To Tutu 2

Somehow it has been two years since you were born, little hurricane. Yes, time has gone fast, but it also seems like ages have past in those two years. You've done so much living for only being two, you've seen so much for a little baby weather pattern.

You've picked up your small world and moved it across the country to another small world. I am unsure what Texas has done to deserve this, but it must have been really terrible. You left best friend cousins behind to follow daddy across the big planet. You will grow up thinking Texas is home. But Texas isn't your home, lovely. Utah isn't either. From abounding grace and any amount of faithfulness, I pray that your real home will be at mommy's side in eternity, where "the wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them." Not that you can't do that now. The lions seem quite enthralled by you. But mommy will panic less when you stick your hand in the viper's pit in eternity.

You've survived nursing school. Not you personally, but you survived daddy's nursing school. It's funny to think that the brief moment of our lives encapsulated by this God-led endeavor is all you have known. You won't remember the nights when mommy got up to console you because daddy was at clinicals. You won't remember the first day you were here on this planet, and mommy woke to feed you, while daddy studied in the corner. Your mind won't recall the war that raged as daddy fought his demons, and mommy battled the alone, and God handed us a victory built of courage and miracles. You won't remember, but we will tell you again and again. Because the only way to fall in love with Yahweh is to know Him and to see Him move. You will see things I could never dream. And I pray that you learn to love your weakness that builds a monument to the strength of the One who made you and will make you new.

You've lived through allergies... so far. Milk, soy, wheat, eggs, peanuts, cashews, latex, mangoes. Do you know how hard you make it to bake a birthday cake? You will have rice rusks with dairy free frosting for your special day. But the real treat will be the venison sausage we get you at the barbecue joint down the street. The lions recognize their own: a little, baby, carnivore, weather pattern. grrr.

I'm proud, and afraid, and amazed, and in love, and furious, and worshipping. Often all at the same time. Hannah, you are strong-willed. Hear this daughter: you are strong. As strong as He has made you. And this world will shift when you speak, mountains can crumble in your faith, seas will be broken by the clench of your chubby little baby fist... If you give your spirit to your Captain. Love Him, sweetie bear. There is no better home for your soul.

The Promiscuous Wife: A Culture of Church Leavers

We just took another swing at a new church in Texas, and were called on strike seven. When you try seven churches without success in a new place, you begin to question whether you are perhaps being too picky, looking for something that does not exist, or even, if you are outside the will of God in this place. None of these are reasonable assumptions, but as the depressing succession of Sundays rolls past, leaving you no closer to fellowship than when you started, you do wonder.

Combine with this the struggles of the church you just left in Utah, and theories start forming in the mind. Why is it so challenging to find a "good" church? What makes a "good" church? Why do people seem to leave churches like cable companies for the next best thing? Anyone who has spent any amount of time in an evangelical christian church knows that we live in a modern culture of church leavers. When did this become not only acceptable, but our right as believers?

In Ephesians 5 the relationship between Christ and the church is given as a parallel to the relationship between husbands and wives. The church is the bride of Christ. Christ gave himself up for her, loves her, nourishes her, and is encouraging her to greater things, to a more perfect life. The church in turn offers beautiful submission to Christ, serves His plan before her own, and acts in obedience to the will of the One who gave everything for her good. It is an incredible picture of temporal marriage and eternal submission.

Why not view the relationship between a believer and the church the same way? It is not necessarily written down in Scripture, it is just my own perspective, but from my studies it seems consistent with the character of God and His plan for us.

Why it is hard to find a "good" church (and what that means):

I have heard so many people say of churches, both those following the will of God and those in disobedience in some area (or many areas), that they walked in and it just "felt right." There are many variations of this idea: "I felt such peace here", "I experienced joy here the second I came in", "the people were so kind, it felt like home". This is the love at first sight church relationship. You walk in and something elemental or temporal feeds your senses and emotions. You have an "experience" that leaves you feeling blissful, loved, and comfortable. Love at first sight in finding a church is just like love at first sight when seeing a person. You have a connection based on the appearance or demeanor of an individual that sparks an emotional response. It feels very good, and it feels very real.

But it isn't.

I'm not saying that love at first sight cannot work, but there has to be substance, character, and perseverance behind the initial experience. We love entering a new relationship and having the exciting, romantic feeling, but it will not outlast the superficialness of infatuation.

Something will happen, and the church will not "feel right" anymore. They will hire a staff member that you don't like. They will not manage funds in a way you approve. Someone will be unkind, and suddenly the church that was so loving, doesn't feel so much like home.

In relationships, this is why we have a culture where 50% of marriages end in divorce. He changes, she changes, annoying habits appear, old grudges poke out, and suddenly the emotional high of love at first sight vanishes in a cloud of the drudgery of life. Perhaps this is the same reason we change churches like we change our socks: because it was based on emotion and appearances from the beginning.

Emotions are so tempting. We visited a church that was the right size, had people our age, sang songs I knew and loved, had a dynamic time of worship, and had a women's ministry. It felt wonderful. I was thoroughly encouraged by being there. Sure, they had a woman give a devotional in authority over men. Yes, they believed in the miraculous gifts as still relevant for today. Okay, so the pastor read into the text, to pull out what he needed it to say. But it felt so wonderful. So much like home.

Justin and I will not attend that church again. Because one day they will pick a song I despise. One day one of these nice people will be a jerk. One day they will get much bigger or much smaller and it won't feel so homey. And when that day comes (as it will in every single church. Let me say it again: it will happen in every church!), there will be no reason to stay. There is no substance there, no commitment to truth, no commitment to the will of God over the tug of modern thought. So regardless of how desperate I am for a home, how desperate I am for the love of other Christians, it is better to be patient now, to avoid pain later.

And that's really why it is hard to find a church. Because you have to wait and pick the right one. Before I was married the primary piece of relational advice strong, mature Christians gave me was this: pick a man you can joyfully submit to in all things. The work of making a marriage work is a lot easier when you do it before ever walking down the aisle. I would die for my husband. I would live in poverty or pain or peril for my husband. I would live this life day to day unchanged doing dishes, vacuuming floors, and never seeing a glimmer of excitement because my husband is awesome! He strives with his every living breath to care for me as Christ cared for the church. Our marriage rocks; because we waited for substance, quality, and character.

You want to stay at your church forever? Pick a church worth staying at. Pick a good church.

And there is only one thing that makes a good church: unflinching, unwavering commitment to the complete, inerrant truth of God's word.

Everything else is in there. A church that hungrily devours the word of God will worship with passion. It doesn't matter if it is with organ or drums or guitar or didgeridoo, it will be with passion. A church in love with the Bible will love you unconditionally and forgive your faults and work to restore you to fellowship because that is what God has asked in His book. A church who knows their Bible and has let it saturate their minds to the point of effecting every decision made will handle finances, ministries, missions, and discipline in the will of God. Maybe not the way you like, but in His plan.

There is no perfect church, just like there is no perfect spouse. But pick a good one, and you will find yourself able to forgive every fault, committed to this home until the end of all things; because there is integrity under it all.

It seems like a tall order to do all this work. I already had to select a good spouse; I have to labor at finding a church too? Why bother? I can leave at any time and find one that I like better.

You work because of the reward. Because if you stick it out with your church you will grow closer to them than to your own family. They will stand by you in all things, and you will have the joy of using your gifts to bless others. You will have a place and a purpose and a hope. But even all of this is not the reward.

Your reward is that glory will be brought to the Name of our matchless, omni-loving, Creator God who bled on the cross, and defeated death for the sake of your one spirit. You will bring Him glory. And that is enough. That is enough to persevere. That is enough to struggle.

That ought to be enough to not step out on your church. I am guilty of it. Maybe there is something better out there, people our age, people like us, better worship, more moving sermons, convenient Bible study times, something else. I'm not saying it is adultery to visit another church. I'm saying it is adultery to visit another church with the intention of finding something better for yourself. It all comes back to selfishness. What about my needs? My preferences? My friends? What about my style, my voice, my heart? He was mean, she is boring, they are different. It doesn't suit me.

The reason God did not make me a pastor's wife is because I'm mean. He is working on me. But it's a process. So here it is: the mean:

Tough.

He wronged me.

Tough. That's your church. Take some initiative. Take some responsibility. Fix it. Don't abandon your marriage church because of one slight. Not because of two. Not because of seventy times seven (Matthew 18). It is not about you. It is about God's will: unity in the body (Ephesians 4). It is about the love of Christ covering a multitude of sins (1 Peter 4). Forgive as Christ forgave you (Ephesians 4).

I don't like the pastor's preaching.

Tough. Does he speak the truth? Does he challenge you to live your new life in Christ? Are you doing your part to study what he says, to read for yourself, to apply it daily, to meditate on his words and more importantly The Word all week? Your preference for his style is not reason enough to step out on your family. Tough.

I don't like all that clamor they call worship.

Tough. Do they praise the name of Jesus? Are you doing your part to fall flat on your face before God and pour out every blessing and adoration of which your human brain can conceive regardless of the clamor you yourself may be? I don't like his voice would not be a good enough reason to step out on your husband, don't use it to weasel out on your church.

Just like there is only one thing that makes a good church, there is only one reason for leaving a church: Failure of the leadership to adore the Word of God. If they let gross sin reign in the body, or if they teach any doctrine other than what is printed in the sixty-six books of God's revealed Bible, you get an out. That's it. And you best be about addressing the problem before sneaking off like a coward.

Too mean?

Sorry.

My point is this: God takes marriage seriously. He says he hates divorce (Malachi 2). He refuses to listen to men's prayers when they do not honor their wives (1 Peter 3). Marriage is the first divine institution He establishes, and He deems it physically, emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually a union not to be broken by men (Genesis 2). He takes purity in marriage seriously.

Perhaps if we viewed our relationship with our church as a marriage, we would begin to understand God's heart for our church and for us. He takes our choice to participate in the local body seriously. He gave us gifts for our church and for His glory. He gives us brothers and sisters so that the world might see His divine love and compassion poured out. When we leave our home, God takes it seriously. His will is this: "If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men." (Romans 12:18) The call is somber, but the reward is joy. Love your church, friends. Really really love them. Understand the will of God. Really really really love.

An Ode to Bush's Chicken and the End of Humanity as We Know It

Justin and I travelled to Texas to look for a home two weeks before we moved here. Our realtor was stuck with us for the better part of 24 hours. And we were basically picking up our babies and dragging them to a whole new world so we had A LOT of questions. Justin asked about golf courses in central Texas, and whether there were any rock gyms. I asked about schools, churches, and modern dance companies. To his credit, Mr. Realtor was very knowledgeable. A strike against him: he had to ask what modern dance was. (And a little part of me, somewhere deep in my soul, gulped with dread.)

My husband was watching shops and homes go by out the window as we drove from house to house. "Oh, hey, Bush's chicken," he commented. "Is that like KFC?"

A look came over our realtor's face. It is the look of a man with a dark past, addiction from thirty years ago, creeping back into the consciousness. The look of a man facing his demons. "No," he croaked out. "Bush's chicken; that's where you go when you want to be really bad." (Note: Bush's is right next to Spec's, and the man said Bush's is where you go to be bad.) "Bush's makes KFC look like organic, grass-fed poultry."

The day of the semi-hurricane, when the traumas were pouring into the PICU at the hospital, and nurses were declaring that there would be the drinking of much rum that night, they ordered lunch for the floor. The lunch they selected was Bush's.

The problem with this town is that it closes on Sunday night. You can still drive through it, but don't expect to see any other human beings or open fine dining restaurants. The only things open on a Sunday night are the cheap, bag-less grocery store and Bush's.

So, by default, in spite of our better judgement, we decided to get Bush's. They don't have an intercom box at Bush's. They don't even have an organized lane. You just sort of pull up to the side of the restaurant, and wait nervously with both hands on the steering wheel. A Bush's henchman slinks up to your car with a blank piece of paper and a pen. He doesn't ask what you want, he just raises his eyebrows. You both know why you're there. You give your order. A six hundred pound man in overalls, who drove in on his tractor in stares through you, zombie-like, and licks his chops.

A moment later, the little chicken henchman returns carrying a concerningly large and oddly shaped bag. It either contains your order or a dead body. Perhaps it's some efficiency worked out between the fried chicken industry and the local morgue. Take dinner home in the same bag the EMTs carry you out in. You shudder as the exchange is completed, feeling you may have just negotiated a hostage release. You drive home quickly, open the frightful bag, and are greeted by this:

Chipper, huh?

Since moving to Texas I have gained some weight. It is a new culture here, there are many stresses, and I am home all day with people who think fruit snacks are ambrosia. I haven't gained a lot of weight, but enough to make me attempt some level of diet. 

But you pull that box out, and BLAM! Take that kale! I'll have to eat nothing but apples for the next week in order to recover.

We pulled out the standard Styrofoam containers of side dishes and popped them open. There was one family size container full of gravy. "What is this for?" I asked Justin. He demonstrated, now an expert in this masochism, that you are supposed to dunk the fried chicken in the gravy. In case you aren't satisfied with the current rate of your chosen destruction.

Halfway through dinner I saw a little container amongst the chicken and bread. "Ooh what's this?" I asked. (My stomach was hoping for applesauce, but my brain didn't let it get its' hopes up.) Justin plucked it from the grease and popped the top:

Huh. Back up gravy. Nifty.

In the next photos, my daughter will display appropriate posture for the consumption of Bush's chicken.

Noah is picky. Very picky. Any new food he tries, is a victory. I nearly died with glee when he ate a grilled cheese sandwich. Protein is his nemesis. No hamburger, no bacon, no ham, no turkey. No no no no.

The kid ate four Bush's Chicken chicken tenders:

And I said the following words to my child, my pride and joy, my baby buddy, the blessing I spent 21 hours giving birth to (18.5 of which were without an epidural): I HATE YOU.

Of course. Of course, the one protein he will eat will cause him a heart attack by the age of six.

So there you are. If you're looking for trouble in Texas, if you want to be really bad, Bush's is what you want.

I'm not that girl

I mean, I am that girl, but I'm not that girl that you hate. I'm that girl, but not so much that you smile politely while throwing up a little in your mouth.

Meeting new people is just terrible. Do those first few moments ever go well? There is another young man, who started in the PICU at the same time Justin did. They are going through an internship together, and so, see quite a bit of each other. He has a lovely little wife (who is taller than me) and a new baby boy. The unit decided to have a barbecue together and invite all the families. I nearly bounded into the car. Friend! Adult! Conversation! my brain silently cheered.

Upon arrival I met this sweet woman and put my best face forward; because who would ever want to start a relationship with someone as real as we are in the ick.

Yet, somehow the conversation kept turning me into that girl. I couldn't stop it. Probably because I am that girl. But I don't mean it like that.

You know that girl:

• The dancer/artist who thinks about space and time as if they were actual things.
• She has an MFA, and a BA, and  BFA, and hasn't had a concrete, rational thought since high school.
• She teaches Pilates, focuses on her breathing, and eats chopped salads with kale in them for lunch.
• Her daughter is gluten free.
• And dairy free.
• And soy free.
• Cause we're just that cool.

I hate that girl.

And she is me.

Every time my mouth started moving my brain wanted to interject:

• Yes, I'm a dancer, but I watch football, so it's ok. I'm not weird or anything.
• Yes, I have too many art degrees, but I don't think I'm better than you because I read Kant. (In fact, I might be a little worse.)
• Yes, I teach Pilates and eat kale, but I also play Battle for Middle Earth for 3 hour stretches, and I consume Swiss Rolls and pizza. Kind of a lot. So we're cool. Because I'm not really Kale Girl.
• Yes, my daughter is gluten free/soy free/milk free/peanut free/egg free/latex free/cashew free, but it's because she is medically allergic to all those things. It's not like I think I'm doing her any favors by not letting her eat macaroni and cheese. I want to be the junk food mom, but I also want my baby to live to see her second birthday.

But you can't talk like that because you sound conflicted and defensive. And I hate that girl too.

Maybe this is why I have no friends.

It made me feel just a little bit better when my husband started doing the same thing. We were talking about incredible desserts we had experienced (because sugar is always good for conversation), and he mentioned that we had the opportunity to devour the most awesome invention in human history while vacationing in Maui: mochi ice cream. (Oh, if only I had the time to describe the inexplicable joy of mochi ice cream to you. The pages of this blog could never sustain such delight.)

My usually cool husband, stuttered and paused. "I mean, this was our first vacation of any kind in three years. We don't do that kind of trip often... or ever really. We scrimped and saved and got a tax return. I had just graduated, and it was our anniversary. It's not like... we're... you know... people who go to Maui or anything."

Right. We're not those people.

We just are a little bit. Just this one time.

Meeting new people sucks.

I wish I could just be honest: I dance, I teach pilates, I eat health food, I have a daughter who can't have gluten, and I go to Maui. But I'm not that girl. I'm really just like you...

Who are you again? I missed it.

Growing Pains

Nursing school changed us. Our faith was made malleable, then firm. Our hearts were fired, broken, and reformed in the hands of His grace. We faced our demons, faced spiritual battles, and though bruised we were never crushed. He endures, and so we endured. But in all this it was our lives in his sovereignty. It was Justin's battle, it was my perseverance, it was providence for my children. It was a great war in a very small world. In our great weakness, He proved His strength. But it was only us.

The shifts are twelve hours now. And the man who returns home at the end of half a day is different than the man who awoke at 5:00am. Families with patients in the ICU are having a life defining and faith forming (or destroying) moment. The nurses in the ICU try very hard to be unchanged every moment of every day. It is an impossible task. Some part of your heart wants to be unaffected, some part of your spirit never wants to remain unmoved.

There are things he can't tell me: patient confidentiality. So he sidles around the facts, creeps to the edge of what he is allowed to say; because he has to say something. You cannot hold so many lives alone.

Last week he did CPR on an infant. Nurses, doctors, and respiratory therapists screamed at him: too fast, too slow, push harder, don't crack ribs! And with his own lungs he called a baby back to life. It was a hopeless endeavor. His God had already called the little one home. He didn't weep. But something in his eyes was hollow.

The snarling edges of a hurricane blew through our town. The relentless rain became heartless as a truck hydroplaned. Justin ran the halls of the ICU, fetching this, recovering that, calling for help. Trauma is the nice word for don't-look-too-close. He spread lidocaine over a young skull, preparation for a drill. He came home as calm and mellow as ever. He helped put the kids to bed, he had dinner with me. If you didn't look too close, you would never catch the emotional exhaustion leaking out of the cracks in his surface. My godly man, my rock, the fortress for my children and my heart, is now strong for other families, and stands unmovable for strangers.

She has CP. This one was not easy for me to hear. Blood. It is life when it is hidden. It is death when it is seen. And he saw. Too. Much. He told me he had never been so afraid. One patient, twelve hours, a life on egg shells. But he survived, and so did she. For now. We are constantly reminded: there is no promised tomorrow. Every breath is a blessing. And with every breath he is made new.

There are boys with cancer, and girls with diabetes. There is abuse, and accidents, and sicknesses that are no accident, but you wonder 'How could this be Your plan?'

And he has stood.

I have never loved him so completely. But even more I have never respected him so fully. I see the struggle, but just as clearly I see the courage. He is growing, changing, being made new for an end we cannot yet imagine. And I take it all in. I try to stand as strong and as tall. I try to listen every night without tears. I try to have some comfort available.

It is not easy.

But it is worth it.

Because I am seeing my husband with new eyes. And he is incredible.

Where the Wild Thing Is

In an effort to prepare my Little Man for preschool we are working on shapes and colors. He is very good with both. The only color he struggles with sometimes is gray (and really? is that even a color?). Justin will ask Noah in a very secretive manner, "Ok, Noah, what is something that is red?" Noah will peer back and forth from under his eyebrows and surreptitiously point to a Utah Ute blanket, or the top of his Jake and the Neverland Pirates cup. When he is right (which is always) we tell our bright lad that he has done a good job.

As a side note, the other day I was working in the office as my darling children were supposed to be sleeping. I heard Noah playing, story-telling, and the like. Then I heard the following exchange:

Noah: Ok, Monkey, what is something that is yellow?
Monkey: silence (but I assume there was gesturing going on because Noah followed up with...)
Noah: No, Monkey, that's not yellow, try again.
Monkey: silence (but more educated pointing)
Noah: That's right Monkey! The top of the boat is yellow. Good job, Monkey!
Me: muffled laughter and chortling

One day we asked Noah where is something that is green. His face broke into a big grin, and he pointed a finger at his little chubby kid smile. "Noah's teeth are green!" He declared.

Now, just to be clear, we brush our kids' teeth every night, and despite milk and juice addictions, their little chompers are pearly white. We aren't the kind of parents to just let their beloveds' teeth rot to green in their skulls.

"Your teeth are green?!" I asked aghast.

Noah grinned even bigger and nodded vigorously. He then informed me that he also has red eyes. And lifting his adorable pudgy wrists with digits flexing into a curl, he mentioned that he has claws. "What about your fingers?" I asked.

"No," he said in apparent distress. "Noah doesn't have fingers, Noah has claws. ... ROAR!"

And I'll buy that he's a monster. We can play this game for awhile. But my Little Man Monster is going to have to toughen up to make it in monster land. After pinching his forefinger in some Lego's, Noah ran over to me on the verge of tears and wailed, "I hurt my claw!" And yes, mommy had to kiss his claw better. ...

Let's Never Do that Again

My husband turned to me with the look of a man who is talked down off the edge because it would be too tiring to jump, and that man who I pledged to hold to in good, bad, and worse muttered the phrase, "Let's never do that again."

Rewind 34 hours.

I just said goodbye to my world. The ecstatic high of speaking at our church's women's retreat, being surrounded by friends and relations I'd known for years, was followed up by the dramatic low of packing everything I owned into a truck, realizing the truck had no address to go to, selling our house, and sleeping on couches for a couple nights. And then we had to say goodbyes.

The worst was saying goodbye to my sister-in-law. It took us forever to become friends. (That would be my fault. I am not conducive to be-friendings.) Now, I could call her at any time and know she would have the wisdom, the optimism, and the vicious bite I needed when in the throes of almost taking something on this planet seriously. I don't hold tightly to people. Some may see it as callousness, but it's my personality. I want folk to be useful. I want them to risk and choose and make a difference. I want people to serve a purpose, not my purpose, but a purpose. When they don't, they drift away, and I can't muster the hootzbah to reel them back in. But I wept leaving my sister-in-law. Because she is purpose, passion, and courage incarnate. In a world where I find it easier to grow enormous beanstalks and slay giants than to befriend another woman, she took up the adventure beside me.

And then the worst was saying goodbye to my wing girl. And I just want to ask why we all say we need a Goose? He dies people. So, I'll fall on that sword: I needed a Maverick. I was Goose, and I needed the star of the show to find value in me. I needed a woman who had big ideas, and wanted to do things, and blamed her drunk dead German ancestors every time she cried (which was right up along the lines of never. That's a girl I can get behind). Read the blog. I don't need to re-write it here. She's awesome. All that nice, but slightly untrue stuff she said about me (and really, Miss Pastor's Wife, we're going to lie in writing for all the world to see? bad form), I believe that about her, but for real. And we had to say goodbye. I didn't cry. But it's only because my dead German ancestors were sobered up by too much coffee and a swift slap in the face.

And then the worst was saying goodbye to my dog. He climbed into Grandma and Grandpa's car and sat there with that big stupid grin on his face, and I wept. He's obnoxious. But apparently I love him.

And then the worst was saying goodbye to our parents. My dad just held my son. He held him while everyone else was hugging, crying, and goodbye-ing. He didn't cry. And he didn't let him go. My mom just kept telling me it would all work out, that it would be alright. Because she has had to be courageous for years. She has had to hold people up unseen, but vibrantly beautiful. She wanted to make it well. And in my spirit I believe her, but my heart was broken.

Still puffy, we closed on our house and got on the road, hoping to reach Texas by dinnertime the next day. The kids had never been in the car for more than forty-five minutes in a spurt. We were now going to drive them 23 hours across country. What could go wrong?

Our last Sunday at our church I sang a song, "It Is Well." This has been the lesson of the last years. Mountains thrown into the sea, oceans broken for us, through it all it is well.

And I believed this, right up until I locked the keys in the trunk.

And we called the lock smith three times, and upon the third call they declared they had never heard of us before, so we called another locksmith, and we got back on the road three hours later.

And the bored cops in New Mexico pulled us over, despite the fact that we were the only people on the road and driving quite conservatively for the abandoned middle of the desert.

And the AC went out. At 2:00 in the afternoon. In New Mexico.

And we got lost. My fault. Directionally-challenged.

And we got pulled over again in the middle of Podunk, Texas at 2:30 in the morning, for going 76 in a 70 mile per hour zone. And as my husband desperately pleaded our case to the police officer, indicating his sleeping children in the back, the upside down map in his wife's hands, and the lack of coffee in his system, the officer felt himself a right good chap to let us off with a warning. But he didn't help us figure out where we are. He just left us there.

And we got lost in our soon-to-be home town. And we stopped to ask a guy outside a gas station. Who was either new to town himself or high. I'm going with high due to the massive donut in his hand.

And when we got to our hotel room there was one full size bed for all of us, so we made a nest of pillows and blankets for Noah on the floor. Because there's nothing like rewarding your child for being a traveling stud like a warm snuggly floor. They found a crib for Hannah, which we wedged between the desk and the bed.

As we peeled our contacts off our eyes, and collapsed into bed at a time when I would normally be getting up, my husband uttered the phrase, "Let's never do that again."

The next morning, I found this crumbled in the bottom of my backpack. I had scrawled it out at work. For no rational reason. Nothing was wrong at the time. I was just ruminating on the phrase. So after the voyage from hell, I read these words:

It is well.

Satisfied. Peaceful.

I am saved, assured, always and forever, my sin removed as far as the east is from the west, by the blood of my King, I am saved. It is well; because I have assurance.

God is good. Whatever darkness comes, whatever tragedy, pain, loss, grief, temptation, or sin, God is good. It is well; because He is good and creates goodness.

God is sovereign. He is on the throne. It is well because there is one Power who holds sway in my life, and It is a power of passionate affection. He is never inattentive, or unloving. It is well; because of who He is.

God provides. Whatever we need, He provides. Courage, counsel, grace, peace, joy, time, energy, family, friends, faith, finances. It is well because He delights to give when we need.

We can hope perfectly. I am a daughter of the King. I am promised an inheritance, an eternity in glory, an eternity of glory. It is well; because heaven is not far off.

Because I choose for it to be well. I choose to believe that my God is bigger, stronger, greater, better, more loving, kinder, more powerful, more in control, more than more of everything I hope in. It is well because I can make a choice, and I choose to be satisfied in Christ.

Best Day Yet, Which Could Have Been Better

Texas did not start out as overly kind. It put crickets in the ceiling, and no furniture in the house, and confusing one way roads with bored police officers. However, we are settling in, and things are looking up.

We found a zoo. This was a good day.

We decided to buy a membership because thus far besides parks and walking around the mall, Texas is dull. There is a park by the lake where we can go swimming... I'm sure it will be lovely in July... When half of it isn't under water.

Back to the zoo. There will be more of this...

And more of these guys...

And maybe there will be more of Jennifer. Grrr.

We were leaving the giraffes. This is not as easy a task as it sounds. (On the way home I asked Noah four times what his favorite part of the zoo was and I got four different answers from bears, to fish, to yee-haw horse [my son is becoming a Texan, see above photo]. However, when I asked Hannah four times what her favorite part of the zoo was, she responded exactly the same each time: "Gee-Raff.") As we headed down the boardwalk a young mom with a boy in a stroller passed us, she smiled politely and I said hello. We proceeded toward the elephants.

But a moment later the same young woman came jogging back to us. "Hey, I just wanted to ask, do you live in Waco?" I shook my head and told her we are in Temple. "Oh," she said disappointed. "Our church is having a Harvest Festival with candy, games, and rides, and I thought your kids might love it. You'd be so welcome to come." And, at this moment, I considered moving to Waco. We talked for about ten minutes about us moving here and struggling to find a church, and she said she would definitely pray for us, that we would find a home soon. We said we would pray for her neck and shoulder that she would get relief from the chronic pain (which means her church doesn't believe in the gift of healing, hurray!). This was the first conversation I've had with an adult other than Justin since moving here. Noah started getting antsy to see the rhinos, so I apologetically said farewell. She helped her boy say goodbye and Jesus loves you.

And my half desperate brain thought, "Yeah? Well, I hate you. (yes I am devolving in maturity) How dare you be the only person in this state you has shown a vested interest in our well-being, while living over an hour away from us. How dare you be nice and kind and saved and live in Waco? Curse you, potential friend, who lives in another city.

When I got home Justin asked if I got her number. ... Curse me and my years of awkward, anti-socialness that has made me too culturally illiterate to realize I can ask for a freakin' number.

But other than missing out on a friend, the zoo was a good day.

Insomnia

I don't have insomnia. I'm just not sleeping well. There's a glut of reasons why this might be. However, I find the psychology of not sleeping and the phases of human desperation very interesting.

The first night when you don't sleep, it's an annoyance. You flip and flop, and then you lay there in a state of grump. Everything annoys you: the temperature, the scratchy sheets, the clock ticking, the soft breathing of a man you've devoted your life, heart, and soul to. It's frustrating, but the next day comes and life goes on with the promise of slumber the next night.

When the next night comes, and you are again not sleeping, the ticking minutes start to nettle you with desperation. You flip and flop more incessantly, convinced that this is somehow your fault, and if you could just get this sleeping thing right (after 30 years of perfect practice) maybe you would be rewarded with unconsciousness. Things that were annoying last night begin to enrage. You want to rip the clock from the wall, find a hammer and make sure it's next tick is it's last. You want to strip every stitch of clothing off because for-goodness-sake-are-we-in-the-amazon?! Then you want to buy a gallon of fabric softener and wash your bedding in it a hundred times.

And you might just start considering how to murder your soul mate. Because God forbid the man breathe.

But day dawns. And though you may look a year or two older, the next night will be better.

On the third night of sleeplessness you turn into The Narrator.

You start composing the blog about sleeplessness in your head as you lay there sleepless (which I am now writing the next day after sleeplessness). It's all so cyclical that the meta threatens to make you philosophical at 2:00am (which is the worst time for philosophy).

You start quoting a movie you have never actually seen, but have heard quotes from and they make you happy. And that makes you so sad you sob loudly enough, to maybe encourage your snoring companion to roll-the-freak-over.

However, you are non-violent. You have never intentionally punched, slapped, or kicked (since being over the age of twelve) another human being. And Fight Club is just too normal for you. You'd go down into your cave in search of your power animal and instead of it being something normal like a lion or a penguin it would be the Pillsbury Dough Boy...

Woohoo.

And that's when it hits you: you are The Narrator of Bake Club.

Except instead of Brad Pitt as your Tyler Durden, your alternate personality is the Pioneer Woman.

"Welcome to Bake Club. The first rule of Bake Club is: you do not talk about Bake Club. The second rule of Bake Club is: you DO NOT talk about Bake Club! Third rule of Bake Club: someone yells "fire!", gets egg shell in the batter, spills the flour, the bake is over. Fourth rule: only two cooks in the kitchen. Fifth rule: one recipe at a time, ladies. Sixth rule: No aprons, no oven mitts. Seventh rule: cookies will bake as long as they have to. And eighth and final rule: if this is your first time at Bake Club, you have to bake."

It's a beautiful reversal really: "A girl who came to Bake Club, her derriere was carved out of wood. After a few weeks, she was a wad of cookie dough."

If you just picked up my blog...

"You've met me at a very strange time in my life."

Life and Plastic Death

We walked toward the cashiers at Home Depot. The kids were having a rough go of things. Noah was whining, which is his new and oh-let-this-be-over-soon specialty. The "little man" wanted to be carried, but at three years old and D-lineman thick, he is no longer really carriable for me. Hannah, who I currently was carrying because she was picking up everything (everything meaning, metal brackets, screws, 2x4's and lollipops), was desperately squirming like a hooked fish trying to flop back into the waters of merchandise. I finally set her down (instead of catching her by her hair after an enormous barrel roll, which I'm told child services tends to frown on) with firm instructions to keep her little fingers to herself.

Then I looked up into the face of death.

A plasticy, cheaply fabricated, anatomically inaccurate death.

I hate Halloween. This is only in small part because I serve the God of light, who abides in life and grace, in whom there is no darkness. It is more because what culturally came to be a fun time for children has become a nauseatingly childish time for adults. There is no greater proof that we are mass cultural consumers unable to think independent or complex thoughts than our need to put giant inflatable spiders on our lawn.

Trick or treating is fine (for children). Dressing up is cool. A plethora of Reese's in every nook of the house just might have saved it.

But really? We need decor? We need life-sized Grim Reapers (... I feel there is irony lurking in that sentence) and orange lights, and paper mache headstones for our nicely manicured lawn?

However, my rants and opinions change very little. And thus, we came upon death... in the middle of Home Depot... next to the plastic flamingos.

I was concerned and suddenly hating Halloween for entirely other reasons: my sweet little Hannah was now trotting out ahead of us, and she was moments away from encountering this horrific figure. Does innocence count for nothing?

A truly concerned mother would have run up, spun her daughter away from the grim figure and rushed us all past. Sadly, I am more often curious than fully concerned.

At this point my baby girl was even with the plastic death, she started to turn, and I held my breath. Her eyes locked with the black hollows in the skullish face, a bony finger stretched toward her, pointing at her little heart, evil cackled "Abandon All Hope." I waited for the wailing, the crumbling, the clinging.

A look broke over my sweetie bear's face: her nose scrunched, her lips curled back to reveal her sharp baby teeth, she grinned and jutted her chin forward.

And then...

Her chubby little baby finger swung around and poked it's way right back into death's face. I should think if he were an actual specter, a horrible visage from the other realm, that he would have stepped back and looked around confused. As it was, I think the plastic was taken a bit aback. Hannah held her terrible pose for a second, long enough to telekinetically inform death that she was keeping an eye on him and he best just keep his little self in line, before skipping merrily toward an unsuspecting Cheetos display.

That's my girl: the minion so strong-willed, she stuck it to death.

Heaven help me.

The new normal

Texas is nice just before it rains. The air is just a little stickier, but the temperature cools to jeans and t-shirt degrees Fahrenheit. There are little pinpricks of rain drops every few minutes, and the wind blows. It is a decent kind of wind. It is the kind of wind that reminds you, no matter how often you brush your hair, you're still just the little tomboy who can't keep kept. Texas and I could be friends if it could muster the decency to rain more.

Normal used to be waking up at 4:30am. It was dropping my kids off at 5:00; it was being to work by 6:00. Normal was fixing everyone's problems, filing, emailing, tracking, smiling and nodding politely. Normal used to be grabbing the kids, seeing them and the husband for a few hours, sleeping and repeating. It wasn't a bad normal.

But this is better.

Normal is now juice and milk and Doc McStuffins during breakfast. Normal is puppets, books, and blankies. This is the new routine:

And yes, that's Hannah throwing pebbles at her brother through her legs as she hangs upside down.

These are the faces I spend my days with:

And this is what we do all day:

And here is us practicing our future career as baby models:

 

Hannah is not so good at working the camera yet. She's too busy sliding, swinging, and causing trouble.

There are tantrums too. There's tears, wooden spoons, and time outs. Hopefully, those will lessen as we learn how to be stay at home mommies and somewhat civilized little human beings.

I was afraid to stay at home with them. I was afraid that we wouldn't have anything to do, that we would be bored, that I would be overwhelmed by the hard moments and lessons.

Noah and Hannah have been the least frustrating part of this whole frustrating move. The appliance guys, and the mortgage guys, and the crazy cat lady, and the utility guys, and the church folk could all take a few lessons from my little munchie munches: Be decent and give lots of snuggles, and the mommy on the edge is much more manageable. ...

Not saying I need snuggles from the appliance guys. That would be weird.

Please Avoid When Church Planting

We have been visiting a lot of churches lately, trying to find a new home. There are many to choose from here in Texas. I have been all over their websites; I have been up and down their halls. I have had my fingers in their doctrine, and my taste buds in their coffee (I suddenly sense in trying to form a poetic construction, I have simultaneously made it sound like I am the creeper walking into strange churches, sticking her tongue in their coffee pot and walking out.), and my heart in their worship. We aren't people to just walk into a place and have it feel right. We're too cynical for that. Too scientific. We need proof: proof that they trust the inerrant Word of God alone, proof that they worship the One true King of Kings, proof that they don't dilute the coffee in an effort to appeal to the masses.

My research has led me to compose a brief list of suggestions, should any of my now non-existant readership want to start their own church someday. Just a couple thoughts if you want smart visitors to darken your doors, and if you would like them to repeat darken on occasion.

1. Do not inform me on the home page of your website in reference to your church leadership that you have "assembled only the most anointed people for [y]our team". Because the poor sucker looking at your website probably already feels pretty badly about themselves at this stage in life, and there's nothing so condemning as being reminded of the lie that God finds everyone else more awesome than you.

2. Speaking of people being awesomer... don't tell me that the initial manifestation of the Holy Spirit in a believer's life is speaking in tongues. Because with Google Translate on the market today, there is really no reason for the tongues-speaking-ness, except a few ecstatic folk trying to bolster up their shaky awesomeness.

3. As a follow-up to the desperate need for affirmed awesomeness in the tongues department... don't tell me that miraculous physical healing is the divine right of every believer. If you do insist on asserting this, when I literally run my tired feets off to your front door and collapse in the throes of heat exhaustion, I expect every person in the building to see 20/20, never have a cold, and hover two feet off the ground. (Hey, how do we know gravity isn't just a disease?)

4. Don't tell me I have to participate in spiritual formation. Because I can kill you with my brain.

5. Do not reference the ordinances of your denomination in your doctrine of faith. In fact, if you get really ambitious, do not reference anything other than the living and abiding Word of God in your doctrine of faith. I don't care what the Baptists said. I don't care what the Pentecostals said. I care what my God said. In research this is second-hand citing, and it is a sign of laziness or shaky theoretical foundations. If you can't find enough evidence in the Scriptures to affirm a belief, it is not a belief worth stating in your doctrine of faith.

6. Spell check. No one wants to go to your class on "Being a Pacemaker".

7. Don't tell me you only use the 1611 King James version of the Bible. Can we just not start off on the foot where you think I'm a pagan, and I think you're a prude? Just stop.

8. And lastly... this one is very important, so please, if you do intend to start a church go grab a pen, I'll wait. Ready? Ok!

DO. NOT. BE. A. JERK.

WRITE. IT. DOWN.

Do not slap a barcode on the back of a visitor's child and point him down one enormous corridor, slap a biohazard sign on the other child (she has allergies, not the plague) and point her down another enormous corridor, and adamantly refuse to allow them to go down the same unknown corridor to unknown rooms, with unknown faces together. Do not look aghast when said visitor's husband picks up both of his children and declares, "They're going together." Do not call security (which is in the cop car outside directing traffic).

Do not look at the visitor as if she is some manner of witch for having the audacity to ask if there is a women's Bible study. And this is important: Do not point at the Ladies' Crazy Christmas Coffee as an acceptable substitution. I bite.

Do not glower when the visitor passes the communion tray incorrectly. She's trying her best.

Do not hurl your opinions from the pulpit about the sinfulness of those wicked youth under the age of fifty, when the only people in the "sanctuary" under the age of 50 are visitor and her husband. Do not remind them what sinners they are. They know. Once you reach 60 you are perfected and sin no more. I have thirty more years of heathenness in me.

Do not tell young women who are desperately alone that there is no space for them in the women's Bible study on Wednesday morning. Do not tell them they can't come.

As a teacher at the university I had two rules for all my classes: show up and don't be a jerk. I don't find it too unreasonable to expect the same of God's elect.

Just be nice.

Do you think she's mad?

"Here's a hypothetical situation," my husband started as we cruised down the road toward the softball fields. "Let's say someone takes a shot to the head on the field, a line drive or something. What is your order of actions and priorities?"

As a dancer I was taught that there are no wrong answers. As the wife of a nursing student I was taught that there are only wrong answers (at least I think that was the point of the last three years). I assumed in his query that my husband was testing my knowledge of critical care and trauma procedures (because he does this for fun every now and then to prove that in the area of medical care not having to do with infants named Hannah and Noah, he is in fact smarter than me). After a moment's consideration I replied, "I would find someone on the field with a phone (our base coach is the most likely candidate) and have them dial 911. Then, I would assess the victim, checking vitals starting with bleeding, pulse, and breathing." I described what I would do if the sustainer of head trauma was bleeding, if they were unconscious with no pulse or respiration, or if they were conscious and alert x3. Justin agreed with my order of priorities, and we discussed whether it would be better to move the victim into a seated position or leave them laying flat, addressing the possible effects of each option. (Let me tell you that it is riveting to live our little lives. Our children are going to know how to properly wrap a laceration, but not know how to achieve a laceration in the pursuit of childishness... which sounds like a good thing, but I see as somewhat sad.)

Fast forward forty-five minutes. I jogged out onto the field for the start of the second inning. My husband usually plays short stop, and I am usually at second. If you are not overly familiar with base/softball playage: playing at second you actually stand back toward the grass and closer to first base. This gives you a better opportunity to get anything hit to the right side of the field, while leaving enough time to get back to the bag for a play. My point in offering this vital softball strategy education is to point out that I was standing quite a distance from my husband at short. I would have had to shout to get his attention.

Although for the purpose of attention-getting he uses other methods entirely...

I mentioned in my last post that my husband is sometimes still a thirteen-year-old boy. In my experience most guys are at various times in their adult life just kids. This is usually an endearing quality of his. I find it cute that he likes baseball, airplanes, candy, and bodily noises. I find it hilarious when his adult male mind reverts to making "pinning" jokes.

But, some things are less endearing than others...

He throws rocks at me. Junior high was not so long ago that I have forgotten that this is how boys flirt. I've taken my share of abuse in the name of 'crush'. But here's the thing: once you've got the girl, you can call off the aerial strike.

He always does this. He finds little pebbles or dirt clods and lobs them off to one side of me, just to see how long it takes me to notice. At softball games I am always just trying to impress him and make him proud. I get very focused. I ignore things like thirst and sun and projectiles. Ironic, isn't it? The very act by which I want to earn my husband's approval causes me to fail to notice his desperate plea for attention.

During this particular moment, I was shifting my weight back and forth from foot to foot waiting for my father-in-law to pitch. What followed depends entirely on the perspective of reality you choose to believe.

From my perspective:
[I stared down the approaching batter. I glowered. There are so few opportunities in life to properly glower, that I was taking the most of it. I must have looked quite fierce, like a kitten attacking a laser pointer. My eyes narrowed in concentration, my toes dug into the dirt, my...

OUCH! What the crap was that?! Did I just get shot? I think someone shot me! Check the grassy knoll! (My hand flew up to my forehead to check for the almost certain gush of blood flowing down.) Looking up wildly to see if any further sniper shots were coming, I saw my husband...

The man I have stood by for seven years. The man whose children I bore, birthed, and raised. The man on whom my hopes of the last three years of grief and trouble rested, the protector of my family, the provider for our needs, the calmer of our fears. The man I committed to for better or worse.

The man who had just rocketed a boulder into my forehead.

He came jogging over as my face crumpled into my hands. "Are you okay?" he asked covered in concern and guilt (but still chuckling at the odds of making that shot - which helped matters immensely).

"Fine!" I nearly screamed.

"Are you sure, I'm sorry, I...."

"FINE!" I roared. "I.Am.Fine. But you need to go over there." I gestured madly at the shortstop position. He tried to continue speaking. But I kept pointing and growling, "Go over there!" ... Where I can't reach your throat with my nails. Where I can't scream at you in the tongues of men and angels. Where I can't start the first fight of our marriage over something so ridiculously stupid, but still downright infuriating! GO!

Another player jogged past and asked what just happened, "He hit me with a rock!" I shrieked.

Honestly, I wasn't that angry at him. I knew it was a mistake; I was 99% sure he would never purposely try to stone me. It was shock. The unnatural volume, the seething, the green I was turning and the sudden need for stretchy purple pants; it was all shock.

The pain was minimal. The lump was mortifying. I can't go to church like this! They give me grief enough for my shoes! Maybe I can get a haircut with bangs. Maybe I can run away to New Zealand. Maybe I can never ever leave the house again as long as I live. I suppose I should cut my husband some slack; at times, I am still a thirteen-year-old girl.

My primary consolation was, although I had forgiven him the second I looked up into those remorseful blue eyes, everyone else we knew would give him grief for weeks. Because I am a paradox: simultaneously merciful and malicious.]

His perspective: (and yes, I understand that it is not fair for me to be relaying his perspective, but I am only quoting from the story he had to relay 800 times after the incident.)

[You know when you are just messing around and it goes terribly, terribly wrong? I was throwing pebbles at her. I do this all the time. I picked up one and it was really flat, like you would skip across a river. Flat cylindrical objects tend to curve in flight. I threw it a good three feet out in front of her, and watched. Hmmm. That rock is turning. It's heading for my wife. No way.

Oh crap! I just hit my wife with a rock! Good thing we talked about this on the way here.

... What are the odds? That must have been a one in a million shot. That's pretty impressive.

... Do you think she's mad?]

We were on a roll. We took a marriage class, and the leader told a story about a couple who had been married for sixty-two years. At the husband's funeral, the wife laid her hand on the casket and whispered, "62 years and he never hurt me."

That was the goal.

Now, it will have to run: "75 years (we ain't quitters), and he never hurt me." Pause. "Except that time he hit me with a rock."

I love you, my un-matchable husband. And yes, it was a one in a million shot. Go you.

An Exit, a Pin, and a Princess

"I'm a mess. I'm just a mess."

"You look like a Disney princess."

*****

Three years, two children, four cars, a couple of floods, and an ocean of mercy later, it all came down to one test, the Exit HESI. If Justin passed, he would graduate, he would take the NCLEX, he would become a nurse, and I would get my husband back. If he failed, he would not graduate, he would not become a nurse, and ... I couldn't let my mind go any further. Usually I am the master of contingencies. I have plans A, B, C, and Z all laid out. But in the ten days leading up to Justin's final exam, I could not even entertain notions that he would not pass. It was one of the rare moments in my life, when I did not know what to do if things went south. The only conceivable response would be to change our names, move to Wyoming, and take up cattle ranching. (Because if everything else in the world breaks down, if disaster ensues, life ceases, and darkness reigns, we'll always have Wyoming.)

"God has not brought us this far, to leave us at the end." This was my mantra. I said it often. I said it to others. I said it to myself. And I believed it.

But...

My God is capable: He is beyond able to work miracles. He is sovereign: He has a plan beyond our imaginations for His glory. My God is good: there is nothing unkind, cruel, or neglectful in His character. My God is loving: He loves with passion, without regret, without fear, without selfishness. He loves perfectly, completely, eternally. This is what I know about my God. This is what He had taught me in three years.

But...

His plan may not include Justin passing the exit HESI. That was simple fact. He would still be capable, and sovereign, and good, and loving. But us finishing nursing school may not be part of His design. I knew His plan would be better. I knew His plan would be loving, and faith-growing, and one day would be revealed as the perfect plan for our lives.

But...

It would destroy me at first. It would tear Justin apart for a moment. The Sovereign God unfolds His good plan with a vision of our lives from our first tears to our last breath, and every choice He makes in between is made in love. The loving choices can break our hearts. The loving choices can shatter our souls. The loving choices build faith and hope and joy. You build faith and hope and joy by entering into environments that require great faith, by entering into moments of hopelessness, by entering into worlds devoid of light and laughter. In need of everything, we find our surest need of Him. And we find Him the surest fulfillment of need.

I knew He might take us there, into the sorrow.

The woman who emerged from this trial would be different. She would worship more boldly or more brokenly.

*****

The day of the test came. We had tried to keep it relatively quiet, but scores of friends were praying for us. Emails of prayer flooded in. Texts of prayer kept my phone buzzing. These people had walked beside us for three years, and they certainly would not abandon us now.

I tried to be patient. It was a long day. The test wasn't over until 7:30pm.

I had put the children to bed. I had made and not eaten dinner. I had turned on the TV. I had not gone completely mad, but I was borderline.

Finally, my phone buzzed. "It's over. I got an 830." He needed an 850 to officially pass. My head started swimming. Breathe! my brain screamed as I felt the hollowness carving its way outward from my stomach. "The professors are going to hold a meeting tonight and decide who graduates. They all respect me, and know how hard I've worked, so I'm optimistic. We just have to wait now."

That was not what I had prayed for. I wanted my God to come out the conquering hero. I wanted to fall to my knees in the living room and worship for His brilliant victory. I wanted to text every person I knew and let them share in our triumph.

I did not want to wait. I couldn't do it anymore.

I told my mother, my sister-in-law, and my friend what had happened. They all promised to continue praying. Then, I sank onto the couch and waited for Justin to get home.

*****

He was describing everything that had happened, describing why he was optimistic. My head kept nodding, my voice asserted that I understood, I was numb.

The phone rang.

Only Justin's voice was audible as he chatted with his professor on the other end.

"So then, we're good? I'm going to graduate?" he asked. His eyes twinkled; he grinned and gave me the money side again. "I just want to be sure that I've earned this, that you think I really deserve this degree?" The look on his face confirmed that his professors thought he more than earned it, that he was going to be a phenomenal nurse, that he had accomplished something incredible.

I stood, I walked into our bedroom, and I collapsed into a torrent of uncontrollable tears.

*****

This wasn't the cry of an angry woman. They weren't tears of joy. They weren't tears of sadness. These were tears of doneness. I was done. I was empty. I was numb. And the numb poured out.

Justin found me shaking and weeping. "Didn't you hear I passed?" he asked concerned. I nodded that yes, I heard. I tried to explain why I was crying. It did not go well. When one does not comprehend the reason for their actions, it is infinitely more complicated to explain that rational to others.

"I'm a mess. I'm just a mess!" I wailed. He held me. It was a good fifteen minutes before the tears stopped.

*****

"You look like a Disney Princess," my husband told me with a smile. My ringlet curled hair was pulled back, I had purple eyeliner on, I was wearing a turquoise blue dress and sparkling silver heels. I grinned like a school girl just told by her crush that she looked pretty on prom night. I felt like a Disney princess, long romanced by her Hero.

But this Disney princess had to change a bad diaper and comb snot out of her daughter's hair before the ball... or pinning ceremony. It's all a matter of perspective. This princess had to stop at Chick-fil-a, so her children would be manageable during the ceremony. This princess would carry a diaper bag, a bag of food, an open drink and her 19 month old daughter across a parking lot and down to the other end of the world building while wearing four and a half inch heels. Disney would never make a movie about my life. But if he did, he would be exhausted.

*****
Just to prove I didn't get any holier in the last three years: Justin and a classmate had a running joke about getting "pinned" at the ceremony. "Who's going to pin you?" my dodgy husband would ask with a wry grin.

"I don't know," his friend would reply with a giggle. "Maybe Professor Brown will pin me. Or maybe I'll just pin myself." Insert more giggling; because my husband is in fact sometimes still a thirteen year old boy. None of their other classmates got the joke. When Justin came home and asked me if I wanted to pin him, I waggled my eyebrows and slapped his butt (my poor children are going to be ruined for life). And thus I proved that I have a dirtier mind than nursing students who have catheterized complete strangers. Awesome. If God ever slaps His forehead, I'm sure I've earned a few.

The pinning ceremony is formal and serious. It is a thoughtful celebration of the culmination of students work leading them into their profession with a solemn oath steeped in tradition. At the ceremony, the speaker announced, "Justin will now be pinned by his wife Abi." I couldn't look my husband in the eye as I walked forward.

We're just terrible. We are physically incapable of taking things seriously.

*****
In spite of the giggling, my heart managed to wrestle a few tears from my eyes, as I hugged my husband. It was done.

God had brought us through.

I hugged him for a little longer than was perhaps appropriate. He was real, he was alive. It still felt like a dream. Maybe if I just held my husband in my arms, it would sink in. We were done. Three years, two children, four cars, a couple of floods, an ocean of mercy, and an Exit HESI later, we had been made new.

There were no worship songs to sing. The song had not been written which could manifest the praise in my heart. I grabbed every line of every hymn I knew and silently cried it out to my King.

Holy holy holy is the Lord God Almighty
The Earth is filled with his glory

Bless the Lord, oh my soul

We sing Hallelujah, we sing Hallelujah, we sing Hallelujah
The Lamb has overcome!

Shout to the Lord all the Earth let us sing
Power and Majesty, Praise to our King!

The Bible tells us that when we do not know how to pray, the Spirit intercedes for us with groans too deep for human understanding. Usually, we believe this happens in the hurt and the trouble and the pain. But I hope in the light of life, in unbounded joy, and in matchless delight the Spirit also sings for us, into the ear of our God, the words humanity has yet to imagine. I hope the Spirit sings to the Father the devotion of His daughter rescued by the Son. One day, I will hear the choruses of angels and know that a verse of their anthem was raised in my heart, unsung by my lips, and offered through eternity to the Captain and King, who brought us through and made us new.

The Third Year of Nursing School Part 2

"When you are so outnumbered, so unable to complete that impossible task, so in over your head that you couldn't see the light of day even if you tried, you are exactly where God wants you. This is a God who loves weakness; because His strength is perfected in weakness."
"The way we stand now has every bearing on the way this thing is going to end up."
"And so I ask you, what is your 300?"
Gideon - Priscilla Shirer

*****
Justin's school gave the students several options. Students who elected to leave the program would be refunded all of their tuition. There was another school (the only other school in the state) that offered a BSN in nursing and would accept their credits. Neither of these situations was ideal. Who knew how long another program would take, or even if they would take on new students in this unique situation. We couldn't give another 4-5 years to finding a new nursing program, applying, finishing it and doing clinicals. Justin didn't have the energy. I didn't have the heart.

Then, I came home one day from my new job and Justin was working out numbers on a scrap of paper. I recognized our mortgage amount, groceries, bills, petrol. He was working out our financial life on the back of a scrap of paper. I sat down across from him, and with a certain amount of hesitation he told me that there was another option. We had over a year and a half more of schooling before Justin's anticipated graduation date. After much discussion, the professors had decided to create a "teach out" program for those remaining students who had enough credits completed. The teach out would be under nine months. They would have the same amount of course work, the same number of clinical hours, and the same testing/grading requirements. It would all be compressed into half the normal amount of time. If Justin had failed even one class, this would not even be an option.

On that scrap of paper Justin was calculating our financial life without his income for at least nine months. There was no way he could work and finish school. We looked at the paper. It was not possible. If we cut out every extra, clung to only the bare necessities, if we strategized and schemed with every trick we had in our arsenal, it would still be impossible. Our only hope was to cling to the One who knew this was the plan all along. It was possible; because our Captain had crashed our car, and filled our bank account with an unexpected $3,000. It was possible; because he had endeared me to absolute strangers, encouraging them to allow me to work full time instead of thirty hours a week. It was possible because with Him all things are possible, nothing is a surprise, and His infinite love had this end in mind all along. For us, the utterly unattainable became possible in the hands of God.

The girl I was even just a year earlier would have wept with fear, clawed for a handhold of control, prayed for some manner of divine deliverance.

The woman I was becoming felt excitement, the thrill of joy, and knelt with the understanding that this was divine deliverance. He had sent it before I even asked. I set my face to the year approaching and smiled. The woman who emerged from this at the end of June 2015 would be made of other metals than earth. I waited for my God to make me anew.

*****
A few weeks before the nine months of need and loneliness and single-parenting, I began a women's Bible study at my home church. It was Priscilla Shirer's Gideon. It seemed that every word she spoke was fashioned in the mind of God to arm me for the coming year. In the depths of God's word, buried in a story of blood, and men, and darkness, I was made brave. I waited, filled with faith I had never known before, to see a miracle.

If we came out of this with a nursing degree, and our bills paid, and my sanity in place, and our convictions firm, it would be nothing less than the miraculous hand of God. I had no doubt that I was waiting to see My Captain move.

*****
But it did suck. I mean, it really sucked.

And then things started breaking again. Our shower stopped working. Our garbage disposal went out. (And after the incident linked above, it really went out. It was dead. Badly dead.) The jeep kept randomly giving up the ghost. I was so alone I could choke on it, my throat sticky and coarse with the emptiness of my heart. My daughter scratched at her broken skin like it was not made for her. My son refused to eat. And got sick. A lot.

But I waited for my miracles. Because a woman remade by the rushing spirit of her King does not despair. Hope does not disappoint. I waited for my God to move.

*****
And every single moment when the need threatened to overwhelm me, he moved. Gifts from friends, family, and strangers poured over us. Groceries appeared, gift cards, cash. The joy of using a gift card to fill my gas tank was so overwhelming, I did a little dance at the pump (thankfully at 5:00 in the morning, no one observed my temporary lunacy). Our family pooled their resources and bought us a new garbage disposal. The jeep suddenly started working... at least a little better. Justin used a golf tee to fix the shower (and it worked!). Noah brought me fresh amazement and delight at every moment. Hannah brought me courage and laughter. When darkness befell a friend's marriage, light and renewed commitment engulfed ours.

I lived day to day. God moved day to day. I thought, if I had an out of body experience, I would actually be able to watch myself growing in the Spirit.

*****
On the advice of our pediatrician, I took Hannah to get tested for allergies. After the feeling of powerlessness and annoyance faded, I finally got the paperwork finished and we received our first shipment of formula. My baby girl loved it. She guzzled it down. And her skin started to improve. We removed all wheat, milk, soy, peanuts, and eggs from her diet. We steered her clear of latex. Suddenly, looking into her big blue eyes my heart wasn't broken by her skin. Out of curiosity, I looked at her formula online. One case of four fourteen ounce cans cost $155 plus tax and shipping from the UK. Every month we received fifteen cans for free. Because Justin had to quit his job, I was given a way to provide quality nutrition for my daughter. In silence I worshipped, unable to speak at the beautiful and ironic thought that my God was providing for my children by making us flat broke.

*****
Every month we were bleeding money. The crash savings was dwindling. Then I went to pay the mortgage, and it had magically increased by over $250 per month. The most dismal of all illusions. It was such a small thing when taken in consideration with everything God had accomplished thus far, but it was a blow to our delicate reality. It took active, mind bending work, to continue trusting my God to provide.

*****
Our tax return came: $7,000.

I looked up at my God, speechless. Um... thanks. I don't think Shakespeare could have conjured up the eloquence deserved by the Almighty.

*****
June came. And there we stood, looking down the last month of this tribulation. Justin had survived. He passed all of his classes. His professors all loved him. He learned more than I could ever dream of knowing. My heart swelled with pride every time I saw him.

Hannah's vocabulary boomed. She said the most hysterical and sweetest things a mommy's ears ever heard. She continued to wash my world with goodness and sunlight.

Noah broke out of his frozen state... a little. He started talking to anyone who would listen about trains and fish and Jonah. And then, one day, he pointed to a picture and said, "Cross. Jesus died on the cross." Wide-eyed I asked him who Jesus is. "Jesus is God," he replied simply.

The woman I saw in the mirror looked exactly the same as the one I encountered a year earlier (which I suppose was a miracle in itself, no gray, no worry weight, no wrinkles, the same twinge of an attitude problem glimmering in her rebellious eyes). But I was not the same. "She has a passion for God; because she has seen God move. The reason she has seen God move is because she allows herself to be put in situations where God has to move," Priscilla Shirer.

We had some money in the bank. We booked a vacation. There would be much dancing and frivality. The celebration would be massive.

But first, we had to pass the exit HESI. We needed His great mercy and grace one more time...

Far be it from me to not believe
Even when my eyes can't see
And this mountain that's in front of me
Will be thrown into the midst of the sea.

Through it all, through it all
My eyes are on You
Through it all, through it all
It is well.

So let go my soul and trust in Him
The waves and wind still know His name.

The Third Year of Nursing School Part 1

I went suddenly silent. Street signs, houses, and other cars flew past my window unseen, as I fought back tears, as my breath caught in my throat, as my heart beat a little quicker. "Are you okay?" my husband asked, glancing over with concern. I shook my head. I shook it again. As if shaking my head might rattle my world back into sense and order. As if I hadn't just been remade.

"I knew God was at work. I knew He was involved in people's lives. I just never imagined to see it so clearly in our own story. I never expected miracles, even though I prayed for them. And He has woven this all together so much better than I dreamed or prayed."

*****
At the end of Justin's second year of graduate school, when he was killing himself to get in fifteen hours a week at work, I was called into my boss' office. As I stepped in the door, I took in her dead expression, the unusual silence, and the face of a woman, who I'd never seen before. Her badge gave her name and her department: "Human Resources." My stomach churned. Shakily, I slid into the available seat. I maintained strict eye contact as my boss began speaking. Ok, that's a lie. I stared at a tiny spot just between her eyebrows, and took deep breaths. One of my biggest pet peeves is when I portray emotion in front of other people. It's a neurosis of pride and control. You will not move me. You have no authority over me. I am stronger than this moment.

After five years, the decision had been made that a nurse should be hired to handle my completely administrative position over hospital policy. I was receiving a month's severance pay. Thank you for all your work. Leave your badge with the secretary.

I drove home in anger. It's a long drive. I arrived home relieved. I had been searching for a way out. I had been searching for a new challenge, a job I could love, a job with opportunity for pay advancement, a job that could carry us if Justin just couldn't keep working.

It was a strangely reflective moment as I calmly told Justin that I was out of work. I felt hopeful, I felt courageous. If I closed my eyes, I thought I might actually see my faith growing before me. This trouble was making me new. And I had perfect peace that our Captain's mighty hand was working and would continue providing.

He had given me a whole month to job search. He had given me a whole month, and a whole summer month at that, to play with my children, to watch them grow, to watch myself be made new.

*****
However, regardless of the hope we maintain, our humanity sometimes oversteps it's bounds and renews fear and worry. I was driving to pick up my children. My month was almost over. There had been many applications and many interviews, but as of yet, no offers. I started to ponder what we would do if I couldn't find work. I couldn't stand the thought of Justin having to quit school in order to provide for our family. We had endured so much, sacrificed so much to get him this far. It would destroy me if he had to quit. I prayed fervently as I drove. The worry was consuming me.

I remember looking up at the light. I remember recognizing that it was red. I also, distinctly remember having no idea what a red light might mean, or what action I might need to take in response. It was only as a car pulled into the intersection moments later, that my brain screamed, "STOP!"

Of course, it was too late at this point. The screech of tires was followed by the crunching of metal on metal and the shatter of glass. The shrieking of my horrified mind shouted, "Not now! Don't do this to my husband now! Please let this be a nightmare!"

It wasn't. I had broadsided another car. The woman was fine, but screamed at me like I had just killed her entire family and set her house on fire. As the police cleared things away, I had no choice, but to pray for her. I prayed for her well-being, for the insurance company to be kind and fair to her, and with a deep breath, I prayed that I would see her in eternity, that her life would be changed by the God of grace and mercy, that true peace and true joy would fill her world.

I don't know if any of my prayers were answered. But I know I was made new. Our Captain gave me a heart of forgiveness and compassion. He had faithfully planned that my children would not be in the car, that neither of us would be injured, and then he provided miraculously for the future, by way of a car accident.

*****
Justin and I were driving to the grocery store in the jeep. It decided to take us all the way there, for which we were both grateful. Justin got a call from the insurance adjuster. I nervously began drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. This could be bad. Head tipped to the side, I tried to hear what the man was telling my husband. Suddenly Justin's face turned sunny, I could tell he was trying to not sound overly excited on the phone, but he threw up the money sign with a grin.

FYI: "The money sign" is when you make this shape and twist your wrist back and forth.

The car God allowed me to destroy was relatively new for us, less than six months old. We used our tax return and some savings and paid $7,000 for it. As Justin hung up the phone he did a little dance. "Well? What's got you so chipper?" I asked impatiently.

"The car is totalled," he responded. That did not sound good. Great, I thought sadly. Now my husband is losing touch with reality, and I'm going to have to have him committed. "They are going to cut us a check for the value of the car minus our $500 deductible."

He's not so great with the spitting-out-of-it. With ever deepening confusion, I glanced over at him. "The check is going to be about $11,000."

My brain flat-lined. I was almost sure he had spoken in the English language, using standard ordinal numbers, but for some reason it wasn't computing. He grinned, "Thank you for crashing our car."

I do what I can.

It's very little really. God does what He can, which is a lot. And he used what I perceived as disaster to put $11,000 in our bank account. The woman who finished driving to the grocery store was not the woman who left her home fifteen minutes earlier. This new woman trusted her God infinitely more, she was braver, happier, and was beginning to realize how much bigger her God is.

*****
But we still needed a car. As we drove from lot to lot trying on more cars than the Mad Hatter has hats, I got a call. It was from a potential employer. He thought the interview went very well, he believed I would be an excellent choice for the position, could I start on July 16th? (The final pay period of severance and paying out vacation from my previous position ended on July 15th. I wouldn't even miss a paycheck.) The only downside was the job was only for 30 hours per week. Thirty hours was better than nothing. I accepted the position. Justin and I bought a car. After taxes, registration, and fees, the car cost us $8,000. We still had $3,000 in the bank, I had a job, Justin was still working.

God brought us through. He provided. It was a good day to worship.

*****
Rumors had been circulating about Justin's school. There had been a major legal issue on the East coast. Mucky mucks had mismanaged funds ('mismanaged' being a euphemism for 'stole, cheated, lied, thieved') and many of the campuses were closing. The administration at Justin's campus assured the students that it had absolutely nothing to do with them. He continued on with his classes, struggling, passing, holding on, sleeping not at all, seeing us very little. But we had renewed hope.

My new employer called again. With a pleading in his voice he asked if I might just possibly be able to work 40 hours per week instead at least for now, pretty please.

Well, I suppose, if you twist my arm, yes I could work full time and provide for my family. If I have to.

Our Captain was doing amazing things. We would make it through. It was another good day to worship.

*****
The school is closing.

I'm sorry, what?

Closing. The school will close its doors on June 30th, 2015.

(I did some quick calculations on my fingers.)

That leaves Justin three quarters away from his degree.

True.

That's not fair. We have sacrificed. We have given up everything little thing we could give up. He has suffered. It isn't fair. Did we just waste two years of our life? Did we just waste $25,000? How could this happen?

Can you trust me?

What other choice do I have?

Can you trust me because you want to trust me? Can you wait and see what I will do?

*****
"Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders
Let me walk upon the waters
Wherever You would call me
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger

In the presence of my Savior"