I've Got More to Say

I've stayed away from blogging for a long time and I can't really put my finger on why. I have a lot of excuses. I say I'm busy. I'm not that busy. I say I don't have things to say. I have lots to say. I say I'm tired. Well, at least that one's true. But the truth is these are excuses.

I had a great conversation with a friend of mine a few weeks ago about our deepest shame and I came up with a theory. I think what we hate most in ourselves may actually be our greatest strength. I think that we let the Enemy tell us that we are not good at our gifts so we won't use them. Take my mother for example. She has said for my entire life that she is not good with words. She feels she never uses the right ones and that when she does choose to speak it makes her appear foolish. But do you know what I see? Every time my mother has thoughtfully sat down with me and encouraged me, every time she has given me advice, every time she has taken the time and effort to write me a card just because it has changed my life, built me up, made me stronger. Because of her words. The very same words that she feels are her worst asset. Just imagine what would have happened if she has listened to the lie that she was not good with words? How many people would have given up? How many times would I have traveled the wrong road?

OK, a biblical example. Remember Moses? When God asked him to rescue His people Moses said "who me? But I'm not a leader. You should chose someone else." Then God tells Moses "Who is God here? Who knows what is best? Who knows what my people need? That's right. Me. God." (At this point in the conversation I imagine that God sounds a lot like me with my kindergarten students "OK! Everyone point to the teacher. Oh you DO know who's the boss!"). The point is, maybe what we see as shameful, weak, hopeless, maybe those things are the things we should be using. The things we should be growing. Maybe those are the things the Enemy wants us to forget about because God has big plans for those weaknesses.

As I come to the end of this little speech it occurs to me that I might be dangerously close to comparing myself to Moses and my blog to the freeing of thousands of Israelites which seems a little self important... But my point still stands. Let Him use your weakness for His glory. Fight the Lie that says He can't.

So, I'm coming back to writing.

Wiggles Turns Two and Some Recent Revelations on Parenting

I cannot believe this little girl is two today. It's so cliche to say that it has flown by but it has, ok? 

We have actually been parenting a two year old for a few months now. I didn't know she knew how to kick and scream like that. I certainly never taught her to yell at the top of her lungs when she's frustrated and I'm fairly certain she's never seen me throw my things on the floor when they don't work or smack people's faces when I am unhappy with their responses. Now, don't get me wrong, I love this child more than air. She is also many wonderful, sweet and happy things as well. 

It's just, you start to feel lost as a parent when you actually have to start, you know, parenting your children and not just well, keeping them alive. I was reading this blog and she was talking about her family's motto. She painted it (had it painted? I don't remember) over her front door with the idea that she and her family would see it every day as they entered the world. I've been thinking a lot about what our family motto would be. This question has morphed into a few different questions, what do I want my children to become? What do I want them to take into the world? What are the huge things that all the little wishes and hopes fall into? And this is what I feel is truth: Love Jesus, Love People. That's it. If you go into the world with those two things what else is there?

I think as parents we worry so much about every disciplinary decision we make. No elbows on the table, not touching breakable things, making sure our children follow our directions the instant they hear them, which shirt they wear to church. And then we lay in bed at night and feel like we've failed because we didn't fight the I'm-wearing-my-tutu-to-the-grocery-store-so-there battle like maybe we should have.

But here's the deal: If you raise a child who loves Jesus and loves people, you've given your child (and really society) an unimaginable blessing. 

And here's the other thing. It's not just about you having this secret goal for your kids that you quietly work on. Kids need to know why they are doing things to have it stick with them. "We don't hit Julie" is nice and true, but isn't it so much more meaningful to say "We love Jesus and we love people. When you hit Julie that's not loving Jesus or loving people. Here is how we could have done it differently..."

There are some things that my Mom and Dad said to me over and over from childhood to adulthood, and you know what? These phrases are not just something I remember fondly about my parents. They are burned into my conscious. That little voice in my head often sounds a whole lot like my dad saying "do what's right, don't be stupid, trust in Jesus and you'll be fine." Or it's my mom saying "the only person you can change is you. You have to let everyone else go. It's God's job to change them, not yours." Wouldn't it be amazing if the voice my children hear quietly says to them: "Is this choice you are making loving Jesus? Is this action or thought loving people?"

That is my prayer for my little girl today. I don't care of she's a wealthy doctor or a starving artist. I don't care if she gets A's in school or D's. I don't care is she's married with seven kids, single with none or living under a bridge. Well, ok, I care if she lives under bridge but that's not the point. Does she love Jesus? Does she love people? Then God's used all we had in us as parents and she'll be just fine, terrible twos and all.

Ready to Jump

I feel ready. Ready to jump in with both feet. The only trouble is, I don't know what it is I'm ready for. It's as if everything has been stripped from me. I have nothing left and so I am willing, oh so willing to go and do and be for Him. The worst has happened and we have survived. He has prepared, is preparing my heart for something. Something big, I can feel it. 

I feel uncomfortable in my life, but it's different than it used to be. I used to be uncomfortable because I wanted normal. I craved normal like a drowning man craves air. I wanted a house and three kids (OK, I still want a mess of kids, maybe more like five though. Oh... don't tell Pat though...), a dog, a husband with a normal 8-5 job. I even wanted to do the dishes and clean the bathroom as long as it was in four walls I called my very own home. 

Now I'm uncomfortable with the idea of not doing something totally crazy. I mean like really crazy. Like start-a-non-profit-for-people-in-Uganda-with-AIDS, become-missionaries-in-cannibal-territory, start-a-sky-diving-academy-for-seniors crazy. It is both a thrilling and infuriating place to be. I'm so excited to see how God will use us, but at the same time, I'm ready to start. Like right now. "Drop me in Lord, I'm yours!" You know the phrase "all dressed up and nowhere to go?" That's me. All fired up and no one to love on. 

You see I came to this conclusion a few weeks ago. None of it matters. Truly. None of the reasons I was coming up with for God taking John and Evangeline to Him made any sense. It was an infuriating and extremely dark place to be.

And then it came to me. The only reason for losing them I can even begin to comprehend is to bring someone else closer to Him. That's it. Only that makes any kind of sense to me. I can come to terms with, even rejoice in their lives, short though they were, if He uses them to draw someone into His loving arms. And I am so ready to make those two beautiful lives count for something. Use me Lord to tell their story, share Your love, bring someone home.

Ichingly yours,
Jillian

Explaining the Train Ticket

When my husband and I were dating we were talking about being martyred for Christ. I told him that I would be terrified. I didn't trust what I would say or do if confronted with paying the ultimate price for my loyalty to Him. He told me this story:

Corrie Ten Boom and her father were standing in the train station talking about the very same thing. She was a young girl at the time and she had the same fears that I had. Her father turned to her and asked "Corrie, when do I give you your train ticket?" "Right before I get on the train," She answered. He explained to her that our God works the same way. 

You can't imagine facing the trials that you will face in the future. But when they come, that's when he makes your heart ready. That's when He hands you your ticket. Right at the exact moment you need it.

Their Story: Remembering

I want to tell their story. In a few years when we (by God's grace) have more children, and our lives are crazy (crazier?) I don't want to forget a single detail of their precious lives. I want to remember everything about them, every second we had with them. This is their story, our story, His Story.

I don't want to write this. I have to write this. I have to write it to remember. I have to write it to feel it again instead of this numbness that I've decided to come to terms with. I have to write it to heal. It won't be perfectly written. It might not make sense to anyone else. But then again, this really isn't for anyone else. Here goes.

I remember going to the bathroom that saturday before I put Wiggles down for her nap. I remember feeling my heart in my throat when I saw the first sign of blood. I remember calling my midwife. I remember she told me to take it easy; that some spotting was normal during twin pregnancies. I remember laying in bed all afternoon, not truly worried and even enjoying my day of rest. I remember Pat suggesting pizza for dinner. I remember getting up and sitting in the living room with Wiggles.

I remember going to the bathroom and feeling the blood begin to gush. I have never been so terrified. I remember a moment of panic before getting my head on straight. I didn't pray. I didn't think. There was only an all consuming, leg freezing, heart stopping fear.

I remember coming to my senses. I remember calling the midwife. I remember, a clearing in the terror as I remembered to grab a towel for the car seat. I remember driving with Pat. Then we prayed. We cried out.

I remember getting to the hospital. I remember Becky, dear sweet, life changing Becky with her calm nurses touch; an angel. I remember she thought Pat and I were sweet to each other. I remember getting into the hospital room and into bed. I remember changing into a gown. I remember the IV. My first ever.

I remember getting up to go to the bathroom. I remember a deeper terror. "Get a nurse there's a baby coming right now!" She came, Becky, my rock that first night. They weren't coming.

I remember the ultrasound. I remember telling Pat in half panic, half strength, "They're coming. It's going to happen. They're coming. It'll be ok." Willing it to be ok that we could lose them in that moment. I remember Dr. Bagdhadi. "20% chase he said." Hope. Not a lot, but more than enough for my God. I remember his next words. "Tomorrow we will just let you rest. We'll see how you are doing in two days." How fitting to rest on His day.

I remember two agonizingly slow days. I remember staying on one side for two hours and the calling the nurse to help me turn over. I remember thinking I was a giant pancake, absurdly wanting to call out over the nurses intercom, "Come flip me! I'm done on this side!" I remember the excruciating pain in my hips. I remember thinking it was so much more than worth it to save them.

And then Monday. I remember the terrible doctor who came in and tore the rug out from under us. I remember his terrible scoff when we told him we thought there had been a chance. I remember his ugly words about what it would be like when they came. I remember my husbands rage at his explicit and callous language about the horror that is losing a child nearly able to survive on their own, falling just short. Ten tiny days too short. Ten.

I remember waiting for 7 hours to see that mornings ultrasound. 7 hours. Thats a long time when your world is ending. God is still good. God can still heal me. God can still save them.

I remember when the new doctor came in. I remember she started talking. I remember being confused. I remember Pat begging her to stop. Explain. We don't know what the tests said. She's coming. Now. That's what the test said.

I remember sitting up. I remember grabbing Pat. I remember the terror. Oh the terror. "I don't have my ticket yet!" I said. "It's not time for your ticket," He said with tears.

She came. Without effort or pain she came. Fear. Thats all I felt in that moment. A different Becky. Equally angelic, "She's still alive. Sweet, she's still alive." "Give her to me." Not an acquiescence, a command. 

I remember her sweet hand. Her dainty thumb and palm. I remember her nose so much like Wiggles nose. I remember her tiny elbows. The way her chest felt. Her ribs. Her weight. Her feet. Her toes. There is no way to explain this part. Joy and ultimate sorrow all at once. Joy for her miracle body, with all it perfectly tiny parts. Unimaginable weight, grief, pain, physical pain, that this was the only time you were allowed to be with such perfection. A taste of her. A glimpse of her. And she was gone.

I remember waiting for him. I remember my midwife arriving. A gift from God. I didn't call her, but oh, I needed her. She came because she knew. I needed her. I remember the pitocin. I remember the contractions. More painful because of grief. I remember the pain medicine. A gift. Lovely, warm nearly happy relief. 

I remember his entrance. Bottom first and with more pain. I remember he was bigger. I remember feeling calmer. Dare I say peaceful. I'm so glad we had two. He redeemed his sisters birth. The terror of her sudden entrance was replaced by his calm. I could enjoy both of my children more because he was there. He was calm.

I remember his hand. So big. So manly. I remember his nose. His father's nose. In fact, his father in miniature. His toes. His feet. His belly. I remember think he's a boy! He's so different from his sisters. A little boy.

 I remember singing to them. Wiggles lullaby. I remember praying with them, for them, for us. I remember Pat holding them. "It's ok little baby. You get to be with Jesus real soon!" I remember when they were gone. I remember the empty. I remember the ache. I remember exhaustion.

I remember the time we went to bed. 3:30AM. I remember falling asleep holding my partners hand, both too weary to cry. Too weary to pray anymore. Too weary to live.

I remember.

Their Story: How Many?!

I want to tell their story. In a few years when we (by God's grace) have more children, and our lives are crazy (crazier?) I don't want to forget a single detail of their precious lives. I want to remember everything about them, every second we had with them. This is their story, our story, His Story.

Everything was going well. Well, aside from crippling morning sickness. I had seen my midwife and she had done the necessary lab work. I was taking it relatively easy. All was well. Until July 2nd.

It was just about nap time (around 1:00) at our house. I was sitting on the couch with Wiggles, who was being silly, when my midwife called. Hey how you feelin's were asked and answered. Then she told me that she had gotten my labs back *small pause*. Anyone who's been pregnant knows when the sentence starts with "I got your _____ back," and then has a *small pause* that it's going to be, at the very least, interesting and probably bordering on scary. She explained to me that my HGC levels were higher than normal and I needed to get in for an ultrasound as soon as possible. 

I did a lot of phone nodding as she told me which clinic to call and how to make an appointment. Then I asked the question I was terrified to ask. "So what, I mean, how could, *pause*, what could it be?" Well, there were three possible explanations for high HGC levels. First, and most likely, we were wrong about our conception date. This seemed likely since we weren't really positive about that part of things anyway. Second, twins (or more I guess). This seemed unlikely to me. I know several of you might be thinking, "but Jillian, isn't your husband a twin?" Yes, yes, but you see, before I agreed to marry my husband I did my research. I wanted to know what I was getting myself into. You see, my husband is an identical twin. Identical twins are not genetic. It's merely a fluke on a cellular level (or the hand of God, if you see things the way I do). Our chances of having twins was no greater than anyone else's. The third possibility was a molar pregnancy. I had to look this up. Basically it means that the way the sperm and egg met never made a baby, it just turned into a tumor in the uterus. The reason your hormone levels are so high is because your body is trying very hard to turn this tumor into a baby. It's totally treatable, but it involves surgery and it can turn cancerous. Scary right?

I must have sounded worried because the midwife told me to hang on a second while she made a phone call and by the time she called back she had us scheduled for an appointment less than an hour later. I quickly put Wiggle's down for a nap, dressed (yes, I was still in my pajamas. Morning sickness, remember?), and left my mother-in-law in charge. Pat and I were out the door within 20 minutes.

I remember feeling sick to my stomach in the car, in the elevator, in the waiting room. I remember praying. A lot. I remember the nurse calling my name.

And I will never forget the moment the nurse put the ultrasound wand on my stomach and announced without pausing for effect or preparing us at all, "Oh, there's two in there," as if she were discussing a particularly bad rainy season.

Pat had to sit down. It was sit down or fall down. Our world changed in an instant.

I love them.

Their Story: More

I want to tell their story. In a few years when we (by God's grace) have more children, and our lives are crazy (crazier?) I don't want to forget a single detail of their precious lives. I want to remember everything about them, every second we had with them. This is their story, our story, His Story.

"I really feel like we are ready to have another baby," Pat said to me one day in late March. 

We were driving to Portland to visit my parents (who had no house of their own) from Pat's parent's house (we also had no house of our own) and it was probably the middle of the week (because Pat didn't have a job). You could have pushed me over with a feather.

When we decided to get pregnant the first time it was completely my idea. I wanted to have a baby so badly. It took us almost a year to get pregnant with Wiggles and Pat has since told me it wasn't until the month I was actually pregnant that he felt like he would have been truly disappointed at not being pregnant. So the fact that he was suggesting that we not only have another baby, but that we have one in the middle of all this... mess... was astonishing. I quickly agreed to the plan for more children (to be completely honest, Pat is going to be the one to say "no mas" 'cause I'd have as many as he'd let me, so this was not a difficult decision on my part).

The idea was that we would start trying now and hopefully we would be pregnant within the year, thinking that by then maybe life would make a little more sense. Ha! God has a sense of humor I guess. We were pregnant by the beginning of May, after less than two cycles of trying. 

I found out we were pregnant the day after my Birthday. I remember stopping at the dollar store on the way home from church more than a week after I was supposed to get "the visit". I remember waiting to see if the lines formed in the window of the test and was shocked that they appeared within seconds (I now know it was because my body was freaking out with double the pregnancy hormones, so the test reacted twice as fast). I remember calling Pat into Wiggles room and ripping the bandaid off. "We're pregnant" I told him. You know, for a man who wanted to have another baby he was pretty shocked. I don't think either one of us was expecting to get pregnant quite so soon.

Man, was I sick those first few weeks. With Wiggles I would wake up, throw up, and the feel (relatively) fine the rest of the day. With this pregnancy I didn't throw up, but I felt like I had a terrible stomach flu all day, peaking in the evening, just in time for me to spend some time with my husband. And by "spend some time with" I mean "pass out next to." I thought we must be having a boy or something. I had no idea we were in for a much bigger surprise than a new gender in our family.

This was taken at the park after the car ride where we decided to start trying again. Two pinecones. Prophetic, no?