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?

So, This is Real Friendship.

I feel like writing. I have a lot to say lately, but I'm trying to sort out what I'm ready to say. Until I decide what that is, here's a picture of what a few friends have made me feel like. You have crawled in there with me. Listened to me. Prayed with me. Prayed for me. Said nothing with me. Thanks guys. I had no idea how wonderful real friends could be. It's hard to imagine feeling anything good after such loss. But I feel blessed because of you.

Jillian

What to Say (and Consequently What NOT to Say) to Grieving Moms and Dads

Just because it's pretty

I have put my foot in my mouth more times that I'd like to count. I'm good at it. It's a gift. I remember talking with a friend's sister and finding out she had separated from her husband. I don't remember what I said, but it was the wrong thing for sure and everyone knew it. I meant well. I wasn't trying to be mean, but I'm pretty sure I hurt some feelings. So this post is in no way meant to condemn people who love us who have also said stupid things. It is more aimed at helping people know how to better understand what we are dealing with so that they can be sensitive to us and others who are grieving.

1. Should Say: I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what you must be feeling. (Should not say: "I know exactly how you feel! I lost my second cousin twice removed that I only see every other year at Easter"). This is true: Unless you have experienced something comparable to losing a child you really aren't able to fully understand. Not that your help is invalid or that we can't talk about it, but even people who have also experienced similar losses grieve totally differently. The truth is, I don't even know what I'm feeling half the time so how could you know what I'm feeling?

2. Should say: I'm going to do _______ for you at ________ time, does that work for you? (Should not say: let me know what you need). Especially when a loss first happens it is hard to know what you need or want. In fact, the only thing you can even think to ask for is a time machine so you can go back and undo your loss. I had many lovely people ask me if there was anything they could do for me. It was encouraging to know that people cared, but the truth was, I had no idea what I needed. It wasn't that I didn't need anything, it's that I couldn't think of anything beyond this blinding loss. So when I read an article saying that you should just tell a grieving person what you were going to do to help, I found myself nodding at the screen.

3. If you have experienced something similar, I might actually want to know, especially if we are friends (strangers, not so much) but it should be done like this: "I just wanted you to know that we went through something similar. If you ever need to talk just let me know. I can talk any time." Notice that the friend did not explain their situation in great detail. I might not be ready to grieve with you yet or have the ability to comfort you at that time. They also did not tell some horrifying story from some far off relative who lost three babies in a row (you can't make this stuff up people, it happened a few days ago. You want to be truly cruel?Imply something this awful could happen more than once).

4. When in doubt, say nothing. In the first few days after The World Ended the people who completely disarmed me into a crying puddle were the ones who just looked at me with this intense compassion I can't even describe. It was like they got it and no words were necessary. This rule also goes for when you really don't know what to say. It is so much better to hug me and say nothing than to say something that, however unintentional, is hurtful.

5. I'm still praying for you. I was talking with a friend who also lost a baby several years ago and she said something that I am unfortunately finding to be true. People will give you about a month to be well on your way to recovery. May I first tell you this is absurd. Secondly, I understand why people think this way. After a month the wound isn't raw and gaping. People grieve with you at first and they grieve as long as they can. Most friends grieve with you strongly in the beginning. But the truth is, just like I have a family I need to care for so I put on a brave face, so too they have a life that is mostly separate from mine. I understand that they have moved on, even if I may never really get to that stage. What I'm saying is, not that you should live in sadness with the grieving person all the time, but when you are talking, let them know you understand that their suffering isn't over yet and you will be praying for them as they struggle through. Don't imply that they should be further along in the grieving process than they are. "No being depressed now!" Said with a finger wave and a smirk is not helpful (again, you can't make this stuff up).

6. Validate the father. People understand that mothers grieve. They allow for it and make necessary adjustments in their conversation and activities. People forget about the father. They grieve too only they are the backbone of the family and are required by society to quickly swallow and move on. People forget that fathers have experienced the same level of loss as the mother. Fathers need people to ask how they are doing (and mean it). Fathers need people to call them and invite them for coffee or a guy's night. Fathers need prayer and compassion. Fathers need a shoulder to cry on and an ear to hear their sorrows and help them heal.

Conclusion? The best thing to keep in mind is compassion. Are you saying something to love them or are you trying to fix them? Because there is no "fixing" someone who has lost a child (or in our case, two). Unless you have a time machine. Do you have one? Can I borrow it?

Jillian

Puzzle Pieces

I have never had a problem letting God do what He wants in my life. I have felt frustrated about not understanding what He's up to, but I always felt that once it was all said and done whatever he was up to would make sense.

When I was in college I liked this guy for a long time. He was a nice guy (a change for me) a christian nice guy and I couldn't understand for the life of me why God was saying no. It even appeared to me to be mutual (although looking back, probably not, I've seen He's Just Not That Into You as many times as the next girl: "if a guy likes you, he will make it happen"). Then I met Pat. He was perfect for me. I knew within a few months that we would get married (I was right, we dated less than a year before getting engaged). And I remember thinking all those long months *cough* years *cough*, while I had spent my wishing I was with someone else, God had a plan. Pat was the missing piece that I couldn't see. God hadn't shown him to me yet, but he had been part of the plan all along.

You see, I have always been comforted by the idea that He had a plan that was bigger than what I could see. I have always felt like no matter what happened someday I would understand. Until four years ago when Pat started to have serious health problems, and we moved out of our apartment, and had a kid (who is WONDERFUL by the way, no regrets, it just didn't make a whole lot of sense) and spent all our money on doctors and filed bankruptcy and Pat's father started having major life-threatening health issues (which are still going on by the way) and Pat didn't get a job we felt was a sure thing. And suddenly I felt lost.

I was talking with Pat a few months ago, before The Day the World Ended, and I was explaining to him about always feeling like I would get it some day. All through this difficult time I felt like someday I would get it. But as time went on I started to feel like nothing would ever make all this heart ache feel like it made sense. It was to complicated for that. I felt like I was trying to solve a giant cosmic jigsaw puzzle, only I wasn't given all the pieces yet. God was quietly handing me one at a time as I was ready to use them and one day, He would give me the piece that finished the puzzle (or at least a decent sized portion of it). But, I told Pat, I felt like no piece of the puzzle could ever tie up all of these pieces. There was no one (or even twelve) puzzle pieces that would make all of this trial make sense. I wanted to stop looking for the answer. I wasn't giving up on God. I wasn't even mad at Him, I just was tired of trying to find something that obviously wasn't going to be given to me. Don't misunderstand me, it's not that I didn't think there was a reason for all of the things we were going through, it's that I was just not going to be allowed to see it.

Then The World Ended. We have buried children. Two actually. There's no puzzle piece big enough of important enough to make that make any kind of sense.

We were reading  Wiggles her bible story at bedtime a few days ago from this wonderful children's bible called The Jesus Storybook Bible. We read it in a loop, meaning we read a story a night until it's done and then we start over. We read the prologue a few nights ago and there were a few sentences that halted the story because tears were obstructing my view of the page:

"[Jesus] is like the missing puzzle piece that makes all other pieces fit together, and suddenly you see a beautiful picture."

Now, I am not saying that now that I saw that sentence I am over the loss of our twins. I will never be over our loss. From what I understand you just learn to live with it. We still have a long road to whatever recovery can look like. But I will say that this children's bible was used by the Lord to speak to me. To tell me the missing piece was not an event or a person, (well, not an earthly person). It is Him and nothing less. That He doesn't just have the answers, He is the answer.

Limpingly,
Jillian

Happy Birthday

I decided to hijack my wife's blog today. The last thing she posted was the announcement of our two little twins, Evangeline Olivia and John Craig. Since then much has happened, and I didn't want the first thing she saw upon revisiting her blog to be the reminder of the happy news. The knife went straight into my heart as I looked at her last post. You see, our beautiful babies have gone to be with Jesus.
This is without a question the hardest thing I've had to write. We knew them as well as any parent. We loved them as we held them in our arms. They were perfect. How wonderful to have had the moments we did. Nevertheless, it is difficult to go on with two little holes in each of our hearts. We have three children, and though I know Jillian doesn't use our first born's name (she goes instead by the name wiggles), our little ones are now in the safe arms of our Savior thereby not needing the disguise of a nickname to keep them protected.
Evangeline and John were fully used by the Lord. His purpose for their lives, all be it short, was realized for the hour they spent with us on this earth. His grace shown in each breath they took, and the sweetness of Christ in their tiny faces as they rested without fear or worry on mommy's tummy.
We are forever changed having known them. What a good mommy she was to them as she held them. The caring and comforting voice of one so sweet and so filled with the faith of the Lord. It was a shock to learn that they would come just a little too early, and there was not much time to prepare for that day our world ended. But even through the valley of the shadow of death, she did not fear evil, but drew close to the Lord's promise that we will one day see them again, soon.
I love and admire the mommy of our three little babies. She has taught me to love so deep and so strong. I will love Wiggles, Evangeline and John forever; and I will love their mommy, if possible, even longer.

Evangeline Olivia

and 

John Craig

Born Sept. 16th 2013

Happy three week birthday my little babies.

Big Blessing, Little, Scary Package

I'm posting for the first time in a long time. It's been a little nuts here, and here is a very simple way to explain about 1/2 of it:

See that? This is not just a pregnancy announcement. Thats two, count 'em, two children in there! We are joining the multiples club. Here we go!

Jillian

PS Any multiples moms with some sage wisdom, share here please! We're a tad overwhelmed... and outnumbered...

Mother's (and Grandma's) day

When I was little this poem hung on my wall. It was a gift from my grandmother. Sitting on this side of childhood, it makes me teary and miss my grandma with a powerful ache. Today I give it back to the next generation of grandmothers, who have raised their children and are helping their children to raise children. Happy Mother's Day Oma and Grandma!

I Like To Walk With Grandma

I like to walk with grandma,

Her steps are short like mine.

She doesn't say "Now hurry up!"

She always takes her time.

I like to walk with Grandma,

Her eyes see things mine do...

Wee pebbles bright,

A funny cloud,

Half-hidden drop of dew.

Most people have to hurry,

They do not stop to see...

I'm glad that God made Grandma,

Unrushed and young, like me.

~Author Unknown~

I should have known

Yesterday morning I got to work and I was struck by a love for my job. I loved everything about it, the kids, the passion, the other people I teach with! I even sent a text message to Pat telling him how fantastic my job is.

I should have known.

Less than twenty minutes later I was on the phone calling the office to have Mrs. Smithson send the janitor to our classroom to clean up projectile vomit (we're talking a 5 foot range people!). By the end of my day I had three seven-year-old girls in attention-seeking, drama-spewing apoplectic tears.

I should have known.

I got home and started dinner. And as I came out of the kitchen to inquire about some dinner thing or other I watched my husband stand on the hearth to squish a spider on the ceiling. I watched the spider (presumably dead) fall in his face and, as if in slow motion, I watched him fall, not catch himself, topple into a box fan, a TV table and then final land on his side in a groaning heap.

Within an hour, he was in urgent care with his dad (I had to put Wiggles to bed). Another half hour and the doctors at urgent care had called for an ambulance and another half hour after that he was strapped to a backboard with his head in a vice, headed to the hospital and my father-in-law had come and given me the car so I could head to the hospital to join him.

Pat spent nearly five hours strapped to that backboard. I have never had the pleasure to be strapped to a backboard, but as my husband will tell you, it is extremely uncomfortable. We're talking "bordering on panicking because I can't stand the pain", uncomfortable. He was strapped down from 8:30 PM until 1:30 AM before they could get him in for his scan, check the scan to make sure he was ok and final release him. 

I saw my bed at 2:00 AM. Wiggles, blissfully unaware of the evening events woke up at her usual 6:30 AM. At least she was smiling.

So there you go. Just another day in my life. Can I get a nap?

Brave Husband. Aren't his eyes pretty?

*Edit: It was drawn to my attention that I didn't actually finish the story. So, as to Pat's health, the doctor said it looked like he had been in a car crash on the CT scan. The kind where technically all you did was strain your neck, but really that means you'll be so sore you'll want to cry every time you put on your shoes for like the next week. But we are counting our blessings that he didn't inadvertently loosen his hardware or something.

Sleeping Break Through

The only place she slept well for about three months was in my arms. That was a long three months...

I'm not a baby sleep genius, in fact I often feel like this lady. Take a second to read it. 

Go ahead, I'll wait. 

Finished? Good, now you understand the last year of my life. Moving on. 

I had an epiphany today. I read this book (along with about 900 others, but this was the one that made the most sense to me) called Healthy Sleep Habits Happy Child that talked about sleep as not the amount of time a child should be asleep or at what time, but rather the appropriate "hours of wakefulness." The idea (very simplified) is that tiny babies can only be awake for an hour to two hours at a time before their bodies need to sleep again. When babies are first born they are growing so quickly, they need a ton of sleep to rest their bodies and their brains. As babies get bigger they can remain awake and take in new stimuli for longer periods of time, thus resulting in a longer "period of wakefulness."

Here's the "well duh" part. I've been thinking about Wiggle's naps as how many, what time, and how long. What I should have been focusing on is the time in between naps. How long has she been awake and is she old enough to handle being awake for longer. 

She's ready for one nap? Instead of thinking about when the nap should be and how long, I should have been slowly increasing her "hours of wakefulness." Seems like I should have understood this from the beginning right? Well I have only two words as an excuse: Sleep Deprivation! Poor Wiggles. The first is always the guinea pig right? Baby number two will benefit from your hardships, just remember that when you are talking to your therapist someday!

Two days in and we already had a nice long nap 2 days in a row! In fact yesterday my child (yes, MY child!) slept for two hours straight. Thats right people, the longest nap my child has taken since she was literally three weeks old! Amen and Hallelujah! I could kiss someone!

To all the moms out there who are struggling with naplessness and/or nighttime sleeplessness, there is hope! It will get better. It might not be for a year (sorry, honesty sucks), but it will happen. Hopefully sooner for you than for me...

God bless and good sleep,
Jillian

The Simple Things

I had a post planned for these pictures about summer and childhood and how we need to cherish memories of our own childhood and help our children make their own memories etc. etc., but instead of a long wordy post, I'll just share these pictures and say simply: These are the moments in life that matter. Make them count for more than the bad stuff.

Bread Baking

Thanks to my sister-in-law who gave me a fantastic (and easy) recipe for bread, I have seriously considered making bread from scratch on a weekly (although realistically, more like twice-a-week...ly...) basis. The recipe is fast (a huge plus for the mother of a toddler), easy (a huge plus for those of us with a history of turning out hard, round lumps that make better doorstops than dinner food) and it tastes fantastic. Another plus is that you can make white bread or wheat bread. Same recipe, more healthy.

So in considering this I decided to do some actual math, because sometimes the "homemade" way is actually just harder and not all that much better for you or your pocket. Now, I'm not going to show you the math (for several reasons, not least of which is I'm not very good at math and I might be off by a cent... or two...), but the final tallies came out thusly:

White bread: .76¢
Wheat bread: $1.36

Wow! The bread we buy (and only on sale) is still twice that at $2.98. Plus each batch of this heavenly stuff makes two huge loaves! Ok, not that huge, we had two today and between my father-in-law, mother-in-law, brother-in-law, husband, child and, oh yeah, me there are about two slices left. No lie. That's it. 

And you know what else? I enjoy making it. I like baking and it smells amazing in my house all day long.

Lesson today: Make bread at home, not only is it fantastic, cheaper and not as daunting as it might seem, it makes you very popular with the in-laws!

Photo bombing brother-in-law. Told you. Popular with the in-laws!

Happy Easter!

All day long my family has been shouting "He is Risen!" to which you reply with a hearty "He is risen indeed!" A joyful cry, not because the Easter Bunny has graced our door step (although he did), and not because it was a beautiful day (although it was) and not because we had fun with family (although we did). We shout this to each other because when one feels the full weight of their sins, struggles with them daily, and then on one spring day, one beautifully sunny, glorious spring day, we are reminded that we no longer need to bare these sins; that He who died is no longer dead; that we who die shall never be dead, it is worth shouting about! And so, I say to you, dear friends and readers, He is risen indeed!

Grandma Jan Admiring her Easter orchid

Oma and Wiggles 

On a mission for Easter Eggs

A simple moment. Counting eggs with daddy, hanging onto Oma.

The full ensemble. Dress handmade by Oma by the way.

Opa is more than a little smitten with his granddaughter. It was so much fun to watch them together!

Encouragement

It's amazing how God uses hard times to bless us. I guess I'll start at the beginning of the story.

Pat and I had decided to go to visit my parents. As you know from this post my parents recently lost their jobs. They are currently staying with some wonderful friends who have willingly taken them in. Plus also these fabulous people put up with us and a screaming one-year-old from time to time. Anyway, we went down there on Sunday (St. Patricks day, remember?) to enjoy some corned beef and cabbage and some family time. 

It was their son's birthday. There was cake. 

See? Cake.

In and of itself this would have been fantastic. But then we went to my dad's best friends house for the night. I was a little wary when we walked in a the cat greeted us (Pat is have-an-asthma-attack-right-this-second allergic to cats) but, miracle of miracles, this cat didn't bother him at all! Plus the cat was not ever allowed in the room where we stayed in, so cat free zone helped too. Not only did they have a fabulous guest room with a BEAUTIFUL quilt on the bed (hand-made by the lady of the house, I might add) and a glorious on suite bathroom, but they also had a room for Wiggles to sleep in so we didn't wake her up coming to bed. And on top of all that, after Wiggles was asleep for the night they fed us all the ice cream we could eat and made us laugh late into the evening. It was so refreshing! 

Tater the cat

Wiggles and Tater had a love hate relationship... As our hostess put it, "how would you like it if a cat the size of a leopard walked past you?!"

Then we spent the entirety of the next day being loved on by my 92 year-old grandmother and our dear family friend. Two restaurantes and one park later we felt pretty good!

We were supposed to leave that afternoon. We were supposed to get Blizzards from Dairy Queen on the long drive home, but alas, it was not to be. Long story short Pat had a major asthma attack when we got back to where my parents were staying. It was nearly a 911er. Actually, any sane and normal person would have called 911, but we are not normal or sane. He was so bad that we weren't sure how he was going to make it home. My parents hosts offered to let us stay on their couches that night. They were so much more than generous. But that's not the best part.

Every night that all four of the house residents (the hosts and my parents) are home in the evening everyone sits together and shares their day and then they pray for each other. We got to sit in on this time. The nature of these prayers were relatively private, so I won't share all the details, but we were so encouraged by all four of the faiths we witnessed. No one is the room is going through easy times. All three couples are struggling through some difficult things, but they still come to the Lord. Every night. And just praised Him, talked with Him and each other. Encouraging, praying for and listening to each other. Would that we all had friends like these.

The point is this, if Pat hadn't had an asthma attack, we would have missed it. We would have missed the opportunity for the Lord to speak to us through the brave testimonies of my parents and their friends. So, thank the Lord for appropriately timed asthma attacks. Thank the Lord for the hard things in life that force us to slow down a see Him.

Rest in Him today,

Jillian

Her Name

I have refrained from sharing Wiggle's real name with you all (whoever "you all" is), and I will probably continue to do so in the future, however, I will give you hints in tonight's post. Let's just say this: Her name means "He (God) has responded with grace". I always thought that it was because we wanted a baby and He gave her to us. Or that she would respond with grace to those whom she came across. Or that God was promising to claim her as His own in His grace. But it occurred to me as I was listening to her scream blue murder at nothing in particular for the fourth hour in a row that maybe her name is a reminder to me that I am going to need to remember to "respond with grace" to her when she is more than a little opinionated. Something to think about.

* As a side note, let me also say that I have a sweet and wonderful daughter. She laughs at everything, is cuddly and gentle, sweet and cautious and so generous with all that she has (including her prized fishy crackers). I love everything about her. Including her stubborn streak which means that, like her father, she will grow to have strong convictions and passions that will guide her life and give her joy. I know I spend a lot of time talking about what is difficult about her, but the truth is, I wouldn't change her. Mold her? Yes. Change her? Never.

Sleep well,
Jillian