quadrophenia, magnolias, and the puzzle box

I flew out to Orange County, CA to stay with my dad for three days while my stepmom has been in the hospital for a couple of weeks. I wanted a chance to keep him company and make sure he's okay. Mission accomplished. I fly home tomorrow.

This is the first time I've been away from my husband and son overnight. I thought it would feel like a vacation, but instead it's been a quiet journey, inside and out.

My flight got in Sunday morning, and we spent that day doing nothing but talking and hanging out together. I went to the grocery store. I cooked dinner. We enjoyed the first one-on-one company we've kept in about 15 years. We went to visit my stepmom today and hung out with her for a couple hours before the impending doom of traffic sent us back to home base.

Early this morning, I went for a walk before my dad got up. Not knowing the area, I just headed north (uphill) and kept going until the street ended. I found The Who's Quadrophenia on my phone and decided it was the perfect soundtrack for my journey through the wilderness of my youth. You see, I grew up around here and moved when I was 18. From the magic of childhood through the torrents of the teen years, I lived for Disneyland and the beach and parties. But I was ready when I decided to migrate to Colorado with my mom - away from the crowds, the peer pressure, and the culture of pleasure and plastic. I've never looked back.

On my walk, I swooned at the constant wafting scent of magnolias and jasmine. I stared at the succulent trees and bushes (!) of poinsettia. It was like walking on a different planet.

Meanwhile, the lyrics from the album sank into my head: "The heat is rising... the past is calling. Is it me, or a moment?" Memories of the things I enjoyed most about this place came back and filled the corners of my psyche.

Nothing like the grounding of your past to lend perspective to who you are.

My stepmom told me about a box she'd packed for me of some of my deceased grandmother's collector plates. I found the box and, in addition to the plates, found the most interesting assortment of things. Pictures of me. My dad's birth card with date and time hand written, plus his resume from about 1964 (a different time in the Los Angeles area, that's for sure). A plastic hinged box with one gold ring -- presumably my (divorced) grandmother's wedding ring. Together, they are pieces to a puzzle I know little about.

Tomorrow I'll fly home to kith and kin, working and family, punch and grind. But I have decided that I do not want to stay away for years at a time anymore. Not when my dad's body is 20 years older than it should be, and not while I can give my son a chance to know him as well as where my side of the family comes from.

new year's resolutions of a working mom

Disclaimer: I'm not a fan of making random or even carefully-planned New Year's resolutions. I do, however, believe in making changes when it seems necessary. In fact, I have seen the need and desire for some adjustments start to emerge over the past several months -- enough to declare to myself that I am willing to make some changes.

Unless a person is truly ready to take initiative, change is hard. In addition, what the resolution optimists don't talk about is that real change takes time. It takes initiative and intention plus a series of small steps to accomplish something bigger. In my case, the changes I want to make stem from awareness of things and people around me along with a desire to please God. After all, I am blessed in order to be a blessing. So here are the changes I'm making.

As a working mom, I will take time to incorporate different habits without putting pressure on daily life. Here's what that looks like for me:

• Getting healthier. My relationship with food has declined, and I often eat for stress as much as hunger. Actually, I don't feel hungry very often because I snack long before I feel hunger pangs. I can easily be more mindful of quantity as well as quality. I am also getting more intentional with exercise. It's hard to squeeze it in, and way too easy to blow it off. But if I want to be healthy as I get older, I have to keep going.
• Nurturing relationships. As my pastor pointed out yesterday, there is no cumulative value of allowing urgent things to interfere with the important things. How often am I browsing Facebook instead of making eye contact with my husband or son? How often am I watching a sitcom instead of checking in on a friend or loved one?
• Organizing my home. It seems like I'm on a never-ending mission to get more organized, yet I have cubby bins that sit empty and my son's room continually cries out for underbed toy storage. I've started organizing my kitchen by (finally!) buying a real kitchen island that doubles as a breakfast bar, and implementing wall organizers so my kitchen drawers aren't bursting at the seams (see Ikea's Fintorp system). I honestly feel like my brain is less cluttered when my house is, and so this is part housecleaning and part therapy.
• Nurturing myself. Actually, all of the above are things that nurture me but in a less direct way. At least a couple of days a week, I give myself permission to do something slightly indulgent that makes me feel more peaceful. That might be practicing guitar, taking an unscheduled long walk, or cooking something that looks too delicious to pass up (even if I think my family might hate it -- hello, green soup!). I have to remind myself that some days, putting away the dishes is just busywork, and sitting on the couch resting is more productive.

You'll notice I chose bullets instead of numbers, and that's on purpose. A numbered list might indicate priority, and the priorities shift every day or hour. I can never get everything done on a given day, but I can always choose one thing.

You may also notice I didn't create SMART goals (specific, measurable, attainable, realistic, timed). This is also on purpose. Because, um, I'm giving myself the grace to do things gradually without the pressure of a timeline. In other words, that kind of structure just overwhelms me.

As my pastor also pointed out, there is a cumulative value to investing small amounts of time in small activities over a long period of time. So I'm taking my time.

hyperactive or spirited?

I resist the tendency to call my son things, slapping labels on him. Certain labels like Sweet, Lovey, Cuddly, Active, Busy... those are fine and appropriate. I have a harder time listening to someone use the term Hyperactive. Labels like that tend to grow suckers and attach themselves before being proven appropriate.

Case in point: Monday we returned from a three-night stay in a cabin in the mountains. My son was surrounded by family, mountains, s'mores, and a couple of new toys without access to television or even radio for the most part. Once we got home, he spent the afternoon getting reacquainted with his toys. Every one of them. He was so focused on bouncing from one toy to the next and the next, and seeing what we all were doing that it took several minutes of coaxing to get him to the dinner table. Somewhere in there a relative remarked on how he seems hyperactive. I've heard this person use the term before, but I don't think they realize exactly what they're saying.

According to the great collective wisdom of the internet, a hyperactive child is engaged in constant activity, is easily distracted and impulsive, can't concentrate, and is aggressive. Um, he's 2 years old. I'm pretty sure almost every 2 year old is like this to some degree.

Oh yes, he's very active. He's a bouncing Tigger most of the day. However, he is also capable of playing with Play Doh for 45 minutes unless I take it away because he's eating it, and loves to watch the animated movie Robots for at least 20 minutes at a time (when we usually turn it off because it's a bit too stimulating). I'd say he's capable of concentrating when he's interested in something.

But hyperactivity is generally associated with ADHD, and that is impossible to diagnose in a child as young as mine.

Another label that I'm less bothered with, but still hesitate to use, is Spirited. Spirited kids are more active, to be sure, but also more sensitive to environmental stimuli, and changes in general, and are more deeply affected by other people's moods among other things. They're also more intense and dramatic. Hm, actually this sounds more like my husband who happens to be an artist, but I digress.

All of this means very little to me. It doesn't impact my parenting choices, it doesn't make me look at him through diagnostic lenses, and it certainly doesn't make me want to medicate him. My son is not quiet (and I'm scared when he is). He's not introverted, to say the least. And he's not shy. He's just beautiful. I would say he's a bright rainbow of colors all day long.

Now if only I could convince him to turn down the rainbow at bedtime...

jesus vs yoga part 2

Everything comes down to love. That is the deepest lesson I can learn as a follower of Jesus, whether it's about my faith or someone else's.

After my first post on jesus vs yoga, a wiser person than me invited me to study Romans 14. The book of Romans was (by most accounts) written by Paul, who was busy trying to wipe out Christians until Jesus intervened and gave him new life. I point this out to underscore the irony of a man who had once been defined completely by religious legalism that later showed how much more important love is.

In his letter to the Romans, Paul urges us to resist judging each other and recognize that each person's walk of faith is unique. My relationship with Jesus looks different than my husband's, my friend's, and anyone else's. Such is the beauty of God and faith. And because of this, I have the responsibility of working out my own faith rather than being overtly concerned about a friend's whose faith may just be weaker than mine. My faith is strong enough that I can, in fact, do yoga exercises without absorbing the tenets of other religions and philosophies that are not in line with biblical theology. They're just poses, after all. While that may look different for someone else, the best thing for me to do is love my friend and, if asked, explain why I'm taking a break from yoga for a while.

Paul uses the analogy of food and drink, which was a far more divisive issue in that day than it is now. But, lest we think he's only talking about food, he then uses the example of how one person considers a day sacred while another considers the whole week sacred. Both do so to honor God, so it doesn't really matter.

If I believe in my heart, after careful prayer and discernment, that I can do yoga exercises without compromising my relationship with Jesus, then I should as long as by doing so I don't hurt someone else's faith journey.

22 So whatever you believe about these things keep between yourself and God. Blessed is the one who does not condemn himself by what he approves. 23 But whoever has doubts is condemned if they eat, because their eating is not from faith; and everything that does not come from faith is sin.

That second sentence really stood out for me, and I'll be meditating on it more. May your journey of faith bring you closer to Jesus and deeper into love.

jesus vs yoga

I have practiced yoga for about 6 years, though I have been a follower of Jesus for much longer. And now, though I've consciously deleted the Eastern mysticism aspect from my yoga practice, I suddenly find myself at odds with it and am considering another path to wellness.

Yesterday, I went with a friend to an outdoor yoga session, which on this particular day was free and open to the public. My friend is a yoga instructor, and though I don't know her very well I do know that she loves yoga and loves the Lord.

As we waited for the session to begin, we talked about her vision to help young women who've been victims of abuse by teaching directed yoga classes. She admitted a specific fear of moving forward with this, and I started to see the conflict that she may or may not be aware of.

All morning -- before, during, and after the session -- I felt ill at ease with the entire event. From the emcee's "Namaste" greeting (which I replace with God Bless You), to the encouragement of bending my "third eye" to the mat in submission, to the ending relaxation which was organized to look like a gigantic hug in the shape of a heart while we were encouraged to feel the connection with each other and everything else -- I felt the conflict in my heart and asked Jesus for help.

Why was I feeling this now? Maybe it's because my friend shared a great deal of how much she believes in the yoga practice and its associated Eastern philosophies such as chakras, and I knew I was hearing blasphemy. If my friend didn't see the conflict, I certainly did, and it made me very uncomfortable. But I thanked her for the experience and went on with my day. Later, my husband asked me why I didn't enjoy it. I told him "I felt like everyone there were true believers, and I just couldn't drink the punch." Later that day, and this morning, I have been researching this conflict so I can be better informed.

I am praying now for wisdom and discernment, and asking God to reveal the plank in my eye long before I even consider pointing out a speck in my friend's eye, lest I reveal myself as a hypocrite for practicing yoga at all.

The question is, can a person love Jesus and enjoy yoga?

Instructors run the gamut from the spiritually removed to true believers, so influence could be a matter of who I'm learning the practice from. I use the analogy of horoscopes: Reading a horoscope in the newspaper is fairly harmless and far removed from drawing my own astrology charts, but at the end of the day my indulgence in it takes me away from Jesus and toward self-worship by seeking my own answers to life's questions instead of asking Jesus for his guidance. So I don't do it anymore. Why would yoga be any different, especially since its original philosophies, which are still current, are diametrically opposed to biblical teaching?

This is the question I am now asking myself, and the obvious conclusion is that it isn't and I need to make a change.

I admit that it makes me a little sad, but instead of signing up for my regular yoga class at the gym I'm going to try pilates which does not involve any spirituality and includes all of the stretching, strengthening, and concentration that I love so much. There are plenty of other Christians who've turned yoga around as a Christ-centered spiritual practice, and I might check out a DVD to see if it works for me. But since I really want to get out of the house for this kind of exercise, I'll see if pilates scratches the itch without exposing myself to deeper wounds.

the coming apocalypse -- or perimenopause and the closing door of fertility

Since my body is no longer compatible with the pill, I started tracking my cycle and have observed that it has shortened to every 3 weeks. Since my recent exam came back normal, I am concluding that this is a symptom of perimenopause -- or as I like to call it, The Coming Apocalypse of My Reproductive System. Ha!

All hilarity aside, this means I suffer from anxiety, sleep disorders, mood swings, and other hormone-related side effects more often -- to my dear family's detriment as well as mine. It could possibly explain my inability to concentrate and remember things too, like grocery shopping and locking my keys in my car (which I did just the other day).

 

It's making me increasingly frustrated.

 

Reckogning that perimenopause is a signpost of aging and subsequent infertility is kind of depressing in its own right. Oh yes, all women go through it unless they skip this stage by surgical necessity. But that doesn't make this part of the journey more enjoyable.

 

I am all the more confronted with the reality that our childbearing time is over as quick as it began, even though it's as much choice as circumstance.

 

Yes, I'm 45 and as strong as I feel some days, I know this is a precarious time at best to consider another pregnancy. As I recently told someone, I don't expect lightning to strike twice. It would seem foolhardy to put the Lord my God to the test (Matthew 4:7). But like the end of a lifelong frienship, feeling the door slowly close behind me still makes me melancholy.

 

In the meantime, I'm booking a consultation with an herbal specialist to see what I can add to my diet to help balance things out in the mood and stress department. I owe that much to me and my family.

remember who is in charge of your child

I just ran across a blog post talking about a mother's experience at a doctor's office, where she encountered a note saying that a doctor or nurse would spend 5 minutes talking to her child alone -- without any parent present. As she later found out, this time would not be to determine if the child has been abused. Oh no. This is to talk to the child about sex and drugs and offer free assistance like abortion counseling and condoms.

WTF?

Not only this, but apparently in this glorious state, the 12-17 year old children have online access to their medical records which they can block from their parents.

Again. WTF?

I don't remember giving birth to a ward of the state. I'm pretty sure my son is his parents' responsibility and, while a few years ago this would barely have been a blip on my radar, you can bet this mama bear will do everything in her power to keep parental authority where it should be, which is complete and intact.

I cannot tell you how much this angers and deeply disturbs me. I can only imagine what a bleeped-up society my son will encounter when he turns 12 in another decade. Until that happens, I better step up my game and keep tabs on what political people think they should control in my family's life. It's also a strong reminder of how and why it's so critical to continually build a strong, positive, and open connection with my son. You never know who might try to erode it.

beware the stairs and other house enemies

I fell on the stairs the other day. Not the stairs in my new house, of course, but my mom's. And all I did was slide onto my bottom where there were plenty of shock absorbers ready to take the hit. My son was already downstairs, so he walked up to me looking concerned, and gave me a hug. Sweet boy!

I want to get him used to the stairs at our house so I don't have to play referee every time he wants to go up and down. Instead, this sweet-but-kinda-lazy boy looks up at me, reaches his arms up, and says "carry you?" It's so cute I can't resist.

I half-jokingly chide him, and then carry him.

The day will come when he wants to do everything on his own, so I steal that bit for myself even while I chide him for being perfectly capable of stepping down the stairs using the handrail and holding my hand.

Now that we're not living in a ground-level condo but a two-story house with a yard, I'm discovering all kinds of stuff to be selectively paranoid about. Stairs, concrete steps, round door handles, the door to the stairs, window ledges, slippery oak floors, dirt and more dirt, dirty snow, small random objects left over from construction... okay, not paranoid. Just more aware. I'm trying to strike a balance between letting him explore and keeping the safety barriers in place (those aren't physical barriers in most cases, unless you count my arms).

He's only tripped on the stairs 2-3 times, fallen over the edge of the concrete patio and flipped over twice, walked into a table or countertop a few times, and accidentally gotten pushed onto his bottom or into a countertop once or twice. He'll survive, I'm sure of it...

Infertility is the enemy you know – whether you know it or not

Right now, 1 in 8 Americans is suffering from the pain of infertility. It may be temporary, it may be permanent. But it is devastating, heart-wrenching, and largely a secret.

From the perspective of a person who has walked this road, I cannot understand why the subject is treated with such secrecy – why it’s considered so private and so rare, and therefore so shameful. The moment I started searching for answers to my situation, I uncovered a universe of women (and men) searching for the same answers to their own circumstances. By following blogs of other women experiencing infertility, I have found a wellspring of support and courage that has been part of my healing, and the reason I sought treatment through counseling and prayer. Otherwise I would have figured it was over and done with and I had no choice in the matter.

The point is, we are not alone. We’re probably not alone even on our own block, let alone our neighborhood.

I admit straight up that I’m not a public advocate. I don’t think about my two miscarriages and subsequent diagnosis of infertility very often. But if I “go there” for more than a few seconds, the horrific pain of that time in my life still surprises me. It’s a potent reminder of the depth of suffering in this world.

I’m not an advocate, but I am definitely a supporter. I continue to blog in the hopes that someone will read my story and know that this isn’t the end, many things are possible, and God desires to bring healing to your heart first.

In honor of National Infertility Awareness Week, I encourage all of you who read this to take comfort in the fact that you don’t walk this road alone. The greater the awareness, the easier it will be to find answers and get support for treatment: from friends, from family, from God, and particularly from insurance companies who can start to support treatments so we don’t spend oceans of money over the course of the journey.

Influences

Last night my husband and I were watching Star Trek Generations. The short synopsis is Picard's encounter with the villain, a scientist who is trying to escape the ravages of time by enveloping himself in a nebula that resembles what you might think of as an individual version of heaven.

In a key exchange between the two, the scientist tells Picard that "time is the fire in which we burn." Meanwhile, Picard suffers the loss of what would have been the continuation of his family line through his nephew. In realizing this, he weeps for the possibilities of seeing the family name continue since he had sacrificed family in favor of a career and never got around, it seems, to starting a family of his own for whatever reason. In a turn of events, Picard is caught up in the nebula and is instantly transported to his unrealized dream: a family home with his wife and four children at Christmas.

Oddly enough, and yet not so, that movie was pretty influential. It really illustrated the loss of what could have been and helped to force us to deal with our fear of having children (not having any idea that when we finally tried we'd have other issues to deal with).

One random memory I have from my late 20s is from a sci-fi convention. I was sitting in the audience watching movie preview reels. I looked at the row in front of me and noticed a double stroller with twin baby boys who had the most amazing bright, blue eyes and beautiful smiles. Something shifted in me and I burst out crying later that day when no one was around. I tried so hard to ignore my maternal instincts that apart from experiences like this, I actually convinced myself that I didn't want children.

Or how about this: In the animated movie Up... well it's recent enough that I probably don't need to describe the heartache that the characters experience - and invoke - in the first 20 minutes. That's a movie that we refused to watch once we were diagnosed with infertility. Now we watch it through eyes of wisdom and compassion.

Another influence would be the child-free couples we've known over the years. I couldn't help but look at their lives and wonder if their reality would someday be ours, even as I struggled with my own issues. Yet another would be looking at the lives of couples with several children and feeling overwhelmed and exhausted on their behalf while feeling relief at our comparatively simple lives.

So what's the point of this post? I'm not sure. I guess it's first to illustrate how movies, media, and relationships can and do influence us on our journey toward parenthood. The second is to express a desire to be an influence.

If I had the opportunity to be an influence on someone else who was considering parenthood (apart from any infertility struggles) and was near or over 30 and in a committed relationship, I hope that our example of delaying things almost to the point of no return causes someone to address it sooner rather than later. I kind of wish someone had let me know the truth of how most women's ovaries age. Knowing that fertility starts to decline rapidly in our late 30's might have gotten me to quit procrastinating. Maybe not.

If I could influence someone who suffers with a diagnosis, I hope my life illustrates the hope of Jesus. That there can be joy within circumstances, that one answer may not be the final answer, and that regardless of what happens God does have a plan that moves us beyond what we experience.

As it is, I can honestly say that my son is a big influence on me now. Sometimes I think about the fact that I almost missed this. I can't believe that I put this off for so long - I was really punishing myself for imagined difficulties, thinking I was better off for some reason. Don't worry, I stop short of actually feeling guilty.

These days I'm also influenced by other couples who have chosen to embrace adoption - especially foster adoption. They are absolute heroes in my eyes.

Under my skin, or things that go bump in the night

I did something really stupid for Halloween – I watched Para.normal Acti.vity. Why was this stupid? Because, even when I understood that the movie dealt with demonic activity and possession, I kept watching. As a result, I may have slept half an hour that night. I kept the nightlight on in the bedroom for several days, looking over my shoulder at the room to make sure it stayed devoid of monsters. Eventually I switched sides with DH for the next week or so, just until the other night.

Stories of this nature have a tendency to sink under my skin and creep the heck out of me for a long time afterward. Why? That's a good question. The first time this kind of creepiness creeped me out was when I first saw The Excor.cist – I was barely a teenager – and ever since it's been a fear of mine. But I think it goes back even further.

As I tried to probe my brain, I remember when I was 6-8 years old and had frequent waking nightmares. You know, the kind where you wake up and you see someone or something until you cover your head with a blanket until the next time you open your eyes, at which point the thing is gone and you realize it was never there. Oh, you've never experienced this? I have. Many, many times. With many different "people" who looked at me or walked toward me… oh sorry, didn't mean to creep you out.

Each night after seeing that stupid movie (before I switched sides with DH), I was actually afraid of going to sleep. As if I just knew I'd wake up and something bad would happen. I know, it's totally irrational. Such is the nature of fear in this case.

I make it a habit to read my Bible every night – sometimes I go through a book, others I randomly select a passage and just start reading. One thing that brought a lot of comfort to me, and I've begun to study, was reading Psalm 91 just before turning in one night. It talks about how God literally protects those who believe in Him. I knew the Lord led me to this passage specifically, as part of it says:
"4 He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
5 You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day..." (emphasis mine)

Wow. I can think of very few times in my life when I've come across a scripture that went straight to my soul in the midst of something going on, and this is definitely one of them.

Looking back, I suspect that I had those hallucinations as a reaction to my parents' divorce (I was six at the time). I also know now that chronic lack of sleep can result in such things. But so often, my kid brain was absolutely convinced that these hallucinations really happened. So in a way, seeing movies about people getting possessed unnerved me like nothing ever has because it reminds me of waking up in the night and seeing something that shouldn't be there.

This is no way to live, especially for a Christ-follower who has inherited the victory that He won for us on the cross. So I'm on the lookout for a solution. A few days ago, I remembered my copy of Joyce Mey.ers' Battle.field of the Mi.nd and picked it up again. I was surprised at what I read (still haven't gotten through more than 1/3 of the book). She talked about how the enemy can influence our thought lives by planting wrong ideas in there and getting us thinking about negative things. She calls them mind-binding spirits, and yes they are evil. Now don't get me wrong – I am fully aware that I have my own brain and am capable of harboring bad thoughts all by myself – but this is compelling information based on biblical truths.

It was like a light was turned on in my head, and I understood that this is probably the case for me. The author, for example, had once been an incredibly negative person and had no idea that it was her thought life, rather than her circumstances, that were robbing her of any joy in life.

Sound familiar?

Her admonition: think about what you're thinking about. Refuse to let the enemy rob you of happiness by influencing your thoughts. Instead, follow the advice of Philippians 4:8 (NIV) "Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things."

In other words, our thought lives must be intentional. Not reactionary.

Finally, I'll be sharing my experience with my therapist this evening to see if she can provide any additional insight. She's a good one for that.

What Does Support Look Like for Me?

That's the question I have been asking myself this week. I realize I've posted a number of questions from well-meaning people that have inadvertently hurt or otherwise negatively affected me. There are others that I haven't bothered posting, because this blog isn't just a rant (as relieving as that can be at times). No, I really do want to focus on positive things and I know that others really do just want to express support but just don't know how. I mean, would I if I were in their shoes? Yeah, probably not.

Generally speaking, people's reactions have been a mix of awe and wonder and relief and even tears, not to mention absolute joy! Despite this plus the evidence so far of a perfectly normal pregnancy, we haven't made any bigger announcements. I don't know why exactly – twice bitten forever shy? It just feels right to tell people individually. I'll never post my ultrasound pic as my profile on my FB page. I'm happy to just enjoy what I can while I can in the context of a powerfully moving event. Of course, I seriously don't mind if a friend or relative leaks the info because they just can't hold it in.

Anyway, back to ways I can think of that are good ways to support me. First I'd say, ask me or DH how we are doing, and accept our weird answers. It's never a straightforward "fine!" or "great!" – it's always a mixture of optimism, hesitation, maybe a bit of discomfort, and other things that just make us human because of what we've been through and where we are now. It IS weird!

Second, I would say, is to be a cheerleader. Okay that sounds over the top, right? But you'd be amazed at how some people have reacted. Some can't help but have a negative (clinical, stereotypical) reaction since I'm such a geezer and statistically it's just so risky and the baby could have all kinds of problems and… right. Never mind the fact that there are societies where having children in the 50+ range is quite normal. If I had paid homage to statistics and didn't believe in the transforming power of the Holy Spirit, I flat out would never have tried again. And believe it or not, other people's enthusiasm actually lifts us up.

Eh, that's about all I can think of.

"You're a Little Old to be Having..."

Oh no she di-n't!

As un-hip as I am, I imagine my head swerving side to side with a wild arm gesture while I'm saying this.

I felt like I needed to call my grandmother and tell her the news. So I did, and for a few seconds she was silent, then started saying “Well, you’re a little old to be having…” I cut her off and basically said that I would really, really love to hear some positive words from her right now, that I’ve been through absolute h*ll the last couple of years because of this stuff between two miscarriages and a diagnosis of infertility, that believe me if I could have done things different I would have…

Okay, quick reality check. I am well aware of just how "old" I am (just turned 42). It's risky. Doable, but risky. And I can only assume that if someone isn't rude enough to say it to my face, sooner or later their tongues will be wagging behind my back. What am I gonna do? Keep walking. Keep sharing my story. Keep forgiving.

I know this is just the way she is, and she does suffer from dementia, so I keep that in mind. But I wasn’t about to let something negative be the first words out of her mouth (again). I think it came out in a weird combination of panic, laughter, and yelling. The conversation ended well enough and she didn't seem to retain any of the tension from that moment. Just shocked silence, I suppose. Which is a logical reaction. Overall she seemed quite amazed and happy.

I have a weird relationship with my grandmother, though I don't think she knows how weird it is from my end. From the moment I was conceived she considered me the daughter she never had (she had three sons) and spoiled me mercilessly all my life. Until one day, my dad asked me whether I thought it odd how much she complemented me. And then I became aware. Aware of the devastating effects of favoritism across an entire generation in my family. Aware of just how humble I needed to be, and how I needed to separate myself from this favoritism, even if I couldn't get her to understand why (which I couldn't). It has left a legacy of... distrust, resentment, and a total lack of closeness that just makes me so sad. I have no relationship with my cousins which I can only presume is partly because of this.

I love her and forgive her, and just accept her the way she is since I know I cannot change her. But I have every opportunity to be a catalyst for change, to break the cycle of favoritism and resentment with God's hand in my life.

Forgiveness

I was on a long walk around Crown Lake – my absolute favorite walk in city limits – and was listening to one of my fave podcasts, Ravi Zacharias' Let My People Think. He was talking about how important solitude is for our relationship with God, and how really that prayer time is a foreshadowing of the communion we'll have with Him in Heaven. But I digress.

A lot of times, my thoughts wander when I listen to podcasts. I can't help it, though I try to refocus when I realize I'm doing it. Oh, I guess I could just turn off the iPod and let my thoughts wander instead. But the pattern is different. I think about deeper things when I'm listening to a Christian podcast. Maybe it's the Holy Spirit whispering to me. Not sure.

Anyway, I thought about everything that has brought us to where we are now and how we have paid such a heavy price for our procrastination and avoidance of parenthood. But though I've asked God to forgive me, and I know He has, I realized in that moment that I hadn't directly forgiven my husband. Nor have I specifically asked him to forgive me. Unforgiveness between married folk – or any relationship for that matter – is bad juju. It prevents healing. We not only need to forgive each other, and ask God to forgive us for missing the mark (the literal translation of "sin"), we need to forgive ourselves. Forgiving yourself is just one way of loving yourself.

After my walk, I showered and hung out with the man. We were getting cozy when I told him my realization and asked him to forgive me, then I told him that I forgive him completely. It was a beautiful night.

Not Celebrating this Anniversary.. or am I?

Yesterday I had my guitar lesson. It's something I've been doing for a few months now - despite being more or less self taught (with some instruction from my virtuoso brother) as a teenager. I used to write songs and played for friends and considered it (and especially singing) an extension of my soul. Then I ignored this for most of my 20s. Not sure why. But music, for me, is like a boomerang - even if I throw it away, it seems to come back to me in some form.

When I... how do I put this... came back to a relationship with Christ in my late 20s, music romanced me again in the form of the church band. I provided harmony vocals for a while there. But I wasn't enamored with the guitar, so I gave it away to someone who desperately needed one. A few years later, I was blessed to have someone give me theirs since they weren't using it at all, and I started leading worship for a house church. That was an on-again, off-again affair, as my performance anxiety was sometimes debilitating. Fast forward a few more years to the church I've been with now for about five years. I occasionally led worship for a small group, then my life fell apart last year with the two miscarriages and icky diagnosis and I didn't play or sing for months.

And then... I dunno. I picked it up again. I felt compelled somehow. I felt a nudge from the Holy Spirit that it was time to start serving again. That was five months ago.

Okay, back to yesterday's guitar lesson. My instructor is also one of the worship leaders at church, and  occasionally recruits people through the lesson vehicle. He's asked me to play at an upcoming service, which I agreed to. But yesterday he told me about a student recital of sorts coming up at a coffee house, and asked if I'd be interested in participating. I said "yeah, sure, why not?" and asked about the date.

May 12.

May 12 last year was the day after Mother's Day. The day I started spotting, which was the beginning of my first miscarriage. The beginning of a year in hell that almost destroyed me emotionally and psychologically.

Hm. Ironic coincidence. Lord, is this your doing? I wondered. I quickly decided - yes. Yes I can make that.

I can think of no better way to spend that evening than to play my guts out and praise God for saving me from the brink of sanity,

for carrying me through the darkest time of my life

for surrounding me with friends and family who have supported me deeply and sincerely

for preserving my marriage and my job and my home and my very soul

for showering me with love and peace and yes, joy - even as I've walked through the fire.

How can I not serve? God gives us gifts so that we can give them away - not just for our own enjoyment. I'll let you know how the recital goes. I'm thinking two songs should be adequate.

Unbelievable (and yet believable?) Publicity Stunt from PETA

Hannah Wept, Sarah Laughed.: An Open Letter to PETA

Please read fellow IF blogger Keiko Zoll's open letter regarding PETA's decision to launch a contest that will reward a man for sterilizing his pet by giving him a free vasectomy. (Don't visit PETA's site though - that would defeat the purpose)


There aren't words - that I feel like committing to print on the Web - to describe how this makes me feel. I've always considered my fellow man & woman as a higher priority than animals, and don't support them monetarily, but certainly I believe in personal responsibility which carries into controlling pet populations. But stuff like this just blows me away and convinces me that this organization is anti-humanity. It saddens and enrages me.

Solitude and the unbearable weight of being

Right now I'm sitting on the passenger side of my car, in the parking lot of a park, with jazz on the radio (only because the classical station is playing opera which is too distracting). I forced myself to leave the house so I could get some solitude. I have a really serious craving for it on a regular basis, but I almost never make the time for it. I'm not sure why this is. Do I feel like I need to spend every free moment with my husband? Do I feel like I'm indulging in some extravagance or guilty pleasure for taking time away from people?

This week I've been doing a written exercise that requires me to allot every hour of every day to some sort of activity for the next two months. You know: 1 hour to get ready for work, 1 hour to commute (total), 8 hours work, 1 hour mealtime, 1 hour exercise, 1 hour reading... Somehow I need to fill up the 16 hours a day that I'm not sleeping.

I've done this exercise before. The last time it was only for one or two weeks, but the objective was the same: to figure out how I'm spending my time so I can make sure I'm making time for the things I need to do with my life, or something like that.

But two months?? I have so far resisted filling in more than one week. I looked at an example and thought, wow - that's a lot of stuff to pack into one day - then I started thinking that there was more time in my day than I thought there was, and was tempted to fill in all sorts of things.

Then I hit a wall. A wall of resistance, of the weight of my being.

I felt hemmed in by this exercise. I didn't want to structure myself so much, didn't want to feel guilty for having unplanned time, wanted to make sure I had plenty of downtime. I wanted to rebel against this exercise and skip it altogether. What am I supposed to learn here, anyway? That I'm lazy? That I should be doing more? That I'm not being all I can be?

Oh but then this week, I saw a pattern emerge. I have been resisting a lot of things - requests to spend time with people instantly makes me feel anxious instead of positive. If I have more than one social commitment during the week (even if it's yoga and therapy or guitar lessons), I feel crowded and exhausted. It seems I have been structuring my time to have long chasms of downtime. And what do I do in these unstructured hours? Oh, it varies. I try to do what I feel like doing that day: exercise, read, cook a real dinner, watch movies...

Oh, maybe this is another symptom of depression. I do feel more comfortable if I can plan things a couple weeks in advance rather than spur-of-the-moment (a characteristic that has never been part of my personality), so maybe I can start there. Fill in some big rocks in that two-month schedule. Just being aware of my state brings a sense of peace.

"Have You Ever Thought About Adopting?"

Why no, that never crossed my mind... thank you for the suggestion!

That's how I'd like to respond sometimes, haha! But I know the question comes from a place of wanting to engage, to be helpful, to show concern. I gotta let the silliness of it all roll off my back. Otherwise it's easy to feel like darts are being thrown at me all the time, and that's just not true.

Instead, I kind of grinned and said "We have several options in front of us." Then of course my (seriously) dear, sweet neighbor smacked her forehead and said "oh of course you do - just ignore me!" I have to be careful not to purposely make people feel stupid for the silly things they say. Just give them grace.

Article: Heartache of late motherhood

I was searching for something this morning when I ran across this article, published by a British online news site. In Heartache of Late Motherhood, the author points out how many women are being "lulled into infertility" by a society that tells us we can have it all by postponing pregnancy into our 30s and beyond.

Apparently, birth trends across the pond are not so different from the U.S.

The author quotes a London doctor as saying "It is ironic that as society becomes more risk-averse and pregnant women more anxious than in the past, a major preventable cause of this ill health and unhappiness is unacknowledged.

"Public health agencies target teenagers, but ignore the epidemic of pregnancy in middle age.

"The reasons for these difficulties lie not with women, but with a distorted and uninformed view from society, employers and health planners.

This certainly rings true to me. I mean, when was the last time YOU saw a parenthood advocacy organization telling you that you shouldn't put off pregnancy too long because your body might just be on a different path? Hmm? And yet the statistics of infertility once we reach our mid thirties is staggering: Fertility rates start to plummet from 90% to around 67% by age 40 (Resolve). Infertility affects 7.3 million people in the U.S. That's 1 in 8 couples. (2002 National Survey of Family Growth) Yet somehow all the emphasis is on either preventing pregnancy or abortion advocacy. My insurance company will cover birth control pills but not IVF.

Do you see the imbalance yet? What happens when our society starts to experience negative population growth and depends on other means to achieve what we so desperately want to happen naturally? Of course, this question is more appropriate to women putting off pregnancy - it says nothing about the added anguish of couples of any age who find themselves unable to conceive naturally for any of a number of reasons. Infertility needs to be recognized for what it is: a disease.

This is why awareness and advocacy are so important: Infertility is ridiculously common yet almost invisible to society. It's the most exclusive club we will never want to be a part of.