Dedicating The Last Mile

Hands, put your empty hands in mine
And scars, show me all the scars you hide
And hey, if your wings are broken
Please take mine so yours can open, too
'Cause I'm gonna stand by you

--Rachel Platten



ON MARATHONS:

Back in May of 2005, Ben ran his first (and only--so far) marathon.  He read a couple of books on how to train, and he successfully ran it with his sister and my brother by his side.  He had been a runner for years, but not this extreme distance.  Though he trained, prepared and finished, it was still incredibly difficult for him to do.  His stomach had revolted during the race which held him up for 20 minutes, and for about two weeks after the race he hobbled around like an old man, the sides of both of his feet bruised and painful from swelling inside of his shoes during the 26.2 miles.  When he finished the race, we both cried as we hugged, celebrating his victory.  The entire process of it all was extremely inspiring and emotional.

Ben told me after the race was over that in one of the books he had read to prepare, it shared a tip to maintain motivation during the race by dedicating each mile he ran to someone significant in his life.  He said he dedicated all of his to different people; his parents, his friends, his teachers, his siblings, to me, to our unborn son (who would be born 2 weeks later) and to the other children who would follow, to God, to himself, to his sister and my brother.  He said thinking of who he was running for kept him focused, pushing through the exhaustion and pain.

Oh, tears make kaleidoscopes in your eyes
And hurt, I know you're hurting, but so am I.
And, love, if your wings are broken
Borrow mine 'til yours can open, too.
'Cause I'm gonna stand by you

Last weekend found us in the kitchen, once again crying as we held each other.  We are on the final mile of the marathon he has been running for the past 8 years.  You would think being at the end of this grad school process....being able to see the faces of loved ones come into focus through the crowds....the color of the finish line ribbon brightening as it nears.... knowing these are the very last steps he would have to run before finally being done would bring some sort of relief just because he is so close.

Instead, the fear of falling and not making it back up, the worry that he may cross too late to be awarded the accolade for starting and finishing this near-decade journey has gripped him.  The terror that the voice in his head that has tried for eight agonizing years to convince him he will never be Good Enough has finally become so loud that it is all he can hear, it has stopped him in his tracks.  He is frozen and immobile.

Even if we're breaking down, we can find a way to break through
Even if we can't find heaven, I'll walk through Hell with you.
Love, you're not alone, 'cause I'm gonna stand by you.

I am not, and never have been, a runner.  However, I am a pretty great cheerleader.  I've been given the Gift of seeing the best in others.  I'm great at motivational speeches and finding a silver lining, at seeing Gifts of others no matter how deeply buried they are, and doing all I can to bring them to the forefront.  Somehow when the mountain becomes steeper and the path more rocky, I can summon Faith, Courage and Belief in the Good that it could overcome anything--especially when it comes to those I love.

Oh, truth—I guess truth is what you believe in
And faith—I think faith is having a reason.
And I know now, love, if your wings are broken
Borrow mine 'til yours can open, too.
'Cause I'm gonna stand by you.

I'm sure being on the receiving end of me as a cheerleader could potentially become extremely obnoxious to someone who just wants to hear the words "It's okay to give up.  You've done enough, you can stop running now.  Just sit down and rest, breathe.  Don't push yourself anymore."

The thing about the marathon of grad school is that there have been so many times through this process I have felt God inside of it--writing this story, molding and shaping both Ben and I to become who He wants us to.  With each hurdle that has been put along the miles Ben has run and I have cheered along by his side, I have the sense that there is a greater purpose at work.  So the blistered feet, the scrapes and stumbles, the mistakes and disappointments we have continually faced have not devastated me, but only caused me to feel this purpose even more intrinsically than before.  My push to finish the race, my belief in the Good, my motivational speeches--they're all extremely sincere.  Where they come from inside of me, I can only describe that place as Truth.  Something I know without knowing how I know it.  It's just there, existing as honestly as something I can actually see or touch.

I'll be your eyes 'til yours can shine

And I'll be your arms, I'll be your steady satellite.

And when you can't rise, well, I'll crawl with you on hands and knees
'Cause I... I'm gonna stand by you.

Aside from potentially driving a runner crazy, another problem with being a cheerleader is that there is only so much I can do when it really comes down to it.  Ben is the one reading, training and running.  No matter how many speeches I yell from the sidelines, how many cups of water I hand to him as he jogs by me, no matter how much I can feel that he can finish this, I have no control over how much he feels it.  I cannot physically move his legs for him, breathe more air into his lungs or transfer my adrenaline into his veins.  If I could--believe me, I would.  Over and over again, no matter what that sacrifice might to do my own body.  I would do it.

You're all I never knew I needed
And the heart—sometimes it's unclear why it's beating.
And, love, if your wings are broken
We can brave through those emotions, too.
'Cause I'm gonna stand by you.

When we stood holding each other last weekend in the kitchen while our baby girl slept above us in the crib on the second floor and our two middle girls played together above us in their bedroom and our son cheered and yelled at the game system above us in the loft, I felt this as a Moment for us.  Time slows, and I'm keenly aware of all of my senses, combined with the feeling of him with me.  We've had several of them in our marriage--most of them happening during the past eight years of this marathon we have been participating in together.

"Do you remember telling me when you ran your marathon you dedicated each mile to someone, to help you stay motivated and to finish?"  I asked.  "Will that help?  I want this last mile to be for you, for you to feel your worth and acknowledge all you've been through and how hard you've fought."

"No," he replied.  "This last mile is for you.  I would not be here if it weren't for you, I would have quit long ago.  This last mile I dedicate to you."

I hugged him tighter and cried harder.  "Don't give up.  You finish this." I whispered, handing another metaphorical cup of water to my weary, incredible runner.

After a few minutes we separated, Ben picked himself back up and began running his last mile again.

Much later that night, while the kids were asleep and Ben was downstairs working, I prayed.  "Please, please, please," were the only words I could say as tears streamed down my face.  Even though I couldn't say any more, I silently finished my prayer.  Asking directly for the things Ben and I were both fighting for, even if that required a miracle happening.  Pleading for that miracle to come to pass.  Also adding in though, that if that miracle is not part of the story He is writing for us, to be able to withstand the blows.  As much as I really, really want him to receive the certificate he has been working for years to receive, I care more about the state of my runner when this is over.  

"Miracle or not, this will end regardless.  Just please give us the strength to still stand whatever the outcome is."  These were the words I silently ended my prayer with.  I felt immediate reassurance from that Truth place, that my words were heard.

It was then that I decided.

Ben may be dedicating his last mile of this marathon to me, but I am dedicating my last mile as a cheerleader and a support of this marathon to God, because without Him urging me and strengthening me so I could encourage Ben, I would not still be here.


And now as the finish line approaches, and Ben gives the last of this marathon everything he has,  and I yell my words of encouragement while he makes his way down the final path, and God continues to write Our Story,

we wait.

swinging and bending, part 8: Elastic Heart

"And I will stay up through the night

And let's be clear, won't close my eyes.

And I know that I can survive

I'll walk through fire to save my life.

And I want it, I want my life so bad

I'm doing everything I can

Then another one bites the dust

It's hard to lose a chosen one

You did not break me

I'm still fighting for peace.

Well, I've got thick skin and an elastic heart,

But your blade—it might be too sharp

But I'm like a rubber band until you pull too hard,

Yeah, I may snap and I move fast

But you won't see me fall apart

'Cause I've got an elastic heart."

--Sia

{somewhat} continued from this series.  

I am no stranger to mental illness.  

Physically, Mental Illness hurt--the raised welts left by a wooden spoon or a hard plastic brush on my small naked backside and thighs subsided.  The stinging red finger marks pulsing with my own heartbeat across my cheeks as a teenager faded.  The headache that was a result of being hit more times than I can count on the head by a heavy college textbook while I sat hovering on the floor, both arms wrapped around my face to withstand the blows only took a couple of hours and 800 milligrams of ibuprofen to melt slowly away.  

But the emotional pain Mental Illness inflicted, those are wounds of a different nature.  Those are the wounds that do not fade--they create.  They create three children with no sense of self, no ability to express healthy emotions, no idea of what they need or how to ask or even have room in their lives for needs even if they could ask for them.  

I sat at the dinner table and watched as Mental Illness hurt my sibling with their words and their hands.  I stared down at the cooked broccoli on my plate, silently pleading with my sibling to just agree--to anything--so it would calm Mental Illness and the storm could pass.  When I began to work through some of these scenes years later in therapy, my silent pleadings for their submission morphed into internal roaring as loud as a lion's--an indignant rage over the knowledge that I had been witness to the breaking of the soul of an innocent child, one I loved so deeply yet could not protect.  

I heard Mental Illness tell my siblings and I why they were choosing to leave our family to be with another, full of self-lies so thick and deep they were convinced those lies were now reality.  Months later I watched Mental Illness sweep back through the home with promises of a fresh start, of trying again, of this time being different.  My ears heard the words but my heart knew--these would fall short and fail as they had already so many times before, as soon as Mental Illness was triggered and rose to the surface once again.

Mental Illness used God to shame, to manipulate, to twist, to control. It wanted the outside of our family to look a certain way to deflect from the inside chaos.  It told my siblings and I that we were only lovable if we played this part--cutting our hair to depict our righteous dedication, wearing clothing that covered the bodies they had created in the way they felt was appropriate and pleasing to God.  Otherwise we were not Good, and Mental Illness made sure we knew it.  

Mental Illness was addiction, divorce, rage, shame, lies, self-loathing, deep chasms of insecurity, manipulation, jealousy, control, and unending amounts of fear.  Mental Illness took every ounce of Safety and replaced it with internal chaos and torment.  It wreaked havoc through my childhood, destroyed a marriage, shattered a family.  In its path of destruction it left pain, confusion, fragility.  

A book once described me, the role of the All-Good Child of Mental Illness,  as "a porcelain soul with tiny fractures," and when I read those words I cried and cried.  They were my worst fears written on paper, naming what I had suspected for so long:  I was broken.  

I have worked and dug and inspected the darkest corners of the fractures inside of me with a magnifying glass.  I have laid out my most terrifying vulnerabilities on a table and offered them up as a sacrifice to Healing.  

I fill the cracks of my own fractures created by the lies of Mental Illness with Truth about my worth, with gentleness and forgiveness for my shortcomings and mistakes, with calling myself out on even the slightest shred of dishonesty and forcing myself to admit to myself and others when it exists, with admiration for not quitting the often-draining work it is to Heal, with acknowledging and often clinging to the beautiful and bright pieces of my experiences, with expressing gratitude for the Life I have been given, and the gift it is to know I can make choices that not only defy the laws Mental Illness tried to place upon me, but to completely abandon those laws and forge a new, healthy path.  I fill the cracks with having boundaries for every relationship in my life--including the one I have with myself, these boundaries creating the ability for me to feel Love all of its forms while also continue to maintain living in a space of emotional integrity.  I fill the cracks with God, and a self-love that can only come from Him.   

I have looked at my past with an objective eye, taking my siblings and I out of it and looking at Mental Illness for who and what it is--two souls even more broken than my own fractured one.  Forgiveness and unending amounts of Love poured out for Mental Illness, when I could view it this way.  Understanding and compassion replaced blame.  

Then I brought the three children back in, and saw us as innocents who--regardless of the broken state of Mental Illness--deserved better, more.  I gave myself permission to allow the emotion for these three who deserved better to take over and drag me under...to Anger, Fear, and extreme Sadness.  I sat inside of these rooms of often suffocating emotion and felt every inch of their walls.  As uncomfortable as it was and at times continues to be, I know I cannot leave the room until I allow it to be as consuming as it needs to.  Only then does it pass, I rise to the surface, and can move on.  

These three children grew up to sit with therapists to help them search for a reality outside of Mental Illness.  They constantly worry and check in with one another, terrified Mental Illness has found its way inside of them.  Any anxious thought, any insecure feeling, any moment of depression has them second-guessing.  They wear Mental Illness like a shadow.  Is it their turn?  Will the shadow catch up and envelope them?  Their ability to gage what is normal is forever skewed.  

For years they have clung to the hope that with time, work, and loving themselves and each other through this, they can break the cycle.  They cling to this hope still.  It is the only thought that keeps the shadow where it belongs, sitting on the outside edges of their lives.  

My sister, my brother and I, we are the ones who Know.  We have sat next to each other on the couch in the middle of the night, wearing pj's and rubbing blurry eyes, our young, bewildered minds trying to make sense of Mental Illness as it fought, yelled, pushed and shoved only feet away from us.  We have heard each other's tears through the adjoining wall.  We have had a front row seat to the screaming, the locked doors, the damage control, the hammers breaking through walls, the uncontrollable sobbing, the consequences, the open-hand slaps, the silent treatments, the barefoot chases on snowy afternoons, the shattered mirrors, and the betrayals.  

We have cried to each other as adults over the pain we experienced, still trying to make sense of it all.  We have called in the middle of the night, showed up on doorsteps, taken last-minute flights and fought for each other to sort through the shadow of Mental Illness and cling to the Light and Love we can feel, and the Worth we see in one another.  We bond over the Knowing--a deep, interwoven bond that at times finds us tethered together, unable to decipher where one of us ends and another begins. 

It is from this tethered place that I write.  It is tough to find boundaries here.  When one of them is in pain, I can not help but feel it with them.  When they are breaking under the pressure of the memories and the faulty core beliefs placed upon them by Mental Illness, I feel the pull of their breaking as though it is an actual part of me.  When the Shadow that has followed for years finally looks as though it may be catching up to one of us, I know I must do all I can to push it back where it belongs.  Internally I struggle between the person I have been, and the person I have worked so hard to become.

I do not know what this last-minute flight will bring.  I do not know if the Light I can still see and the Love I will always feel will be enough.  I worry it will not, I worry I'm too late.  

But I have to try.  

All you can take with you is that which you've given away.

This is a true story about Prayer, and one written to inspire Hope.

This is one of those miracles we hear about that can either be acknowledged as coincidence, or luck, or the Universe, or karma--or it can be acknowledged as a direct answer from God given to two people who were at their breaking point last Christmas.  While this isn't how every story goes for every person, I share this for our children (or anyone else) who will find themselves at their own breaking point in life.  It is written as a reminder that when they think they have done all they can, they may realize there is more they can do.  

They can Ask.  

"Hello?"  I picked up Ben's phone call.  It was close to midnight, one week before Christmas last year.  I had just finished feeding and changing 3 1/2 week old newborn Claire.

"Hi.  Ummmmmm, do you know how much money is in our bank account?"  He sounded really frustrated.

"Not the exact amount, but it's not much," I answered.

"I'm here in Ohio at the car rental place, trying to pick up the car I reserved.  They're telling me I can't get it."  He said.

"What?  Why?  You've already paid for it!"  I replied.

"I know, but you have to have at least $200 in your bank account in order to pick it up, they put a hold on that money in case something happens to the car."

"Oh.  Oh no...."  I trailed off.  I didn't know the exact amount in our account, but I did know we did not have $200.

"Yeah.  Tomorrow is pay day, but they don't deposit the money in to the account until like two in the morning.  I don't know what I'm going to do.  I'm stranded in the car rental place.  It's really late here, and the people I'm staying with tonight--I would feel awful having to wake them up.  I barely know them and they're letting me stay as a favor to a mutual friend!  And they would have to bring me back by 6:00 in the morning so I can come and pick up the car in time for my interview.  This is so humiliating."

"I am so sorry Ben.  What are you going to do?" 

"I don't know," he paused, and I could hear it in his voice, and in the silence following his answer--it was the sound of someone broken.  "I'll figure it out and call you back in a little bit."

"Okay.  I love you."

"I love you too," his voice was subdued, the life having gone out of it.

I hung up the phone, leaned over, put my head in my hands, and began to cry.  This was not the first time in the past couple of months our bank account had been almost completely empty and we had held our breath until payday.

I knew he had several more upcoming internship interviews.  I also knew rent was due in 2 weeks.  I knew the amount of money coming in from pay day, and I knew that it was not enough to cover our rent as well as cover the traveling expenses of the interviews.  I knew we would have to make a decision.

My chest felt tight. I could picture Ben there in the car rental place, defeated.  I knelt down and prayed.  For me, for Ben, for the ability to endure this emotionally taxing time.

When he came home from his trip, we sat at the table and talked.  It was the most weary, humble, worn-down place I had ever seen my husband.

"I've looked at flights for the next interview, and there's just no way it's going to happen, " he said.  "We just don't have enough."

"I know, " I replied softly.  "I've been thinking though--do you remember what Paul said to us during their visit a month ago?"  My mother in law and her husband Paul had stayed with us for a few days after Claire had been born.

"No, what?"  Ben asked.

"He asked us if we had ever prayed and asked God directly for what we need.  He asked if we had ever prayed for money.  At the time I thought that sounded so...wrong to do.  It felt greedy and selfish and temporal.  But maybe it's not?  I've always prayed and asked for extra strength to get through financially hard times, or for the ability to find more work to pay the bills, or to be able to find someone we can sell some of our things to.  God has always answered those prayers...maybe He would answer this one?"  I explained.

Looking at me from across the table, Ben shrugged his shoulders and said, "Well it's worth a try I guess.  We know right now we're doing everything we can to get through this.  We're both working, we're both trying to raise good children, we're both consecrating the time that we can to God and serving others.  We're not asking for money for a boat, or more jewelry....we're literally asking so that we can further our chances of getting out of this financial situation, and to finish school." 

"We know our hearts are in a good place, and God does too," I agreed.

So that night we knelt down together and again separately, and asked God directly for money.

The next day my mood was somber.  I began opening the mail, looking forward to the Christmas cards of friends that always make me so happy. 

In the pile was a letter from one of Ben's aunts.  I opened up the card, and gasped as money floated out of the card and rested on the counter.  I picked up the money and stared.  We hadn't heard from this aunt in several years, and she had never sent us money before that I could remember.  Goosebumps lined my arms and tears filled my eyes.  I could feel God telling me this was a direct answer to the previous night's prayers.  

I continued going through the pile of mail when I came across another Christmas card--this time from Ben's grandma in Indiana.  When I opened up her card to find a check written from her, with enough money to completely cover one month's worth of rent, I went straight into what I like to call The Ugly Cry.  I read her words as tears poured down my face, with her explanation that she and her husband had worked very hard to earn that money and saved it for years, but that she realized it might be needed in our lives.  She asked us be wise with it--if it was needed then to use it, and if not, then to put it in an account for our children's college funds.  

I could not stop crying, and I'm crying again now as I'm writing these words.  I took pictures of the money sent by Ben's aunt and the check sent by his grandma, as well as pictures of the words of love and support they sent along with them.  

I sent the pictures to Ben while he was at work, saying that our prayers had been answered.  Within seconds he replied, saying he couldn't believe it and could not stop crying either.  After texting him, I went into my bedroom, dropped to my knees and cried through my spoken words of gratitude to a God who had answered my prayers, and asked him to bless the lives of those who had allowed Him to work through them.  

For the rest of the afternoon my heart felt so full.  My eyes were puffy from crying every time I thought of the cards we had received.  

Ben called to tell me he wouldn't be home from work until about 10 o'clock, so after dinner I started the bath/bedtime routine on my own.  Claire would not stay asleep unless I held her, so I tucked her tiny body into the baby wrap and walked around until I had bounced her to sleep laying against my chest.

I put Leah and June in the bath and they immediately started fighting.  Leah (who was having a rough night) began screaming and crying, which woke up Claire who also began crying.  

I was trying to lift a dripping, refusing, screeching Leah out of the bath when I heard a knock on the front door.  I set Leah back in the bath and tried to calm down Claire.  I was flustered and slightly embarrassed to know whoever knocked probably heard the insanity going on inside.  

When I opened the front door, there stood our bishop and friend Jon Mabb.  My hair was everywhere, my clothes were wet from the shenanigans with Leah in the bath, Claire was crying against my chest and I could still hear screeching from the bathroom.  I gave a little laugh and a look like "Well, this is my life!  I'm a mess!" 

He smiled and said simply, "Merry Christmas.  This is from the ward."  He handed me a red envelope and turned to walk away.  

"Oh, well thanks!"  I said, thinking the envelope must be a Christmas card the bishopric was doing for the members of the church. 

And then, I remembered.  

A few weeks earlier I had seen an email from Bishop Mabb to our ward members, saying there were some families in need for Christmas and to let him know if anyone would like to anonymously donate to them.  Ben and I had talked, both wanting to give something to people we loved so much, especially during Christmas.  As we talked we realized we sounded nuts--we couldn't even afford our own lives at that point!  What were we thinking?  "There will be a time and season we can donate money...right now is not our season," we told ourselves.  Still, it was hard for us to not do something, so we picked a couple of families we knew could use some help and decided to serve in other ways.  

As I held the red envelope in my hand I realized what it was and began to cry again.  I had not considered the fact that our family might be one of those he was mentioning.  I could barely open the envelope because I was so overcome with emotion.  I slid down against the door and sat down on the cold tile floor with Claire still attached to me.  I opened the card to find more money, generously donated to us by those doing the work of God.  I sat there for several minutes letting the tears fall again, feeling so completely undeserving yet so completely grateful at the same time.  I texted the bishop to tell him what this meant to us, I texted Ben to tell him of the third miracle of the day, and I offered another prayer to God, thanking Him for showing us of His awareness of us as individuals, and His love for us as His children.  

Growing up, my family used to watch the movie "It's A Wonderful Life" every Christmas.  I found it incredibly dull and boring.  But about 7 years ago, I bought it and began the tradition of watching it every Christmas Eve while I wrapped presents.  

Watching it as an adult was a different experience.   I began to completely understand and relate to every emotion George Bailey felt.  I watched as his shoulders grew more hunched and the furrow in his eyebrows grew deeper, and I knew that weight and worry.  So did Ben.  I watched as he almost threw the broken piece of the stair banister and Ben and I knew that inner rage and desperation.  I watched as he pretended to fix Zuzu's petals in order to preserve his daughter's innocent happiness, and I knew that feeling of love and the need to protect.  I watched as he yelled at the teacher for being the culprit of his child's illness and I knew that feeling of the need to find blame somewhere, anywhere.  I watched as he stood on the bridge staring into the dark water, and I knew that feeling of wondering if the lives Ben and I have lived really even mattered, or if somehow we were just doomed to feel like it would always be this excruciatingly painful uphill struggle with ridiculous hurdles that continued to land in our paths.  

But it's the final scene of that movie, that makes me Ugly Cry no matter how many times I watch it.  George, Mary, and their children, surrounded by those whose lives they have affected by love and service, being lifted from their darkest moment by those who could give their love and service in return.  

As I sat on the tile floor leaning against our front door, I knew it was only myself and my baby in that room but I also knew what the Bailey family was feeling as I wept, surrounded by the knowledge that our lives do matter, and though monetarily we could not show up for others...that the ways we had shown up, for each other and for others, in the eyes of God, had been enough.  

This was a life-changing day for Ben and I, and we both know we will never be the same.  Because we asked, God answered.  We were able to pay our rent and Ben was able to go to the rest of his internship interviews, specifically to the interview that brought us to San Antonio.  Our financial struggle did not end that day, but our needs were taken care of.  It was enough.  It was so much.  

We are forever grateful.   

"All you can take with you

Is that which you've given away."

It's A Wonderful Life.

Halfway.

Today I lay against the crinkly tissue, which wrinkled and ripped each time I moved--even when the only movement I made was to crane my neck around to the left and steal glimpses of my children watching the screen above us glowing its fluorescent purple.  It was the first ultrasound they have been to, and will most likely be the last.

We were shown the brain, the eyes, the nose with the sinus cavities, the ears, the abdomen, the bladder, ten fingers and ten toes that continued to wiggle and wave as the probe pushed down against the cold, clear jelly on my stomach.

"The baby isth sthooooo cute!"  Leah lisped with excitement, her hands clasped together.

"Dat baby looks like it's gonna eat dat shark,"  June explained, trying to make sense of the images before her.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" was the only thing Caleb continued to ask, until the technician finally answered.

Girl!

I watched Caleb's face crumple as he brought his knees up to his chest and buried his head down.  Ben reached over and wrapped him in his arms.

"It's okay to be sad, Bud," I said gently, attempting to comfort him while he was out of my arm's reach.   The technician's eyes widened and shifted from my face over to Caleb's tears and I quietly explained, "We knew this would be hard for him, he's wanted a little brother for so long.  The good news is, wanting a little brother has never stopped him from loving his little sisters."

"He's not the first one to cry, it's usually the mom though," was her upbeat response.

We continued the rest of the anatomical exam with a more subdued mood than we had begun, but it was still miraculous to see.  There were so many parts and pieces working, dependent upon each other to connect  and form together.  The femur bones, the four heart chambers, the umbilical cord, the curved spine.  I stared at her perfect little profile and tried to visualize the movements on the screen happening inside of me at the same moment.

I have admittedly been one who stays emotionally unattached--or mentally unattached?-- during my pregnancies, which used to bother me.  I've wondered why I was not the type of woman to talk directly to my unborn child, or sing to them, or read them stories, or be able to associate my protruding stomach to a little baby actually alive inside of me, like I have heard so many do.

I've stopped being concerned with trying to be someone other than who I am, because the moment my child is placed in my arms the overwhelming love is so immediate, so thickly bound, that it feels like the missing piece of a puzzle I have been working on for 10 months is finally put in place.  My brain can suddenly compute and accept the reality of growing another little human, and the disconnected time during pregnancy washes away.

One thing that does connect me during pregnancy, is to decide on a name.   And I have, both a first and a middle name, one that jumped out at me a couple of months ago, and I haven't let go of since.  It is a sweet, peaceful name with the middle one also belonging to two women of strength in my life.  Ben isn't completely convinced yet, and this is the first time out of four that we haven't easily agreed, settling as soon as we heard the gender.

When the ultrasound was over, I met my midwife.  I've always wanted to work with a midwife, and was excited to hear at my last doctor's appointment that our insurance covered them, so I made the switch.  We spoke of what the next few months together looked like, and as she spoke, I felt a familiar feeling creep to the surface of my emotions--one I am currently digging through in therapy to continue to overcome.

Fear.

More specifically,  Fear of my own abilities and strength.  I have barreled through many other Fears the past few years, and yet somehow as the midwife spoke, I recognized this Fear as one of the most deeply-buried, intrinsically ingrained of all of them.  Working through this one will reach out and cause a shift, changing other areas of my life, I can sense it.  These next few months will be interesting--that I know--and if I can meet the hurdles I for see ahead with faith in God and my abilities, they may also become one of the most challenging and rewarding of my entire life.

My little family went to lunch together after the appointment, all five of us sitting in a rounded booth.  The girls passed the ultrasound pictures back and forth, and Caleb cheered up over his pasta and mandarin oranges.  I found myself wondering how the dynamics of another girl will alter what we have in this moment, and could tell Ben was contemplating the same.

I am almost 20 weeks along, and feel that Halfway is very much a metaphor of my life right now.  There are so many things unsettled, unfinished, unknown, waiting on one thing or another, still in Forming Mode.

Ben's need for full-time work that will make enough to support us continues, his dissertation is set to be finished (finished!  I can hardly understand this concept! ) and defended by August 20th, our house may be sold while we are renting it, beginning any time after August we could be handed a slip of paper and told to find somewhere new, Ben will begin the application for interviews again in October, and---if all goes well--leave again for the majority of December and January while I do my best to juggle a newborn and three tiny people without the support of family close by.

The unknown of all of this can feel suffocating and terrifying, if I let it.

Like the tiny body parts I watched on the screen today, these pieces of our lives are dependent upon each other in order to grow, systematically working together to create what will become Our Future.  Ben and I are doing our best to hang on,  trying not to stress over how it will all come together.

We are trusting the process we are in, trying to believe in our own abilities and strength, waiting patiently while Halfway continues to develop, in both our lives and with our baby.

embracing the possibility. {on miscarriage, fear, and faith}

"no more kids during grad school!"

i think i've spoken those words more than a hundred (or a thousand?) times since 2009.  i look back on the year leah was born, and if i could draw a timeline of my life, that space would have tiny grey clouds hovering over it, with intermittent downpours of rain.  emotionally i disappeared.  it was a tough one, and i lost myself, not emerging from the gray-ness of it for quite a while.

"no more kids during grad school!"

was what i used as my platform, until the day when two pink lines surprisingly showed up without my wishing for them.  and i was terrified, but accepted what was and tried to smile.  following those pink lines came the pregnancy with what felt like unending months of nausea and unable-to-keep-my-head-up exhaustion followed by a house whose underbelly possessed mold that made my children and i beg for mercy as they vomited and i coughed up blood.

"no more kids during grad school!"

i continued to say, though the months with newborn june are some of the most precious i have ever encountered thus far.  i consider her my Gift for living through the most physically taxing year and not succumbing to negativity when i could feel it pulling from all sides to take me under.

"no more kids during grad school!"

i say this now still, and with fervor as we know our future for the next year or two is so muddled and unclear.  not only that, but one important thing has been missing:  the desire for another.  but, this is normal for me.

i have been content from the beginning--if we only had caleb, i would be content.  only caleb and leah, i would be content.  and now with the three, i feel the same, completely content if this is our family unit.  my problem is that my lack of desire is not necessarily an indicator as to whether or not having another child is what is best, because i'm certain that my fear (of pregnancy, labor, colic, and lonely days and nights shouldering most of the responsibility on my own, and another little body to tend to, just in general) is partially what brings about my contentedness.

and yet.

months ago, i knew something was off.  i felt strange--more drained than i was used to, more sore.  i didn't take a test because i didn't want to know.  it feels awful to type those words, and i'm worried who might be offended but i want to write honestly.  so, i waited.  two more weeks went by and i still refused to make anything official.

then, during one week that was already overflowing in stress, i felt it.  pain in my abdomen that doubled me over.  sitting, standing, or laying, i could not find relief.  i don't take a lot of medicine normally, but was unable to function or perform just the daily activities, so i took something, but even that didn't provide relief from the pain.  this went on for 2 days, accompanied with other details of miscarriage i will exclude here.  i didn't say much to anyone, because i hadn't said anything to anyone of the possibility of being pregnant.  only ben and a couple of others knew, and i preferred for it to stay that way.  it was still just an assumption of what was going on.

during that week, i wrote this.  like i mentioned, it was a stressful time.

i think what surprised me most was the feeling of relief.  then, the feeling of guilt piled on top of relief, because what type of person feels relieved about this?  i am surrounded by those who have prayed and would do almost anything to have this, but i am relieved?  

i wrestled with the words selfish and ungrateful, pushing them away with my acknowledgement of the blessing and miracle of life, and of the love i have for my children.  i knew if i could, i would bless everyone who had a desire to have a child with one.  i don't understand why those desires are granted for some and not for others, as much as i didn't understand why the desire was lacking inside of me at this time.

i know others who have felt connected from the start, only weeks or mere days of just knowing.  i have heard them mourn the loss of the connection they loved and had felt so sure of.  with each pregnancy, i struggle to feel any sort of connection--even up until my new baby is placed in my arms. it is then the feeling of an undeniable bond of love from God for this new soul overcomes me and i can't imagine being apart, even for a moment.  but when i'm pregnant, it all feels like a surreal dream or figment of my imagination, and i struggle to feel connected.

this was one of my main purposes for staying silent.  i wasn't sure how to talk about it without sounding cold or callous, though i didn't feel either of those.  i can only describe it as calm acceptance of what is, and the knowledge that my fears of "no more kids during grad school!" had been temporarily washed away.

before my pregnancy with june, and since then, we've been doing what we can on our side of things to prevent.  we jokingly said we were going to name june Three Percent, because those were the odds we had been facing when i held the positive pregnancy test in my hand.  it was obvious to me that i was clearly not in control of this situation, as much as i wanted to be.

last week, i found myself in the same boat.  drained and nauseous, sore and hyper-sensitive to smells.  i was on a work trip, and began counting backwards in weeks, my suspicions mounting.  once the idea was there, i just knew.  there was no denying it.

while i was away i was receiving daily updates from ben about his school situation, regarding whether or not he was going to be allowed to apply for next year's internship.  i could hear in his voice he was devastated and frustrated, and hadn't really wanted to tell him over the phone anyway, so i waited to say anything.

once i was home and he and i were alone to talk, we both tried to wrap our minds around what this meant for our family.  we fell asleep holding hands, a reminder we were in this journey together.

on saturday afternoon, the pain hit, one i had felt once before.  it increased as the sun went down and i lay in bed trying to find a comfortable position.  i told ben about it and saw the worry on his face.  in the middle of the night, i was woken from the pain, and more.  i knew then it was official and lay back down.  the next 24 hours were miserable, and i stayed in bed as much as possible.

after the worst was over, i rose again, ready to face the emotions i expected were awaiting me. but like before, i only felt calm.  ben admitted to me he was sad, that the idea of another sweet little baby turning into a most-likely outspoken toddler turning into an excitable child was something he was looking forward to, though he also knew how difficult it would be.  i agreed with him, the idea of it all sounded wonderful.  it was the getting there that held my heart in the place of fear.

then, i was silently reminded of my theme for 2013, eradicating fear in my life.  if fear is what is holding me back from this opportunity, is it enough of a reason anymore?  this wasn't a new job or a big move, or making myself sing a solo in front of a crowd.  could i really take a leap of faith this big?


i do not know the answers, yet.  i do know i needed to write about these experiences, if only to hold myself accountable--the words a tangible reminder of a promise i made to myself. maybe the beginning of this year was only preparation for getting me to the place at the end of it where i could let down my wall of "no more kids during grad school!"

and instead, embrace the idea of giving up control ruled by fear, leaving me open to beautiful possibilities.