be safe than sorry, as they say.
2. I've watched a heck of a lot of Bear Grylls.  Pretty sure I could skin a sheep and use its layers of fat and wool as a sleeping bag.
3. I was in 4H.  If we do live through the Tribulation, I may have the Coggon Clippers to thank for teaching me how to sew, cook, and raise farm animals.  Head, Heart, Hands, Health, ya'll.

My family, mind you, is far, far, FAR from being true survivalists.  We don't have a bunker.  We are not currently stockpiling weapons.  We have electricity and satellite TV and smart phones.  But we are slowly moving towards the ability to go without them, if we have to.  We have a fairly large garden and I'm learning how to store seeds.  We are moving away from using any sort of chemicals in our home, and my husband said he'd build me a coop so we can get chickens (yay!!).  We live on a small acreage in the country, which allows us some freedoms in terms of having animals and space to grow things.  I learned how to can a couple of years ago and have spent significant time the past few summers adding our home-grown vegetables, jams and jellies, pasta sauce, salsa, etc. to our pantry.  We heat our home exclusively with a wood-burning stove in the winter, and are looking into getting a rain barrel.

Now don't get me wrong-- I love my air conditioning.  I am a pretty big fan of electricity, as it runs my treadmill and keeps my TV on and charges my phone so I can check who's cat is doing what stupid thing on Facebook.  But it's comforting to feel like we could survive without all these things.  Every time I go out to my garden to pick something, I pretend I'm Laura Ingalls and keep an eye out for wolves and papooses, with my trusty bulldog Jack (my yippy mutt Flufferbutt plays the part well) by my side.

I've always wondered what happened to Mr. Edwards.  I hope there's an exhibit on him in De Smet.

In case you're wondering, "Lake Wandu" is the name of a tiny farm pond about a mile from my house, and the closest body of water to us.  No idea who actually owns it.

Ma and Pa 

Laura as a young girl

Even So, It Is Well With My Soul

Our Little Miracles!

Oliver, 5/5/12

Silas, 9/27/09

This is not a post I particularly want to write.  This post will probably not be too witty, or include any funny anecdotes at all, actually.  But it's something God has been putting on my heart lately and though I've been fighting it for several weeks, I guess I'll just go ahead and obey (things always go better when you listen to Him.  If you're wondering.)

If you didn't know, I actually have three children-- Silas and Oliver, here with us on earth, and our first baby, who is in heaven.  I found out I was pregnant in early October 2008, after trying for one month.  We were shocked and surprised and more than a little scared.  I remember the day I found out we went to an ISU football game (those were the "before kids" days when we had money, thus season tickets) and I just felt so... weird the whole day.  I couldn't wrap my brain around it, I didn't really want to talk or think about it-- I was excited but right from the get go, I was absolutely terrified and had a feeling that something was wrong.

As the weeks went on, I told only a few friends about the baby and continued on with life.  I continued to have a nagging feeling that things weren't right, but I tried to push that aside and think about having a baby in early June.  When I was about 8 weeks pregnant I started to have a pulsing pain on my left side.  It wasn't too bad at first-- for several days I just felt uncomfortable.  As time went on, however, it got worse.  I called my doctor and spoke with a nurse, and tried to explain that I was having periods of intense pain in one localized area.  I said, literally, "I really think there is something wrong-- could I please come in for an ultrasound?" The nurse dismissed me as a hypochondriac first-time mom, and told me to take a laxative.  (No joke, that's what she said.)  I hung up the phone feeling like maybe I *was* crazy-- after all, I'd never been pregnant before, what did I know? I wasn't having any bleeding, so I thought maybe she was right.

I woke up the next morning and the pain was still present.  I actually have a pretty high pain tolerance, so I ignored it and went on my usual 5 mile run before I left for work, where I was scheduled to teach in a local sixth grade classroom.  I remember during my run that every time my foot hit the ground, my left side ached and pulsed-- it felt hot to the touch, and was a little swollen.  Still, I finished my run and got ready for work.  As the morning went on the pain got worse and worse-- towards the end of the class I had to pull a stool over to myself and sit while I talked to the kids, which is something I never do-- I like to walk around and interact when I'm teaching.  When the class was over, I gathered my things and started towards my car.

Between the office where I signed out and the parking lot, the pain became so intense that I had to walk bent over, and I was having trouble breathing.  I got in my car and started to drive to Cedar Rapids, and I called my friend Amy to let her know I was in trouble.  The ironic thing is Amy was pregnant too-- due just a few days before me.  She had been there when I called my doctor about the pain, and she knew I didn't feel right about the pregnancy.  Amy started to cry and offered to come and get me.  I told Amy I would have my husband pick me up, and just to pray for me.  I then called Jamie, and told him something was very, very wrong, and he needed to come take me to the ER.  By this time I had pulled over and parked in the Touch of Class parking lot because I couldn't drive anymore.  I then called my doctor and told the nurse that I was having excruciating pain and I didn't know what to do.... and she proceeded to put me on hold for seven minutes.  It would have been longer, but I hung up and called back again.  This time, I got another nurse who told me I needed to go to the ER right away.  Jamie pulled up and lifted me into the truck, and we sped off to Mercy, where I was admitted right away and had an ultrasound within the hour.  The admitting doctor mentioned the possibility of an ectopic pregnancy.  I knew, instantly, that that was what was happening to me.

Sure enough, the ultrasound confirmed that the baby had implanted in my left fallopian tube, which had then burst.  I was bleeding internally to a great degree.  Jamie called my parents who came as soon as they could.  I was an emotional mess, crying because my baby had died and why had this happened? I didn't have any risk factors for ectopic pregnancy, it didn't make any sense to me.  I was rushed into surgery and the burst tube and my baby, no longer living, was removed.

Needless to say, I was devastated, and remained so for several months.  Yet the point of this story is not my sadness or anger or "why me?" attitude, though I did go through all these emotions for quite some time.  The point of this story is that God is good, and sovereign, and works all things together for good for those who love him.  What, you may ask, good can come from a baby dying and my fertility reduced by over 50%? What good can come from grief so deep I didn't know if I would ever find my way back out? Isaiah 55:8-9 tells us,
For my thoughts are not your thoughts, says the Lord.
For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.

Several things have come to my attention recently.  My doula recently posted this article that hit home for me. I spent so much time angry with my former OBGYN and his staff that they refused to see me when I knew something was wrong.  Yet what if they had? I would have found out that yes, my pregnancy was a TRUE ectopic pregnancy (unlike some in the article) and I would have been pressured to have an abortion.  I thank God for protecting me from this decision.  Yes, I do believe it is better to have lost a tube than to have killed my baby.  Yes, my baby died anyway, but it was an act of God for a purpose.  I believe the purpose of my baby dying in the manner she did (in my heart I know she was a girl) was threefold.

One: My husband's mother died shortly after our baby.  It had been an absolute dream of hers to be a grandmother.  She could talk of almost nothing but us having a baby! When we told her, just days before she passed, about the baby in heaven, her eyes lit up and she said, "I get to be a grandma in heaven!" She was anxious for her pain to end (she had had a stroke and was now dying from cancer), and to be in heaven with Jesus, but the knowledge of a grandchild in heaven waiting for her, I believe, gave her a lot of peace in the very end.

Two: The circumstances of Oliver's conception and birth.  I now only have one fallopian tube (the right).  When I became pregnant with Oliver, we had an early ultrasound to establish due date (I have a very irregular cycle so I didn't really know when I'd ovulated).  The ultrasound tech was astonished to see that Oliver had in fact come from the left ovary.  By the grace of God, the egg that would be come little Oliver traveled alllll the way over to my right fallopian tube to become fertilized.  The tech told us she had read about such phenomenon, but had never seen it, nor known anyone who had seen it, in 15 years of doing ultrasounds. I believe that this happened to testify, tangibly, to the grace and power of God.  Oliver really and truly is a miracle.

Three: It changed my heart.  When my baby died, I got my first taste of what it actually means to yearn for heaven.  No, I didn't ever contemplate suicide or anything like that, but the pain I felt was actually a tool God used to shape and mold me into a more compassionate, caring person.  It also allowed me to truly understand, for the first time, that this world is not my home.  And to be very, very thankful for that.

To close this book (how do I always seem to write SO MUCH??? Sorry about that!), I hope this story encourages someone to know and truly believe that God's power and glory and knowledge are so much higher than our little brains can understand.  When I am in my darkest moments of grief for whatever reason, because of the experience of our first child, I now have peace and a deep understanding that God is in control, even if I don't like the circumstances or I can't quite see the good in the outcome yet.  I think this is best summed up by the words to one of my favorite hymns:

1. When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
   When sorrows like sea billows roll;
   Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
   It is well, it is well, with my soul.
   • Refrain:
     It is well, with my soul,
     It is well, it is well, with my soul.
2. Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
   Let this blest assurance control,
   That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
   And hath shed His own blood for my soul.
3. My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
   My sin, not in part but the whole,
   Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
   Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!
4. For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
   If Jordan above me shall roll,
   No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
   Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.
5. But, Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
   The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
   Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
   Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul!
6. And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
   The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
   The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
   Even so, it is well with my soul.

Warning! Birth story! Placenta involved!

This past Sunday, May 5th, was my son Oliver's first birthday.  I seriously can't believe how fast the year went-- I really feel like it was just last week that I was bringing him home from the hospital.  Because I'm in a sappy, hormonal mood, I'm going to share a watered-down, PG version of his birth story (trust me, you don't want to hear the rated-R version.  Am I right, doula Bethany Gates?? :)

I went to bed on Friday, May 4th, feeling terrible-- crampy and exhausted. Looking back, I can now understand that I was having erratic contractions starting at about 11pm.  I was able to fall asleep for a few hours, until my water broke at 1:49 am.  I know this to be the exact time because I sat straight up in bed and looked at the clock.  I poked Jamie.  I kicked Jamie.  I pushed Jamie and yelled "WAKE UP MY WATER BROKE!" and he rolled over, moaning, "Nooo...." This actually is a better response than when my water broke with Silas.  Anyway, I got up and told him I was going to take a shower, because heaven knows I wasn't going to have hairy legs and greasy hair while I labored.

At this point my contractions were about 5 minutes apart, not very painful.  I took my shower (and yes, I shaved my legs in between contractions) while Jamie called his dad to come over and watch Silas.  Doug arrived around 3, and at 3:30 we went up to say goodbye to Silas.  We then headed down to the hospital, stopping 3 times for gum because I also wanted fresh breath.

I got to the hospital, where we met my doula and got checked in.  I had a little fight with the staff because I had called my favorite midwife to come in even though she wasn't on call-- they weren't very happy about that, but if there's one thing being in labor does for me it's take my filter off.  Elizabeth the amazing midwife (seriously, a superhero) made it in and I proceeded to labor for a total of about 18 hours.  AWESOME.

I'll skip over the next 12 hours or so.  Some highlights include triple-peaking contractions one minute apart for several hours, falling asleep on the birthing ball for 45 seconds in between said contractions, and scaring several U of I interns as I walked the halls moaning like a crazy woman.  For this birth, because I really, really, REALLY wanted a natural VBAC, I had done a lot of preparation and education.  Part of this included watching "The Business of Being Born." I distinctly remember watching several women make deep, guttural animal-like sounds during their labor and making fun of them.  Like those ridiculous sounds are really necessary. 

Well.  Not only are they necessary, they're involuntary.  I can only compare the noises coming from me to the sounds (I imagine) a dying wildebeest makes as it's being torn to shreds by hungry hyenas.  During this time the anesthesiologist came in to meet me, per VBAC policy at the hospital.  Here is where the grace of God is really evident.

I wanted as few interventions as possible-- I opted for a hep-lock instead of an IV (I would have not even had that if I could have), I expressly asked NOT to be checked until I felt like I wanted to push, and most importantly, I didn't want any form of pain medication.  This isn't because I wanted to be some hero or macho woman-- it's because I really truly believe that vaginal birth is best for baby and it has been shown that epidurals can slow down labors.  In the case of my VBAC, I didn't want to take any unnecessary chances of slowing down my labor and opening up the possibility of  another emergency C-section.
*Disclaimer: There are some instances when C-sections are medically necessary and what is absolutely best for mother and baby!

Anyway.  God's grace.
I'm perched on all fours on the bed, bellowing intermittently like one of the cows on my parent's farm, in pain that would have to be put at a 9 or 10, while the anesthesiologist talks to me about pain control options.  And yet, it never, ever, EVER occurred to me to have pain medication. The thought never entered my mind.  I do, however, remember peering at the anesthesiologist through my haze of pain and thinking, "That is one good-looking doctor.  I look like a birthing cow.  I don't care.  He should be on Grey's Anatomy."

As you can see, my thought process was a little disoriented.

Fast forward another few hours.  I'm pushing.  I've been pushing for 3 hours.  The kid is stuck on my pubic bone.  He crowns, he gets sucked back up.  This goes on for an hour.  The "ring of fire" is aptly named.  My midwife brought up the option of the vacuum- and I was at the point where I was telling anyone who would listen to JUST GET HIM OUT. I agree to the vacuum.  I had this wild daydream of my midwife bringing in a Dyson and sucking him out and we'd be all done and happy.  This is not what happened.  

Instead, what went from a small birth team (me and Jamie, doula, nurse, and midwife) went to a large teaching opportunity spectacle.  Since I was past the point of caring who saw what, I agreed to let the OB wielding the vacuum bring his interns.  Apparently I also agreed to let the Peds team bring theirs, too.  All of a sudden there were probably 25 people in the room, everyone talking to me, and I didn't know what was going on.  Someone with a thick accent kept talking to me and I didn't know what he was saying so I just nodded my head and kept pushing (anyone who's ever had a baby vaginally knows that this is pretty much involuntary-- if you need to push, you push.)

About 2 minutes after the vacuum entered the story, my sweet little Oliver made his way, finally, finally, into the room, upping the number of people from 25 to 26.  6 pounds, 13 ounces, 19 inches.  He cried, I cried, Jamie cried.  My baby boy was healthy, hungry, and had an enormously pointed head (that's what about 4 hours in the birth canal will do to ya).  I was so glad it was over.  But wait.... it wasn't.

As I had only experienced a C-section before, I wasn't too aware of the whole issue with the super fun thing called the placenta.  Apparently, it's supposed to make its appearance soon after the child is born.  Well, it didn't.  So we waited.  I was given, reluctantly, Pitocin, that devil drug.  It still didn't come out.  My midwife calmly and quietly spoke to me about the very real possibility that the placenta had attached to my C-section scar and if it had, I would need to have an emergency hysterectomy.

Wait. What? I just experienced one of the best moments of my life and now you're telling me I might not ever have another child? What is happening?

I had Jamie call my friend Trisha and start praying.  My midwife then told me what she was going to do to try to detach and remove the placenta.

OK-- this is where we veer into PG, maybe a little on the R side.  Stop reading, unless you're okay with that.

My midwife put on a glove and reached up to her elbow and pulled the thing out.  Amazingly, thankfully, it came out 100% intact.   So thankful-- and OUCH.  HOLY CRAP that hurt.  I can't think of anything to compare it to-- that's just painful.  Wish I had drugs for that.

Oliver's birth was one of the defining moments of my life.  Silas's birth was so quick (emergency C-section within 3 hours of labor starting, he was breech) and NOT how I wanted things to go, I kind of felt like Oliver's labor and birth were a redemption of sorts.  *Once again, disclaimer-- cannot be more thankful that Silas is healthy, perhaps his C-section was necessary and so glad that's an option, etc.  I wanted to really experience labor and birth and have that moment you see on "A Baby Story" where they hand the screaming child to the mother and she puts him on her chest and cries.  Despite all the craziness, I am so thankful that God allowed me to have those moments.  My children are such blessings from God-- worth every second of pain.  Even on this side of the womb.

Okay, this is entirely too long.  I'll stop now.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SWEET OLIVER!

Foreverandever... and ever, and ever, and ever

 Hey look! It's David Crowder!

My son has a "special song." He requests it every time we get in the car, and as soon as it's over he requests it again. As far as "special songs" go, he could have definitely picked a worse one: David Crowder Band's Foreverandever Etc.

I have probably heard this song no less than a thousand times in the last month. At the beginning of the song, there's a short whistling solo, and as soon as Silas hears it, his eyes light up and his little fingers go in the air (he has this weird dance move that involves pointing his index fingers in the air simultaneously, he got it from his Papa Tom) and he does his best to sing along (it's kind of fast so he really only knows the chorus).  It's so ridiculously adorable I can hardly stand it. 

And seriously, I can hardly stand it.

Yesterday we drove to the ENT, Donutland, and then to a park for a playdate before heading home.  We were probably in the car for 90 minutes.  The song is a little over 3 minutes long, so I estimate that yesterday I heard it approximately 28 times.  I am not kidding. 

Now, don't get me wrong-- I love David Crowder and his now defunct band.  I am what you could call a David Crowder fanatic.  Silas and Oliver both heard DCB music almost exclusively before they were born, and anytime I can't find anything on the radio I like (which is often) I almost always turn on DCB.  My very favorite songs (How He Loves, Thank You for Hearing Me-- a Sinead O'Connor cover, weirdly enough, and pretty much any hymn) are by DCB.  I think his lyrics are Biblically-based and spiritual, I think he is an amazing musician, and I even love his slightly-crazed-Hassidic-Jew-with-a-fro look he's got going on.  You can just tell the dude really doesn't care what anyone thinks, except Jesus.  I've seen him in concert 3 times and I love how the concerts are really, truly worship music-- there's very little stage production and pageantry is pretty much non-existent.  I am so, so glad that my kids dig DCB.

And I am so, so ready to move on to another song. 

However, on the way home yesterday, as I tried to shut the music off and just have some blessed silence for once while telling Silas the music needed to rest (I'm sure the CD is perilously close to death) as he yelled "SPECIAL SONG! MY SPECIAL SONG!!" at the top of his lungs, I sighed and hit the back button on my CD player to start the song over again.  I'm sure it was number 26 or 27, but for the first time that day I actually listened to the lyrics:

I'm finding everything I'll ever need
By giving up, gaining everything
Falling for You for eternity
Right here at Your feet, where I want to be
I am Yours

I have heard these words a million, gazillion, fafillion (to quote Ludacris) times, and they have spoken to me before. This time, however, God used them to remind me of Matthew 16:24-26: "Then Jesus said to His disciples, 'If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me. For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it. For what profit is it to a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul? Or what will a man give in exchange for his soul?'" (Have you ever read a blog that cites the Bible and Ludacris in the same paragraph? I bet not.) 

Sometimes I lose sight of the big picture-- I get caught up in ideas and plans and earthly, worldly stuff.  My latest obsession has been my future master suite addition (poor hubby).  I scour Pinterest and watch HGTV on the treadmill and dream of winning Publisher's Clearinghouse so I can add a ridiculous master suite onto my 125 year old farmhouse.  I think about my kids and their future-- what will we do for school? Am I qualified and able to homeschool? How will we afford college for them? (We won't, all that money is going to my master suite.  Just kidding.  Maybe.) I think about my husband and how hard he works and worry that he's not wearing sunscreen and he's going to get melanoma on his nose.

I'm finding everything I'll ever need

All of these things are fine and some are even good to ponder.  Planning and dreaming and working hard is fantastic, but it's all for naught if we lose sight of WHAT and WHO we're working for.  Yes, I do the things I do for my family.  But more important, I need to do them for Jesus.  I need to give up each of my tasks, ideas, plans, and dreams to Jesus.  That means everything-- my hopes and expectations for my kids.  My ideas and plans for myself.  And that can be really, really hard.  What if it's not God's plan that we have more children? What if it's God's plan that we leave this home that I dearly, dearly love and move somewhere far away from friends and family and our amazing church?

By giving up gaining everything

Maybe I'm hearing this song for infinity and beyond because God is trying to punch me in the face with the idea that I am not trusting him with EVERYTHING, big and small. I'm a DIY type of gal, and that can be really hard for me.  But I do believe in God's word and I do believe he's working all things together for good.  I suppose this will be an ongoing challenge for me. 

Falling for you for eternity

Right here at your feet

Where I want to be

I suppose that means we're not quite done with the special song...

I am Yours

Here's a link to a video of DCB performing said song live.  It's a little shaky but you can still hear it.  Also, he's playing a keytar, which is awesome.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_q_5oEKE-Nw

A Good Time to be Together

Today I took my kids on a run.  This is something we do regularly-- my wonderful friend blessed me with a double jogging stroller and I have been making good use of it.  Sometimes we drive into town and run on a paved trail by a park that my kids love.  This, to me, is a luxury.  Most day, however, we tough it out on our terrible, rutted, dusty gravel road.  The days I do this, I usually times my mileage by .5 and then add that.  For example, today we ran 3 miles.  Half of 3 is 1.5, so today I would say my run actually had the effort of at least 4.5 miles.  This is a conservative estimate; the county recently added large new gravel to the road, which is good for vehicles but BAD for jogging strollers and tired mamas.  Long story short, running with 80+ pounds of children and stroller on a gravel road is hard.

Not only do I have to deal with crappy roads, large hills, neighbors dogs that like to run with me, and those birds I am sure are actually demons in disguise (red-winged-blackbirds)-- I also have to deal with one of the most trying species known to mankind on my run: toddler boys who won't. stop. talking. ever.    

EVER.

My 3 year old keeps up a running (ha! pun!) commentary during our jogging trips.  And, if you know any 3 year olds, you know that you MUST answer every one of their questions or the world will end.  Weeping and gnashing of teeth, the whole bit.  Here's a small sample of today's conversation:

Silas: Mama, are those baby goats?
Kara (softly, because she's a little out of breath from running up a quarter-mile hill): Yes
Silas: Mama! Are THOSE the baby GOATS?
Kara (a little louder, a little desperate because she can't breathe): Yes!
Silas: MAMA! ARE THOSE THE BABY GOOOOOAAAAATTTTSSSSS?????
Kara: OH MY GOODNESS YES THOSE ARE THE STUPID GOATS STOP TALKING BECAUSE I CAN'T BREATHE!
(Silence for 10 seconds)
Silas: Mama, don't say stupid, it's naughty.

Anyway, this can be a little frustrating.  Today, however, God used my sweet, loving, inquisitive and sometimes (ahem) infuriating little boy to put me in my place.  Just as I was about to stop the stroller and give my kiddos a lecture on how they need to just BE QUIET and ENJOY the BEAUTIFUL DAY because it's FUN to go running in God's creation-- I started to actually listen to what Silas was saying:
    Great job, Mama! You're doing so good! It's so good to run together! God is helping you run so fast! This is a good time for us to be together!

That time, I almost had to stop because the tears in my eyes were blurring my vision.

What a great reminder to stop and listen to my kids.  Not only do they need my love, attention, and patience-- God can also use them to speak to my heart the exact words I need to hear.

My kids are only going to be small enough for me to push them on a run for a short time.  They're only going to be small, period, for a short time.  "This is a good time for us to be together" is probably one of the most profound things I've ever heard, and it came from my 3 year old.  I'm going to file this conversation away in my brain to pull back up every time I get tired or annoyed or impatient or distracted-- very soon, there will be very little time to be together. 

But, praise Jesus, it's not here yet.  Now I'm going to get them up from their naps.  We're going to make enchiladas together, and it's going to be an absolute disaster-- but seriously, I wouldn't have it any other way.

My kids watch TV

As I sit typing, Oliver is upstairs napping and Silas is engaged in an enthralling episode of Chuggington.  As far as I can tell, Brewster is upset because Zephie picked up something at the quarry that she wasn't supposed to.  He'd better hurry up and tell "V", or "Vee", or whatever.
,
Hard core stuff, I tell you.

I'm not going to lie-- we watch TV in this house.  When we get up in the morning, Silas watches an episode of Mickey Mouse clubhouse while I make breakfast.  Then it gets switched over to GMA until 9:30 or 10, when Oliver takes a nap.  Then it goes back to Disney or Nick Jr (as long as it's not Dora or SpongeBob.  I cannot stand those shows.) for an hour while I work on the computer checking papers (I'm an adjunct for a local college).  It does go off after that, while Silas and I do school and play, until they take afternoon naps and the TV becomes all. mine.

I have an autoimmune condition called Ulcerative Colitis.  It's a lot like Crohn's Disease, except there's bleeding ulcers involved, and yes, it's super fun.  It's been relatively under control for several years-- I'd never had a major "flare" until fall 2012.  Then, I got really, really sick.  And because I'm a stubborn little mama, I didn't to go to the doctor and thought I was fine even as I wasted away to nothing and lost so much blood (thanks, bleeding ulcers) that I couldn't stand up, let alone function as a wife and mama.  After about  six weeks of non-functioning, I did go to the doctor, where I was promptly rushed to the hospital for a blood transfusion and treatment of my UC. 

This is why I'm thankful for TV. 

While I was flaring, and then afterwards when I was recovering, I could just barely drag myself out of bed to get my kids up in the morning.  I would make it downstairs, turn on the TV, settle down to nurse Oliver, and then not get up off the couch for several hours.  No joke.  When Oliver decided he wanted to move, I'd drag myself on the floor over to his bouncer.  I'd stick him in it, and then crawl back over to the couch, where'd I'd remain for an hour or two more.  I literally couldn't walk more than a few feet at a time without starting to black out.  Of course, how do you watch over a 5 month old baby and a very active 3 year old boy when you can't even function?
With the TV, that's how. 

My super active Silas, who previously couldn't sit still for more than 30 seconds, suddenly found that he could watch whole movies while Mama slept on the couch! I think there was one week where we watched Toy Story, Toy Story 2, and Toy Story 3 every day.  I have those movies memorized, and yes, I still tear up when Andy delivers his toys to Bonnie. 
There were days the TV was on 18 hours a day-- and I am so, so thankful.  It kept my children occupied and safe when their mother couldn't. 

After treatment and my medication got figured out and I started to recover, the TV started to play a smaller role in our lives.  It's still on quite a bit-- I do like my Project Runway and Deadliest Catch, after all-- but it's job has been greatly reduced.  Now that Chuggington's over, Silas has migrated to his play room where's he's playing with his trucks.  Recently inspired by the latest Truck Town book we've read, aptly titled "Smash Crash," Silas is now creating quite a ruckus with his dump trucks while yelling "SMASH!! CRASH!!!" Thanks, Truck Town.  Your next book should be called "We like to drive quietly along country roads" or something like that.  It would make my life a little easier.

Anyway, I know many people would condemn me for the amount of TV my kids watched for a short period of time.  But I seriously thank God for it.  It allowed me to heal and rest while my kids were safe and in sight. 
Also, somewhere along the line Silas learned to count to 10 in Spanish.
Thanks, Dora.  Now that that's done, we're Never. Watching. You. Again.  Take your backpack and map elsewhere, we don't want any of what you're selling. 
Bring on Phineas and Ferb!