Politics and Religion

Now if that title doesn't grab attention, I don't know what else will.

I'm not going to start ranting and raving about ISIS and refugees and border security and grandstanding politicians. I'm not going to pretend that I can watch a few news stories, read some articles, and with a few swift opinions and decisions, implement world peace. If only it were that easy.

This is a call to arms for those who follow the Jesus...those whom, after choosing Him as Savior, have become the 'hands and feet of Christ' (1 Corinthians 12:27). In a world that does not follow the wise advise of being 'quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry' (James 1:19), here's some food for thought...


Rather than scowling at the woman with the Pro-Choice sticker on the back of her car...go volunteer at the Pregnancy Help Center or be a mentor to teen moms or babysit a young mother's child.

Rather than sitting on the couch and shouting your opinions at the reporter on television about the breaking down of American values and the decline of the American family...go be a Big Brother or Big Sister and mentor a child so that child and maybe even the ENTIRE family can have a real role model.

Rather than being afraid of what other people will think when you invite "them" over for dinner...get over it and just love on people.

Rather than worry about the cleanliness of your house and the dirty towels piled high in the kids bathroom...have a block party BBQ because nobody really even cares about the towels.

If we are called the HANDS AND FEET OF CHRIST, shouldn't we be passionately pursuing opportunities to love on people and make them feel known, loved, and accepted? Again, I don't how to solve the refugee crisis. But I do know that because He is in me (Galatians 2:20), He can show me through the Holy Spirit how to love those around me and show them the LOVE OF CHRIST.

Rather than sitting around, dwelling in negativity about the chaos and hopeless our world is full of, find a way, no matter how big or how small, to listen to Jesus as He invites you to show others HIS glorious, undefiled, unwarranted, undeserving LOVE.

Thank God for Jesus, Good Friends, and Lexapro

My incredible friend Kaylie Hodges has an awesome blog. She's a Chi Omega sister, Texas Tech University sister, and Jesus-lovin' sister. Mother of 5...5 and under...2 of which they recently adopted. She's living life...BIG.

I got to Guest Blog (is that a real phrase?) for her today for her "Be Salty" series. How God is doing big things in everyday life. So...

Thank God for Jesus, Good Friends, and Lexapro.

Check it her blog here.

A Third-Child Post Partum Appointment

The noted difference between a first baby 6 week post partum appointment and a third baby post partum appointment:

First Baby:

You shower. And groom. (You know what I mean.) You bathe #1. You dress them in cute clothes. You arrive with your husband 15 minutes early. He carries the carrier since you're still "recovering." You bring thank you notes to the doctor, nurses, and #1's baby announcement. You have a sweet little appointment full of oohs and aahs over #1, talk about how crazy and tough adjusting to having a new baby is.

Third Baby:

You still shower since it's been 4 days since you last washed your hair. (It's healthier for your curly hair that way, you tell yourself.) And seriously, they are checking your stuff. You change #2 and #3's diapers. You're pretty sure everyone has shoes on. You think you're on top of things with distracting activities and snacks packed in the diaper bag. You arrive only 1 minute late to the doctor's office (NAILED IT) sans husband. Because you stopped "recovering" 4 days post partum when you bought a house and put yours on the market and your husband went back to work. They call you back, you know the entire office by first name because you've been there SO MANY TIMES. The realize you forgot that baby announcement and you know you haven't come close to writing thank you notes yet. You sit on the exam table, 99% certain your blood pressure will be high because you're disciplining #1 and #2 while the nurse checks it. You pull out the iPad for distracting for #1 and #2 then realize your husband has changed the password since it's a new iPad. You pull out the backup LeapFrog, discovering it's out of batteries. Then you look for your phone to call your husband to get the new iPad password but realize your phone has been left either at home, in the car, or has been run over in the parking lot already. But you can't go out to use the office phone because you're already naked from the waste down and covered in a white sheet. So you resort to giving your kids the snack and break the news that when you were a kid, there were no iPads or LeapFrogs and you stared at pictures on the wall when you went with your mom to the doctor. (Insert disbelief, a few tears, and a failed attempt at their favorite game of I Spy.) You then decide on what IUD the doctor is going to place because this body is DONE procreating. Since you've already dropped your drawers with #1, #2, and #3 in the room, said nurse offers to take #1 and #2 into the hallway because you express concern that #1 may retell this story and how often he's exposed to breastfeeding boobs while in a counseling office when he is 16 years old. You laugh with your doctor at the entertaining events taking place with a speculum inserted in your woman parts about how last time you were in stirrups post-delivery and he was stitching you without anesthesia, you wanted to kick him in the face. You have an anteriorly tilted uterus (of course) so you bleed a fair amount (of course) during the semi-painless procedure. You then take up the doctor and nurse on their offer to keep #1, #2, and #3 in the office coloring while you run to the lab upstairs next to prevent your children from return with some unknown illness from the hacking 6 month old and 90 year old who sit in the inter-mingled, well thought out pediatric, neurology (I think) and lab waiting room. And you promise said nurse and doctor that you will return for #1, #2, and #3...eventually. 

For real. That just happened, y'all. Send your teenage girls to our house for a healthy dose of birth control. But in all seriousness, I wouldn't have it any other way. In all it's chaos and messiness, I'm uber-thankful. 

Arden's Birth Story (Part 2 of 2)

(See Part 1 of 2 to get the pre-story...)

...When he placed the bulb, I thought he broke my water because I felt some gushing of fluid. It wasn’t amniotic fluid…it was blood. Your heart rate stayed beautiful and I didn’t start hurting so we thought it was probably just a uterine vessel that was broken rather than any placental abruption. They did want to monitor your and I for the next couple of hours to make sure bleeding stopped before even remotely talking about going home to sleep. After just a little bit of thinking, praying, and consulting your dad, Lamar, and my nurse friends, I decided that I’d rest much better at the hospital on the monitor than at home, wondering if you were okay. Dad ran home (but it took him 2 hours) to finish packing our stuff and Sarah came up to triage to keep my company while we waited. (I had sent a list home with Dad that included vacuuming the car, installing the car seat, finishing packing my bag, getting the herbs and essential oils for labor, and finding and inflating the birth ball. He finally located the birth ball, deflated in the garage in a wagon. Apparently, there was a hole in it, and we didn’t have the proper patching goods, so he tried caulking the ball to keep air in it. I’m sure you can guess that it didn’t work. But kudos to him for trying.)

A little after 9p, the bleeding had slowed but not completely stopped. I began retaping the foley bulb more taut to my leg and it slid right on out. I was surprised and called the nurse, Kathy. She rechecked me and sure enough, I was dilated to 4 cm! (She called me 3-4cm so that really means I was at least 4cm.) We all decided to go ahead and move back to Labor & Delivery and start pitocin. I kind of couldn’t believe it was starting to happen this fast.

I had been texting our doula Wendy to keep her updated. The plan was for her to come to L&D sometime in the morning when I started hurting. Since I seemed to be moving so quickly, she decided to drive up to the hospital after they started pitocin. 

We moved to our new room around 10:15-10:30p I think. Sometimes, you lose track of time. I wasn’t hurting. Sarah and I were talking and watching the 2015 Golden Globes. Your Dad was still at home trying to finish his honey-do list. The pitocin was started around 10:45-11:00p. Dr. Lamar didn’t break my water at that time because your head was still so high and my cervix was still very posterior. We didn’t want a prolapsed cord to happen. 

It was then that I found out that my next door neighbor had delivered a baby, too. Except theirs didn’t live. My secondary job as an L&D nurse it to coordinate the Resolve Through Sharing program. I help train staff on how to care for a patient who is experiencing a loss and follow up with at least half of the patients (other nurses follow up with some patients) who lose a baby for about a year after delivery. This baby was the 7th loss since the day before Christmas Eve that we had experienced at United Regional. Heartbreaking. And grounding. NEVER do I take for granted that you are healthy and there are a lot of odds stacked against you and I with my diabetes and now a newfound heart condition. Part of me hadn’t even let myself believe that I would be going home with a healthy newborn at the end of it all. 

Dad arrived back to L&D eventually, Sarah hugged us and went home in expectation that I would announce your arrival overnight, and Wendy arrived sometime around midnight. We all decided we needed to try and sleep as much as possible because it could be a long night. Dad curled up on the couch and fell asleep about midnight. Wendy went down to Antepartum Rm 4405 and slept on the couch, and I kind of slept with a giant peanut ball in between my legs to help open up the pelvis and allow for your head to descend. Stacy was my nurse (who helped deliver Blair) and Heidi was in and out of the room a lot helping while Stacy was still recovering another patient. 

I slept off and on from about 1-4a, only noticing mild contractions. Stacy checked me around 2a and I was dilated about 4-5cm, still very posterior, and 70% effaced. Not a lot of change.

About 4a, my contractions started picking up and becoming stronger as the pitocin continued to be increased. (I think we topped out at about 16mu/min.) I was contracting every 2-5 minutes and beginning to breathe and moan through them some. I finally decided that it was time to bring in the big guns and called Wendy to come down to see if she could help me relax. I just was having a hard time getting comfortable. 

About 5a, Wendy came to the room. I was still about to talk and laugh in-between contractions. No significant pain noted. I asked Stacy to check me about 5:20a because we were all curious to see if there was any cervical change. I was dilated to about 6 cm, 70% effaced, and the head had come down substantially. And wouldn’t you know…my water happened to break while she was checking me…

For the next 15-20 minutes, I sat up in bed, moaning through the contractions. They were definitely manageable. But they started to pick up in intensity and frequency pretty quickly. They dialed back the pitocin to about 12 mu/min but I think my contractions were still about every 2 minutes apart. Things started going very fast. I sat on the birth ball on the side of the bed, moaning through each contraction. Wendy offered verbal encouragement through each contraction and would lightly touch my forearms. And where was Jesus in the room this time? He was very much in her voice, in her touch, and in Dad’s constant presence. Never did He leave me, never did He forsake me. 

At one point, Dad tried to be “nice” and touch my back, but good gosh, he put his entire body weight on me. I knew he was attempting to be empathetic so I tried to gently say something,  but I think it came out in one long breath…”Please stop touching me, you’re putting too much pressure on my back, get off…” or something like that. After that, the sweet man just offered the occasional touch and word of encouragement. But he was always right by my side. I think I stood up and put my arms around his neck through one or two contractions but it wasn’t comfortable at all, so back to leaning over the bed it was. 

Somewhere around 6:30a, Stacy had to leave a little early (of all days!) and sweet Hayli came in to take care of me. At this point, I kept having to go to the bathroom. There’s a lot of pressure down there…I actually remember saying it felt like my crotch had been hit with a fireball…so everything just kind of comes out. No more pregnancy constipation.

At some point on the toilet, I inadvertently let out a push or two. Hayli checked me (bless her heart) and she couldn’t tell if I was an 8 or a 10. I tried making it back to the bed for her to check me. (Side note: no fault of Hayli’s, but walking to a bed to get on your back when you’re about to have a baby is one of the most torturous things to do to a woman.) I was 9cm. Oh my goodness, I was close but it felt like I was near death. I made my way back to the bathroom again. Someone mentioned me getting into the shower because that is how I labored with Blair. Then someone countered that, saying they didn’t want to deliver a baby in the shower. (The who said what and when is all a blur to me.) 

And poor Wendy. Through the contractions, I had developed a pattern of grabbing her shirt sleeves, moaning, and rocking back and forth. At some point, I a. got bodily fluid in her hair and b. began rocking back and forth while hitting my head on her chest. (Her chest was much softer than the shower wall, like I did with Blair.) Best doula, EVER.

I remember getting a little panicky at one point, saying, “I can’t do this anymore!” In an L&D nurses mind, those are the magic words that a legit natural, laboring patient (not the wimpy 2cm patient who has zero tolerance for pain) is close to delivery. Someone called Dr. Lamar and told him to come now for delivery. 

I had made it back to the birth ball a few minutes later when the door flung open and Dr. Lamar arrived, hair disheveled, out of breath after he had apparently sprinted from his car to our room. “Oh, I thought the baby was going to be out,” he said. “Guess I have time to change.” And God bless Dr. Lamar and his family. Two of his three kids, Hannah and Jackie, babysit/nanny/help raise your brother and sister. As much as I go see him in the office and as much as the girls watch your brother and sister, and now you, they’re like part of the family. 

So, Dr. Lamar left to change clothes. I inadvertently started bearing down during a contraction and Hayli asked me what position I wanted to get in to push. I had NO IDEA. All reasoning had been flushed down the toilet at this point. Literally. Wendy suggested I get on my hands and knees on the bed and that sounded like a reasonable thing to do. The head of the bed was still up while I pushed once…and it was miserable. Hayli dropped the bed to a completely flat position, I got “comfortable”…as comfortable as one can be while trying to deliver a fireball out of your vagina… and the thought went through my head…”I NEVER HAVE TO DO THIS AGAIN.” It was incentive to finish the job. 

I quietly pushed twice. I’m not sure if anyone but Wendy and I knew I was pushing. For a brief moment, I was embarrassed as I felt a little like a puppy on a training pad. Sometimes, bodily fluids escape while you’re pushing. After two pushes, I could tell you were crowning. A little “ring of fire” burning, but by the time you're on your third vaginal delivery, it was nothing too bad. 

Apparently, Dr. Lamar had come back in the room and I heard Hayli ask him if he was going to check me. He replied, “She’ll let me know.” I pushed once and groaned, “THE HEAD IS OUT.” 

I had two hospital gowns on. One on the front and one covering my backside since I had been up walking around. Lamar got up, lifted the back side of the gown, and said, “Oh yes, it is!” He told me to wait to push to see if you had a cord around your neck. I waited a second, heard that we were all clear, and with one more push, you shot out. 7:17a. It all happened so fast that Lamar only had one glove on. I guess that’s the ultimate level of trust between a doctor and his patient. 

I heard him say, “It’s a girl!” I was kind of surprised but started thinking you would be a girl the week before you were born. Ann Marie, the nursery nurse, took you to the warmer and Dad followed you. I rolled over and immediately felt grossed out by all of the blood I was sitting in while I was hemorrhaging. (Literally. I had to stay in a wheelchair the rest of the day and refused a blood transfusion the next morning.) I watched Ann Marie give you oxygen and a little PEEP to help open your lungs. At some point, I heard you give one good cry that gave me some reassurance. 

Arden Elise, you were beautiful. You had dark hair and were long and lean…7 lbs 10 oz and 21 inches. Your feet and hands were ginormous and you had a dimple in your right cheek. Your lips looked like little strawberries…I just wanted to kiss you! 

Your brother and sister came to meet you. Your grandparents doted on you. Our friends and co-workers came to see you. You were a celebrity.

About an hour and a half after you were born, your oxygen levels started dropping again so you were taking into the nursery where an IV was started, you received oxygen through a nasal cannula, blood cultures were drawn, a chest Xray was done, and IV antibiotics were given. I have a new respect for nursery nurses. They cared for you like you were their own. You were a little puny at first, struggling to keep your oxygen levels up and had 2 wimpy feedings, but like the little fighter you are, you pulled off your oxygen and IV out later that night and came out of it like a champ. 

Arden Elise, you are glorious. Beautiful, gentle, sweet, relaxed, loved. I am so grateful that Jesus gave us a precious gift in you. He knows you, formed you in His image, loves you, and planned for you to be our daughter and us to be your parents. For that, I am forever thankful. I know He has great plans for you. I will relish the moments He gives us with you as your story is written. 

Our prayer for you is this: “She is clothed in strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future.” - Proverbs 31:25. 

Trusting the One who holds your future. Thank you for being our daughter. 

I love you,

Mom

Arden's Birth Story (Part 1 of 2)

January 17, 2015

Sweet Baby Arden,

As I type this, you’re sitting next to me in a little bassinet, staring off into the distance with those beautiful bluish-gray eyes of yours. I can’t help but tear up with so much thankfulness and gratefulness that you are a gift that the Lord chose to give us. I will never, ever take that for granted. 

You arrived at 7:17 am on Monday, January 12 at United Regional L&D room 4412. Let me tell you your story. 

You’re the third born child of the Ben Hoover family. Your brother Grant is 4 and your sister Blair is 2. I remember growing up, wondering if I would ever be able to have my own biological children. I’ve had type 1 diabetes since I was 8 years old and way back then, diabetics could have babies, but often there were birth defects, complications, stillbirths, anything terrible you could possibly imagine, associated with diabetic pregnancies. I remember reading through a pamphlet I found in a doctor’s office when I was 13 or 14 about how it was almost impossible to have a healthy baby as a diabetic. I remember grieving thinking I wouldn’t get to carry a child. Thank you, Jesus…look at us now. You are healthy and precious and beautiful and I absolutely believe that you are a miracle.

This pregnancy was a little rougher than the rest. I actually felt better physically because I worked out doing intense exercising called CrossFit until I was about 34.5 weeks pregnant. Despite the working out, my blood sugars were a lot harder to control this time. Partly due to running around after your siblings, partly from working nights, partly from a third pregnancy taking a toll on my body. I took anti-nausea medicine from 6 weeks to 22 weeks pregnant. I never took any medicine with your siblings. You just wanted to make your presence known. 

On Christmas morning, I was almost 35 weeks pregnant with you. I had told your Dad that I was getting so tired…that I was nearing the end of my rope in exhaustion after your Uncle John’s wedding, being sick with a sinus infection for almost a month, waking up 2-5 times a night with blood sugar and sensor readings, insomnia, your big brother and sister “sharing a room” that caused them to not go to bed until 10p every night, and working quite a few nights in L&D. Well, it was the truth because as I was loading the car with Christmas presents to leave for FW, I got really lightheaded and dizzy. I stopped, felt my pulse race, and realized my heart had gone into SVT. My pulse was about 250 beats per minute. I yelled for your Dad, who was out in the backyard hanging a zipline (pulling the cable tighter with his truck) in true Hoover fashion. He yelled at me back, telling me to chill out because he thought I was getting annoyed that he was so sidetracked with a project when we were supposed to be leaving. (Any other day I would have been.) “No,” I yelled, “I need you now!” I tried bearing down, blowing through a straw, every nurse trick I knew to bring down a heart rate but nothing worked. I started feeling faint so I said we need to go to the ER. Your dad drove like a maniac and I remember telling him that he was going to kill us all long before we ever got to the hospital. Thankfully, we survived and pulled into the ER parking lot. I didn’t want to go in…because who really wants to go to the ER on Christmas morning?! My anxiety started creeping in, and I started becoming short of breath, imagining what the fetal monitor would show, imagining that I could meet you via emergency c-section in the next 15 minutes, and I got out of the car and went in. I was quickly triage and taken to a room in the ER. (They don’t like seeing pregnancy women with cardiac issues in the ER.) I called L&D to tell them I was going to the ER, called Dr. Lamar on his cell phone and gave him a heads-up. (It’s nice to know your healthcare providers so well.) Long story made slightly shorter, I had an IV started and the doctor had just ordered adenosine (an IV med that basically stops and restarts your heart) to fix my rhythm. I told them they couldn’t give me the medication before I was on a fetal monitor. Sherry, one of my favorite nurses from L&D, was on her way to monitor me, and all of the sudden, after about an hour in SVT, my chest tightened up, I felt like I couldn’t breathe for a second, and my heart converted on its own. My pulse had dropped from about 235 to 103. Weird, weird feeling. Sherry got there with the monitor, your heart rate looked FABULOUS, they monitored me for another hour or so, then discharged me home to follow-up with a cardiologist. What a crazy little experience that was. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to phase you one bit though. And it bought me a two to three day break from dishes and picking up the house.

At my next appointment, Dr. Lamar and I agreed that the time to have a baby was sooner rather than later. Our original plan had been to be induced at 38 weeks. Both Grant and Blair broke their clavicle at delivery because my pelvis is oddly shaped (apparently) and not necessarily because they were big (8lb1oz and 8lb3oz), which can be a complication from uncontrolled blood sugars. So we thought an earlier delivery would help offset your size. Let’s just bump up that induction date to 37 weeks…

Thus, enter a psychotic nesting stage. Truthfully, I had done VERY LITTLE to prep for your arrival. Not because we didn’t love you, but because it’s kind of hard prepping for #3, whom you don’t know the sex of. Sarah Schneider did…but we didn’t. She made your name sign and ordered matching sibling shirts in advance, but that’s about all we had ready for you. (And tons of diapers. We did had diapers at least.) We had to finish moving Blair and Grant into the same room, and also felt this crazy need to paint our bedroom and bedroom ceiling. (Your parents are a little nuts sometimes. I’m sure you’ll figure this out one day.)

But Jesus helped me prepare for you on a lot of different levels. The week before your arrival, we had a sweet lady come clean the house on Wednesday, January 7, I worked my last night until your arrival on Thursday, January 8, I met with Sherril on Friday, January 9, and we talked about looking for Jesus in the room during your labor and delivery and thanking Him for what a unbelievable gift He was giving us. On Saturday, January 10, Sarah had bought and scheduled a prenatal massage. And then an unexpected twist…we actually put an offer in on a house that day…but that’s a whole different story. I was about as ready as I was going to be for your arrival.

So, on Sunday, January 11, we got up like normal, went to church with Grant and Blair, and were loved on and prayed for by “our people” here in Wichita Falls. Your Mimi came into town that afternoon because she was going to spend the night on Sunday and take Grant and Blair to school Monday morning while we were at the hospital. 

I ALMOST finished packing my bag and Dad BASICALLY finished painting the ceiling in our bedroom before we left for the hospital at 6:30p. We weren’t last minute at all…

We arrived at triage at about 6:45p for a foley bulb placement. I went to room 4414 where there were custom pads and panties decorated by my co-workers in celebration of  your arrival. “Push it, push it real good…Ring of Fire…Third Time’s a Charm…Don’t Break my tailbone…”were written all over them. Best nurses and friends in the world.

Dr. Lamar arrived about 7:10p to put in the foley bulb. The plan was to place it, tape it to my leg so it would mechanically dilate my cervix from 1.5cm to about 4 cm overnight, I’d be sent home, and then come back at 4:30a to start pitocin. Welp, it didn’t work like that.

The Things Ben Says

My husband says some funny stuff. Really, he does. And I'm going to post this story and I don't want to hear one..."Oh, Meagan," or "You look great," or "I can't believe he said that!" Because A. It's funny, B. It was the truth, and C. My self-confidence really is fine ;)

On Saturday night, I was getting ready for our church's small group adult Thanksgiving dinner. (That's a shortened version of saying, we have free babysitting and dinner from 6-8 p.m. with some of our besties that consisted of awesome soups, stews, candied apples and salted caramel brownies...and there's no way this preggo was missing it.)

My full-panel (go over your belly) maternity "skinny" jeans were dirty, so I had to improvise. I pulled out my second trimester appropriate under-the-belly skinny jeans, with a green long-sleeved thermal shirt, tall brown riding boots, and to add a little sass...a furry black vest. I will also note that my hair was down and curly..but not cute curly. Like, wet-cat curly because, THANK YOU JESUS, it had been raining all day. And I should also note...I think my green shirt has shrunk because it exposed the under portion of my growing abdomen when I breathed. (This, I did not realize at the time.)

I asked Ben, "Does this make me look...weird?"

Long pause.

Ben says, "Umm, it makes you look like a linebacker?"

I do not take offense...because he was totally right.

Being the 30-week-still-has-arm-muscles-crossfitter-preggo, I'm going to assume he meant that I looked like this:

Clay Matthews

Instead of this:

Sorry, Ryan Pickett, that your name came up when I googled "fat linebackers"

We will assume he meant it as a compliment and go on our merry little way. I mean, how else could you take it?!

That Ben. Gotta love the man. He speaks with such...honesty, love, and empathy. Never a dull moment.

#reallife

Hello, blog. Nice to see you again...

Today, I posted a couple of pictures on Instagram and Facebook with the hashtag #forrealfriday. Some friends and I have been talking about Friday being dedicated to real life pictures. No fairy tales. No filters. Show me your sink full of dishes. Or your kids screaming. Or your cellulite. (Kind of kidding on the last one. But your cellulite may encourage me to post a pic of my new and very first varicose vein. Thanks, Baby Hoov #3.) Sometimes, most of the time, that's more encouragement than the cute pictures, clean home, and home cooked meal. After I posted those pictures, my sweet Facebook friends were so quick to come to my pregnant self's aid, immediately offering encouragement, a kind word, a "hang in there, momma." Funny thing is, it hasn't been a bad day. The pic of Blair screaming, Grant demolishing his newly-cleaned closet, Blair covered in chocolate bar in the car...that is what a regular day around here looks like. I just don't post pictures of it much. Because the clean, smiley, sparkling photos seem more appealing. But are they really? 

I made a promise to myself several years ago that transparency would be "my thing." I've lived on the other side of it. Unbearable pressure of seeming "perfect," always pleasing, quick to smile, use some fluff phrase of encouragement that really has no meaning behind it. Now, that sounds like a prison to me. So fake, so debilitating, so vomit-inducing. 

"And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we're liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." - Marianne Williamson

What would the world look like if we walked up to each other and introduced ourselves like this:

"Hi, I'm Meagan. I'm a recovering perfectionist. I know what heartache feels like. I never got to break up with a boyfriend because they always dumped me first. I struggle with anxiety and depression though it may or may not be clinically diagnosed. I carry deep, deep wounds in my heart. <Filter: some things, you just shouldn't post about on the www> I have the best counselor in the world. Even as a 31-year-old, I struggle with my body image, especially when I'm pregnant and people ask if I'm having twins every day. There are days as a mom that I yell at my kids not because they did anything wrong, but because I'm in a terrible mood. Our marriage needs work. We both know it and yet, sometimes we don't want to put in the work to fix it. I've had diabetes for 22 years and sometimes I'm afraid that it may substantially shorten my time on earth. Money doesn't grow on trees and sometimes I fail miserably at managing ours. There are times I feel inadequate as a nurse and like a failure at work. Sometimes, I'm lonely and feel socially awkward. So, what's your name...?"

In all honesty, the world would probably be pretty dark and depressing if those were are standard introductions. We don't have to show each other all of our cards. You don't want to see all the dirty pictures of my life, nor do you want to see all of the squeaky clean ones either. THERE IS A BALANCE, FOLKS.

Maybe that means you open up about your struggling marriage to a friend. Or you find a counselor to talk to. (Oh, how I could go off an a tangent, and I will one day, about how there is not a SOUL IN THE WORLD who can't benefit from counseling.) Or you quit comparing what your life looks like in pictures to that of an Insta-friend's life. Or you don't lie when someone who loves you asks one of the most overlooked and under-answered questions around..."How are you?" <Disclaimer: You don't have to be a kill-joy. Don't have word vomit and spill your guts to everyone. Be discerning with when, whom, how, and what you share. Sometimes, it's just not appropriate.>

Because here's the deal: Jesus promised me that His Grace is sufficient, it's enough for me. HIS STRENGTH is made PERFECT in MY WEAKNESS. So when I show those less-than-perfect pictures and talk about my shortcomings as a wife, I am #1 being human, #2 inviting others to join in being free to be themselves, and #3 inviting Jesus to be showcased as stronger than my weaknesses. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Every stinkin' time I hear Ellie Holcomb's song, "The Broken Beautiful," I cry this really ugly cry. Which makes it even more awkward because it's quite an upbeat little tune. But the words...oh, the words...He takes me, a broken thing, and makes me beautiful.

I know that I don't bring a lot to the table

Just little pieces of a broken heart

There's days I wonder if You'll still be faithful

Hold me together when I fall apart?

Would you remind me now of who You are?

That your love will never change,

that there's healing in your name

That you can take broken things,

and make them beautiful.

You took my shame

And You walked out of the grave

So your love can taken broken things

and make them BEAUTIFUL.

I'm better off when I remember

How You have met me in my deepest pain

So give me glimpses now of how You have covered

All of my heart ache, oh with all Your grace

Remind me now that You can make a way

You say that You'll turn my weeping into dancing

Remove my sadness and cover me with joy

You say your scars are the evidence of healing

That you can make the broken beautiful

You make us beautiful.

Thank God that He takes broken things and makes them beautiful.

Buds of Hope (and a YOLO update)

***YOLO and the Games Update***

To much soreness and strife, I completed the 3rd and 4th workouts of 5. The 3rd (14.3) had my name written on it. A combo of deadlifts with increasing weight and number and box jumps. I called this "the strong girl" race. I will not win a 5K...ever...but I can pick something off of the ground. Finished with 107 reps. However, I had a hard time walking vertically for several days post-workout. The 4th (14.4) was tough. Rowing, toes to bar, wall balls, cleans, then muscles-ups (which I only dreamt about attempting). Toes to bar were terrible on my left wrist and forearm for some reason. Didn't do as well as I would have liked, but finished with a score of 125. But to keep it into perspective, when I started CF at 6.5 weeks post partum, core strength was non-existent. I could barely lift my knees to my elbows. Now I can kip 5 toes to bar in a row (on a good day). Progress, right? If I never would have tried, I wouldn't have been able to see the improvement. 

(I totally should be doing insurance paperwork filing claims from 2013 and finishing laundry while my kids are at pre-school and I wasn't scheduled to work. But this is way more fun and fulfilling.)

As I was pulling into my driveway this morning, I noticed that some of our trees are starting to bloom. I wasn't sure if that would be the case this year since Wichita Falls is in a terrible drought. Trees are dying. Plants are dying. We can't do any outdoor watering. I think our lakes are at 29% capacity (but don't quote me on that number even though my husband is on city council). I don't know if our grass is going to sprout this year. So I was kind of surprised to see little pink buds on our two Oklahoma Red Bud trees. 

Springtime is my favorite.

A "typical" spring usually includes April showers that bring May flowers. Thunderstorms with drenching rainfall. Puddles and mud. Rain that washes the air clean and clear.

And then there are "atypical" springs. Like the ones we've had for the last 3 years. (Maybe this is our new "typical?") Gusty, dust-filled windstorms. Promising skies that don't deliver. Just enough sprinkles to get your car muddy. Dry, crunchy yards. 

Yet, apparently we've been given just enough rainfall this year to bring forth some new life. I see those pink buds as little whispers of hope. Of new creation. Of what's to come.

And so it is with life I think. Some seasons are plentiful. There's an abundance of water...both literally and figuratively. It's easy to pay the bills. You and your mate are on the same team. Friendships are fulfilling. New growth and opportunities are around every corner. It's pretty easy to find hope, joy, and peace because there isn't much to capture your attention but goodness. And some seasons are dry. Money's hard. Marriage is even harder. Day to day becomes mundane and there are roadblocks at every turn. All you feel is dryness and heat bearing down on you.

But in the midst of the drought, when we look close enough, I know Jesus gives us little buds of promise. Whispers of hope that give us just enough to move forward with confident expectation of what is to come. Maybe it is a new friendship. Or an unexpected laugh with your spouse. Or somehow, your bank account has some leftover for the month. And in the dry seasons, we don't expect to find new growth...so we have to look for it...because I can assure you that those buds, though not abundant, are still there. The "God of hope" (Romans 15:13) gives us these things to get us to the next day. And ultimately, to point us to the beautiful hope we can have in His death and resurrection, and the promise of an undefiled eternity with Jesus. 

Seasons are cyclical. This drought won't last forever. But I sure am thankful for a few pink buds to remind me of the promise of better days ahead.

I HATE my Phone (and a YOLO update)

***YOLO and the Games Update***
So, I did it. The first workout (14.1) was two Saturdays ago. Double-unders are not my BFF but I killed the snatches at 55 lbs. 124 reps in 10 minutes. Those darn double-unders. In front of a LARGE gym full of people. And I was so glad I did it. The second workout (14.2) was two days ago. You had 3 minutes to complete 2 rounds of 10 overhead squats at 65 lbs, then 10 chest to bars. I completed 10 overhead squats in 20-30 seconds, then had 2-2.5 minutes to complete 10 chest to bars (more than just a pull-up. Your chest has to hit the bar under your collar bone.) I got 7. A total of 17 reps. Again, so glad I did it. I year ago, I dreamed about doing chest to bars while watching other competitors do it. And look at that...it was my turn. The best competitors in the world blow my numbers to pieces (by like 300 reps), but that's fine. I'm still proud of myself for laying it on the line and thankful for the opportunity to do something challenging and fun. We'll see what 14.3 has in store for this Saturday.

And on a completely different topic...

I have a weird relationship with my phone. When I look at it's teal green case with a white plastic back, I have mixed emotions. It's cute. It's convenient. It's entertaining. Yet, I HATE IT. The fact that it's a silver iPhone 5S with AT&T service has nothing to do with the fact that I hate it. It works just fine. It's the concept of it that is beginning to drive me slowly insane. (Wait, maybe a husband of 8 years and 2 children under 4 are helping drive the insanity concurrently.)

I cannot escape it's dings. 11 new texts. Ring. Phone call. Buzz (bc now it's on silent.) Reply from group text. Buzz. A reminder to ...take mail...in 15 minutes. Because somehow I have Ben's office calendar on my phone, too. Even though I've tried to remove it 50 kajillion times.

And then I pick it up. Because I'm oddly addicted to it. I'm drawn to a blue icon with an F on it. So I scroll through a newsfeed full of people I haven't seen in 15 years, many of which I wasn't very close to 15 years ago. Then I respond to a group message. Then I click on a link to a story that I don't really care about, that takes me to another story that I don't really care about, and then yet again, another story that I don't care about. But I digress. Yet, since I've ventured on to social media, I then scan Instagram, like a few pictures while wishing my kids were hugging sweetly while peering out the back window when in reality, one is screaming at the other because she is following him too closely and may take one of his toys. And you can't see through the back window because there are hand prints, spider webs, and dog slobber covering the window. Then I close Instagram and head over to Pinterest. I see 12 new ways to cook kale, the 14,598 ways to use essential oils, and am bombarded with Elf on the Shelf pictures even though it's freaking March. And then I check e-mail and delete 14 ads. So I close Pinterest feeling like I'm not crafty or creative, close Instagram feeling like our lives are mundane, close Facebook feeling annoyed that I even looked at it in the first place, and close my e-mail vowing to unsubscribe to the ad sites.

And I don't get on Twitter because when it first became big, I thought that'd be a waste of my time. (Haha. Like the above is not.)

Again, my phone drives me nuts.

Don't get me wrong. Technology is awesome. I love change. I'm probably a moderate on some issues in the red state of Texas. I'm thankful for medical advancement. Without them, I'd have been dead at age 8. But I want to throw back the clock to 1950 when it comes to cellular gadgets and social media.

Why? Because I'm letting a stupid phone interfere with being present with my children. Sometimes my kids drive me nuts, but that's what a 3 year old and 1 year old are supposed to do to their mother. Because more often than not, a phone rings in the middle of dinner and even if we don't answer it, our conversations are interrupted. Because instead of spending 20 minutes talking to my husband before we go to bed, we are staring mindlessly at an iPhone and iPad with 0% interaction between us. Because without thinking and out of habit, I pick up my phone when I am having lunch with someone and they leave the table to go to the bathroom. Since when could I not sit by myself for 2 minutes in a restaurant?!

You know what one of the craziest things is? I don't even have an addictive personality.

Have I said it yet? MY PHONE DRIVES ME NUTS.

I love to talk and blog about Jesus. About His peace and spending time with Him. It's amazing...and absolutely heartbreaking...how I am allowing a phone to even dictate how often I hang with Him. It really shouldn't surprise me that His voice is a lot harder to hear when I'm killing time pinning crafts I will never attempt.

So you know what I'm going to do about it? I'm going to start turning my phone OFF. No, not just on silent. O-F-F OFF. For 3-4 hours A DAY. We have a land line for our alarm system. If Ben really needs to get ahold of us, he can call that number. If someone needs us that badly, they will FIND A WAY to track us down. Back in the day, if someone was desperate to get ahold of you, they drove to your house and left a note on the door. So, if I don't get or respond to a text for 4 hours, life will go on. So please do not be offended if I don't respond quickly. (For starters, I don't know how that unsaid rule of "everyone should respond to texts quickly" ever became a rule in the first place.) My response will come in an appropriate time frame, when my priorities of Jesus, husband, children, and refueling have been met to the best of my abilities for the day.

I KNOW I am not the only person who feels like this. I KNOW I'm not the only mother who reaches for a cell phone when she walks from room to room. I KNOW we are not the only couple who sits 1 foot apart in bed but are 100 miles apart, lost in an iPhone.

Today, I feel like I'm launching an official, unofficial campaign to turn off your phone a few hours a day, disconnect with social media and texting, and live life with a little more freedom while you're disconnected. So I can be fully engaged with my children, with my husband, and with my Jesus. Who wants to join me?

P.S. My beloved phone "dinged" 16 times while I typed this blog post over the course of 1.5 hours.

(Please note: if you and I communicate through cell phone via text, voice, Facebook, you are not personally responsible for my rant. I love communicating with you. I just can't stand our society's expectation of being constantly online and "connected.")

YOLO and the Games

I'm kind of nervous today. Tomorrow, I'm doing something that's a little scary for me. I am competing in my first CrossFit Open competition. Once a week for five weeks, you complete a certain workout in front of a certified CrossFit trainer/judge...and numerous onlookers...receive a score that is published for everyone to see, in hopes of filling one of something like 48 spots in your region. And after some research, it looks like there are 17 regions...IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.

So obviously, I have 0.0000000001% chance of qualifying. Maybe if 79/80ths of the world competitors get the stomach bug overnight. And it's me and the inspiring 80 year old grandma who entered. (But some of those 80 year olds are pretty impressive.) But qualifying is not the goal here. Quite frankly, I'm not even sure I'll be able to do all of the specified exercises in each workout. But I'm okay with that.

I know that "CrossFit" has become kind of a trend. It's a buzz word. And it's for good reason. Since starting the week before Christmas 2012, I have become stronger, faster, thinner, and healthier than I have been in a long, long time. Or maybe even ever. I'm having fun. I've met FANTASTIC new friends. I've been encouraged. I've encouraged. It's a beating, but it's a really fun, rewarding beating. And I can remind you of my original thoughts about starting this journey here. It wasn't pretty.

I'm participating in the Games for much more than a workout. I'm doing it...

- Because I want to push myself. I want to try harder at a physical task than I ever have.
- Because I want to overcome a fear of being a disappointment. The only person who thinks I am some form of a disappointment is ME.
- Because I want feedback from a coach. There's not a better way to get better at something than to have someone watch your performance with undivided attention than by entering a competition.
- Because I want to be an example. To my kids who will be watching. To my friends who are watching. To the "average" person who thinks they could never do something like that. Because if I can do it, they can do it.
- Because I want to be surprised at what I can accomplish. That's one of the best feelings in the world.
- Because I want to be a part of a big movement. People joke that CrossFit is a cult. It isn't...but I can see where they get that notion. You have your own lingo. You get each others struggles and triumphs. Why wouldn't you want to be a part of a big group like that?
- Because I want to remind my type 1 diabetes that it does not define who I am or what I can do.
- Because I can. YOLO...again, a buzz word. You Only Live Once. I've chosen to live life and not let opportunities pass by. I've watched too many people sit on the sidelines and never dig deep into life and what it has to offer. So, I may suck. Or I may do great. Either way, I am gaining a new life experience and the lessons that come with it. I don't want to look back at this point next year, lets say if I'm pregnant with our third, and wish I would have signed up and pushed myself.
- And drumroll for the biggest reason...because Jesus has taught me so many lessons in the last year through workouts. No, I'm seriously not kidding. He is not conventional. I've learned lessons about trusting Him, loving others, perseverance, and grace vs. perfection while laying on my back on a gym floor gasping for any form of oxygen I can get. I CANNOT WAIT to see what He teaches me over the next 5 weeks.

I'm not writing this because I want a pat on the back or for cool points. (Really, hold the cool points until I can complete a workout.) I think I'm writing this because I want to encourage you to do something that's kind of scary. Venture into uncharted territories that you know you're being called into. Push yourself. Don't put Jesus in a box and believe He only speaks to you in Bible study and church. He wants to speak to you in ways unbelievably specific to you. He knows that one of the best times to knock on my heart is when I'm feeling either defeated after a terrible workout or triumphant after a victory.

Live out loud. Know defeat and taste victory. It's part of the richness of our lives.

Seriously, I may have to wear a pad to do my double-unders tomorrow (all of you who have experienced childbearing totally know what I'm talking about) but dang it, I'm going to put myself out there and give it a shot. YOLO.

An Ode to my Husband of Eight Years

Eight years ago today, I married my favorite man on the face of the planet. I'm going to tell you why he's so great.

My man is fun. I've never known a more sophisticated 12-year-old in my entire life. He's quick to go sledding when it has iced, have a nerf gun war with his son and/or brother-in-laws, make a solo debut on Dance Dance Revolution to Katy Perry's "California Girls" in front of a room full of people, and dress like a yoddler in college to appease his girlfriend (now wife) for a sorority date party. I could never have married a man who took himself too seriously.

My man is bold. He is not afraid to take chances. He moved us to a town where we knew 3.5 people out of 100,000 after being married 7 months, was the first prosecutor in the state to take a gang injunction case to trial (and then we got an alarm system), and he ran and won a city government election. He could have failed at all of those and he would have been okay because to him, life is way too short to live in fear and complacency.

My man is loyal. Once a friend, always a friend to him. He won't forget your face (which is always awkward in the grocery story when he goes up and talks to them by name and it's very obvious that the person has no idea who this guy is.) Very, very rarely (like, I can probably name the times on one hand) have I heard him speak an undue cross word about someone. And his integrity is as strong as his loyalty.

My man has foresight. He can see the big picture when I am stressed about the small stuff. He plans for our retirement when I just want to go to Target.

My man loves his babies. He wrestles with them, teaches Grant how to fish, has campouts in the backyard in 35 degree weather, and tells him stories at night about "The Boy Who Shines Like a Star." He reads stories tosses Blair in the air and kisses her with the intent of teaching his 14-month-old daughter that she is loved, beautiful and important. He even picks up all 85 lbs. of lazy Scout when she refuses to get into the back of the car in public. 

My man loves me wrecklessly. He got up this morning with our kids because I have strep throat and felt too sick to get up. He encouraged me to go on vacation to the Dominican Republic this November with a girlfriend because "I needed a break." He still slaps me on the backside when he walks by even if I've been in my pajamas all day long and haven't showered yet. He sat in a shower behind me, fully clothed, as I labored hard for 3 hours with our second born, holding a steady stream of hot water on my lower back. He teared up as he listened to me sing at our Christmas Eve service. He has loyally stood by my side as I have faced unforeseen emotional sink holes in the past few years. He, without a doubt, is my knight-in-shining armor. 

My man loves Jesus big time. He trusts Him. He reads His word. He loves people BIG so they can see that Jesus' love is BIG. He studies the Man He is so he can become more like Him. He teaches our children about His Grace and Mercy. He lives boldly because he knows he is chosen and forever HIS.

Eight years ago tonight, we had our first dance as husband and wife. I thought about dancing to this song but thought, at a wise, ripe age of 22, that it was too boring. NOPE. It is perfectly beautiful describing the love my man and I have. It's nothing fancy but its real. It's nothing fancy but it's all I ever want. It's nothing fancy but it ours.

"Nothing Fancy" by Dave Barnes

There's nothing fancy 'bout the way I love you

There's nothing you could not find in any other man

There's nothing fancy 'bout the way I love you

But I love you as hard as I can.

There's no good reason for the way you love me

But you're my walking dream come true

There's no good reason for the way you love me

But I thank God that you do.

I don't know the perfect conversation

I don't know the way to turn a head

I don't know the perfect way to prove my love

But I know I'll love you 'til I'm dead.

There's nothing fancy 'bout the way I love you

It's as simple as the stars in the sky and the blue in the sea

There's nothing fancy 'bout the way I love you

But it sure is fancy how you love me.

Freedom

I'm no theologian, that's for sure. But something has been on my mind so much lately I thought I'd share my thoughts.

I read a fantastic excerpt from a biography on U2s lead man Bono today. Here's the link...you should read it, too.

http://www.patheos.com/blogs/frankviola/bono-on-jesus/

I love his thoughts on grace vs. karma. I love what appears to be his genuine love for Jesus Christ and who He his character is. And NONE of it struck me as "churchy" at all. His view seems so opposite of what so many people believe Jesus and "the church" is all about. And unfortunately, there's a big chunk of "the church" that paints a really legalistic picture of Jesus and Christianity.

Rules, regulations, do this and don't do that. Go confess. Don't swear. Don't drink. Or feel really guilty if you do. Be in church every Sunday. Have your life together. Get your act together. Wear a smile. Tithe...or else. RESTRICTIONS. CONTROL. A world drowning in religion with no relationship. Totally sounds like something you want to sign up for, doesn't it?

I'm hear to tell ya that my Jesus = FREEDOM. He restores me. He makes me whole.

"The LORD is my shepherd. I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside still waters. He RESTORES MY SOUL." - Psalm 23:1-3a

When I sit and am at peace with Him, I have an overwhelming sense of freedom. I have literally broken out into song before, singing, at the top of my lungs:

"My chains are gone, I've been set free. My God, my Savior has ransomed me. And like a flood, His Mercy reigns. Unending love, amazing grace." - the bridge in Chris Tomlin's "Amazing Grace"

Sure, as a believer of Christ, I am held to different standards because I know Him and am called to become more like Him. But that does not mean it is a life full of restrictions and rules. One of my favorite things to do is sit around the table, drinking wine and breaking bread with friends. There is no guilt or wrongdoing in that. Can I curse like a sailor? For sure. Should I? No. Am I forever damned to hell for it? Nope.

And that calling to "no longer conform to the ways of this world" (Romans 12:2) is not a burden to me. The more I learn about His character, the more I want to BE JUST LIKE HIM.

And as far as guilt and shame are concerned..."There is therefore now no condemnation (guilt) for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death." - Romans 8:1-2 - GUILT/SHAME does not come from Jesus. It is a product of our own minds and Satan. As a believer, will the Holy Spirit move you to repent? Absolutely. But He won't make you feel guilty about it. Correction from Him has come both gently and sternly, but always with love and reconciliation.

The more I sit with Him, read about Him, have life experiences with Him, the more I see that He is a full of grace, hope, restoration, and relationship. He doesn't boom from Heaven, towering over me like an abusive father, yelling "Get to church ON TIME you slacker!" Quite frankly, sometimes we miss church because we need a break. And even then, He doesn't say, "Seriously?! I'm so disappointed in you for not going to church." Absolutely not. It is then I feel Him tug on my heart, saying, "Child, come to me and I will give you rest. Sleep in. Come to me when you are ready...because I'm patiently waiting." No guilt, no shame. Still...Freedom.

I hope that as the body of believers of Jesus Christ, we show His character to others by loving them, showing them His kindness and grace. Showing them joy when we face trials, but honesty as we struggle. There is no perfection needing to be obtained. Jesus did away with that at the Cross when He took on our sins to give us freedom. Freedom in this world and freedom for all eternity when we believe.

"Grace defies reason and logic. Love interrupts, if you like, the consequences of your actions, which in my case is very good news indeed, because I've done a lot of stupid stuff. That's between me and God. But I'd be in big trouble if Karma was going to finally be my judge. I'd be in deep s-. It doesn't excuse my mistakes, but I'm holding out for Grace. I'm holding out that Jesus took my sins onto the Cross, because I know who I am, and I hope I don't have to depend on my own religiousity." - Bono

High five to Bono. I love people who say what they think.

Jesus isn't about rules or perfection. He really doesn't ask anything more of us than to come to Him just as we are: flawed, broken, screw-ups and all. He takes it from there. There will continue to be flaws, screw-ups, and dark times, but He remains there, through it all, and covers us with His beautiful, loving Grace.

Sufficient Grace

I'd start this post off with "I'm real tired right now," but I think that's how I started my last blog. Funny...not much has changed. 

I've been thinking lately about the concept of grace. When it comes to other people, I feel like I'm almost always the first one to dish it out. Someone "messes" up...no worries. We all mess up. Hurt my feelings? I acknowledge it and forgive you. I'm not going to say I don't struggle with forgiveness or giving mercy or grace, I'm just saying that it's not the world's most difficult thing for me to do.

But extending grace to myself? Now that's a different story.

We all have a lot on our plates. At the time being, my super-sized dinner plate includes:

- a husband running for City Council

- a two-year-old

- an almost five-month-old (who breastfeeds)

- a job as an RN on a busy L&D floor 24-36 hours a week

- learning how to be a coordinator of a program for women who have had miscarriages, stillbirths, and infant death for our hospital

- attempting to lose a lot of baby weight via CrossFit

- being on several non-profit committees/boards

- keeping books (but Ben does most) for Ben's law practice

- AND trying to do things like be a loving, supportive wife and mother, an encouraging friend/sister/daughter

- not to mention trying to cook paleo meals, fold laundry, organize the house we are outgrowing, finish painting 3 separate projects that I started all while feeling guilty about not mastering the cute Easter project I pinned off of the beloved/dreaded PINTEREST. 

I don't say those things to sound important. Really. I HATE busyness. (I saw a great saying: STOP THE GLORIFICATION OF BUSYNESS.) The things listed above are real life though. I have no doubt that you can relate whether our plates look identical or not.

I am constantly walking around, getting down on myself for not having the clothes folded or that Grant ate 2 PB&Js in one day. You know what I'd tell someone else who was struggling with keeping up? I'd be the first to say..."You are doing the BEST you can do right now. Jesus wants you as you are...nothing more and nothing less." 

SO WHY IS IT THAT I CAN'T TELL MYSELF THAT?! 

I CAN tell you that I know Jesus doesn't operate out of guilt. That He gently convicts when we have sinned but does not beat us into the ground to teach us a lesson. I also know that Satan knows where I struggle. That I'm a recovering perfectionist and one of the best ways to stump me is by making me feel not good enough.

"But He said to me, ' My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses so that Christ's power may rest in me." - 2 Corinthians 12:9

I DO know that when I rest in Him more, when I just sit in His presence and let Him love on me, I feel whole. I feel good enough. I feel loved. So today, I'm boasting in my weakness because He gives the best grace.

Just Gotta Keep Running

I'm tired today. Real tired. I'm frustrated with the state of chaos that our house is in. My tolerance of my kids whining is zero to none. I feel overwhelmed with commitments, expectations, and obligations. I have a headache. I'm watching a friend walk through a divorce. I hate budgeting. I just want a vacation.

I got a message from a friend last night asking for a Bible verse or words of encouragement to share with one of her friends whose child was recently diagnosed with diabetes. The thought of what they have ahead of them made me tired. It made me genuinely sad for them because they have a long road ahead. So I shared these verses that are all that get me through some days:

"Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God." - Hebrews 12:1-2

Some days, you just gotta run. No matter how weary or weighted down you are. 

Sometimes, the only thing that keeps me going is Jesus at the finish line. He's run the race before. He endured it and was victorious. I'm not running by myself since He is always beside me (Heb. 13:5) and I'm surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses. 

So today, I've just gotta keep running.

We Moms Are Pretty Great

We moms are pretty great. Here's why:

- For starters, we can endure childbirth.
- We can breastfeed a three-day-old while spanking a two-year-old.
- We can get lunches packed, clothes laid out, and breast pump equipment ready the night before.
- We can kiss a finger that's been rolled over by an electric four wheeler and magically heal it.
- We can cook dinner while Spiderman is clinging to our leg.
- We can fend off monsters in the closet.
- We can fold the same clothes four times after they've been jumped on and disheveled.
- We can teach them about Jesus and loving others.
- We can rock out to the Red Hot Chili Peppers "Snow (Hey Yo)" in the car with a two-year-old and not even care whose watching.
- We can make some mean play-dough.
- We can convince them to eat a new vegetable by bribing. Sometimes.
- We can love like there's no tomorrow.

Sometimes it's pretty rough being a mom. Pretty exhausting and overwhelming. Sometimes I miss my college days or married/two incomes/no kids life. But my two gems, they're pretty great. And that makes me feel pretty great.

Not a Quitter

I love writing and blogging. I have a kazillion ideas on what to blog about but life is just a little crazy with a 2 1/2 year old ALL BOY son and a 3 month old daughter...not to mention work, everyday life, and a super busy husband. Having said that, I'm making time to do it today.

I started CrossFit about 7 weeks ago. Three times a week for roughly an hour. I've missed several times because of the flu, kids being sick, and the holidays, but I've tried pretty hard to go. It's a beating. I mean, a real beating. Not only did I start at 7 weeks post partum, but I'm also out of shape. I was an athlete growing up and loved the Elliptical in college, did some walking/running/Zumba pre and post Grant, but CrossFit is in a league of it's own.

We do Olympic style weight lifting, all sort of body weight exercises, running, different weights...I think it's a military/law enforcement type regimen. Not gonna lie...I feel pretty Bad A when I'm done, even though I feel like I'm on the verge of death while doing it.

Here's a little bit about myself. If I'm not really good at something, I normally either don't do it. Or I quit. It's a bad trait of mine. This workout...I come in last a lot. Or second or third to last. I can't do all of the exercises in 100% proper form. I have to modify some. And I totally hate running. Like, with a passion.

But I'm not quitting.

Even though I don't look quite like a contestant, I feel like I'm on the Biggest Loser, struggling to finish at the back of the pack. And I don't like that feeling. Sometimes it drives me to push myself harder. Sometimes I want to quit and save face. But I'm not letting myself do that this time.

I'm putting myself out there. I feel vulnerable. I feel inadequate. I feel silly. I'm frustrated that it's so stinkin' hard for me. But I'm not quitting.

I want to feel victorious. I don't want to be at the back of the pack anymore. I'll get there one day. I know I will. But if I quit, I'll just have to start over, have the same physical pain and mental anguish. And I'm not going to do it.

This is a tough lesson for me. It's ok to not be the best. Or even good. Or even last. But man, I'm doing it. I'm putting myself out there and I'm going to conquer something that is really, really hard.

I don't know what you have out there to conquer. What you want to quit at because it's hard or you feel inadequate. But I'm telling you...DON'T. Like I'm going to beat CrossFit and my fears of sucking, you're going to beat your struggle, too. But if you quit, you'll never beat it and it will continue to be your struggle. A friend posted this on Facebook today and it rang really true to me.

"Dead Last Finish is greater than Did Not Finish, which trumps Did Not Start." - Anonymous

Even Superman's Gotta Go

Thought I'd share this picture with you taken in Austin at a nature center as your afternoon entertainment. We're all human...even Superman's gotta go.

His Heart Pursuing Mine

In the midst of all of the Thanksgiving feasts, Black Friday ads, and Christmas parades, I feel like I've been informed everyday of someone either dying or someone's cancer may have returned or someone's divorce is final or someone's child is very ill or someone is struggling with scary memories from their past.

My intention is not to be Debbie Downer...but this is real life.

I was just feeding sweet Baby Blair in her warm, cozy nursery. I couldn't help but think about what her life will look like ahead of her. As much as I want to shelter her from the storms, I can't. I'll do my best to raise her in a safe and loving environment, try to guide her, teach her about Jesus...but I don't know what her life will look like.

My mom couldn't protect me from diabetes, from heartache, from struggles very, very few people even know about. I'm sure that when she was rocking me in my childhood nursery, she wanted to protect me from this world, too.

But you know what calms my anxious heart? And I'm not just using that phrase flippantly. Seriously, it is what I cling to constantly. That the very same Jesus that has sought me out, protected me, and fiercely pursued my heart takes care of my children, my family, my friends, all of us.

Never have a known a deeper, purer, more steadfast, unchanging and beautiful love than His. And His love, though intimate and personal, isn't only for me. He will pursue Blair and Grant the same way. He seeks out the brokenhearted. He is pursuing the man who cheated on his wife. He is tightly squeezing the mom who is fearful her cancer has returned. He is knocking on the heart of the high school boy who is questioning His very existence.

And that puts me at peace.

My worrying is useless because the very same God who has made my life into a beautiful story desires to do that for every one of us. Doesn't mean it's without heartache, desperation, and struggles. But it does mean that we have nothing to fear since the enormous Creator will do whatever it takes to grab onto our heart and loves us like nothing and no one in this world can.

"Then Jesus told them this parable: Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.'" - Luke 15:3-6

Blair's Birth Story (Part 2 of 2)

(Part 2 of 2)

When people ask your daddy “how was labor?”, he typically responds…”INTENSE.” The time period he is referring to is from between 12:45 p.m. and 5:00 p.m.

After Dr. Lamar broke my water, the contractions immediately intensified. There was no longer a buffer for pain, so it was much more uncomfortable. I remember your Mimi and Papa coming in somewhere around 1 p.m. That is when I had to start breathing through the contractions. I sat on a big purple birthing ball that we brought from home and rocked back and forth for comfort. For a few minutes, Erin sat behind me and tickled my back and head to help distract me. Occasionally, I would lean over the bed and move my hips from side to side through contractions. Daddy would squeeze my hips and put pressure on my tailbone to make me more comfortable.

At some point, Wendy and Erin suggested that I get into the shower in hopes that the warm water would relax me. Sounded great…and into the shower I went, still sitting on the birthing ball. (It became my closest friend that day.) Daddy sat behind me, talking to me in between contractions. I was still talking and laughing between contractions with him. And still somewhat aware of the fact that I was naked, in a shower, on a ball, in front of several people. That all changed.

What you have to understand is that somewhere in the shower, I lost complete recollection of time. And complete recollection of modesty. Your brain shuts down and all you can do is cope to get through one contraction at a time. Easier said than done.

Another thing worth mentioning is that the pitocin running on the pump through my IV was at its maximum level, leading me to contract every 1.5-2 minutes with about 30-45 seconds of down time between contractions…resulting in intensity. Someone who is in labor on her own normally contracts (less painfully) about every 3-5 minutes. My uterus was on overdrive.

Somewhere around 3 p.m., I made my way out of the shower for another check and an attempt to get your heart rate recorded. It’s kind of a blur. I’m pretty sure I was dilated to about 7 cm. In retrospect, that’s great. In the midst of the pain, I was devasted. Just a 7, I thought?! I couldn’t take much more of this. (*Correction: After looking back on records, I was actually only dilated to 6cm. Wishful thinking.)

I made a beeline back to the shower and my best friend, the birthing ball. Your daddy sat behind me on the bench with the shower wand in his hand, spraying my back. He was awesome. Encouraging when appropriate, but always a steadfast presence. Just having him in the room made me at ease. Wendy stood next to the shower, talking to me and encouraging me. Erin was the gopher, bringing ice and updating people with texts and phone calls.

And let me tell you where Jesus was.

My friend Sherril encouraged me to purposely look for Jesus while I was in labor. Since He is always with us, never leaves us, never forsakes us, He’d definitely be there in the midst of your birth. After spending time praying and thinking about this entire experience, Jesus very clearly revealed Himself to me. He, with His outstretched arms, had a hand on Daddy’s shoulder and a hand on Wendy’s shoulder. He would lean over and whisper in their ears. And right after they would hear Him, they would talk to me. And you know what? It was EXACTLY what I needed to hear. “Just make it through this contraction,” Wendy said. “You are doing great,” Daddy said.

One time, Wendy said, “You are living life to the fullest.” I know this is not a typical thing she says to her clients in labor because she told me so. How did she know that I needed to be reminded that I was living life at that exact moment? That I was fulfilling a dream, crossing something off of my bucket list? She knew because she too loves Jesus and because she had her heart and ears open to Him. Because she loves Him, she has the same Holy Spirit that I do and He told her to tell me that because He knew I needed to hear it at that exact moment.

(In some special way, Jesus also made Himself evident to your big brother Grant (2 years and 4 months old). Two weeks after you were born, I was sitting on the bed, feeding you and asked Grant to come sit next to me. I asked him what he wanted to talk about. Completely unprompted, he said, “Um, let’s talk about Jesus.” I said okay…what about him? Where IS Jesus, I asked? “At the hospital. When I was there with Grandad.” (Your brother had never heard me mention this. The day you were born, he spent most of the day with Grandad and Noni, with some of the afternoon at the hospital.) “He’s really tall. With lots of hair,” he said. So in whatever way He chose, Jesus also comforted Grant on your birthday, too.)

One day soon, we’ll talk about how beautiful, comforting, and life changing hearing Jesus’ voice is. He loves you and leads you just like he does me, Daddy, Wendy, Erin, and Sherril.

And the next hour or two are even more of a blur. With contractions coming hard and fast every 1.5-2 minutes, my goal was to just survive until you were born. Our bodies are amazing things. We are designed to know exactly what to do to give birth. Every woman comes up with some rhythm or pattern to help them cope through contractions. Mine was groaning. I would make an “O” sound and moan in short and long bursts through the contractions. Daddy said I kind of sounded like I was singing. I think I probably sounded more like a cow or an animal in heat. From what I remember, it was loud and awkward sounding. But it worked.

During this time period, I remember a few things really specifically.

A.             I only said three curse words. If you ever experience natural childbirth, you will understand the pride I have in keeping my words appropriate. (*Another correction: I did only technically say three curse words. After this blog post, I was informed by those in the room that I repeated those same three curse words numerous times. Again, wishful thinking.)

B.             I thought my uterus was going to explode. The intensity and strength of contractions was unlike anything I have ever, ever experienced before. IT HURT.

C.             I never, ever asked for an epidural. Not because I didn’t want one…but because I was certain I would be dead long before they arrived to ease my pain. And I WASN’T going to tarnish my story with asking for an epidural if I wouldn’t live to even experience pain relief.

D.             I repeated numerous times, “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t take it anymore.” Well, here’s the deal. Deep down inside, I knew I could continue on. But I also knew that the phrase “I can’t do it anymore” is indicative of being close to completely dilated, so my altered reasoning mind thought if I kept repeating the phrase, then surely I was almost done.

E.             I felt sorry for the next-door neighbor. One of the other things my body naturally did to help cope with the pain was bang my head into the shower wall, in rhythm with the moans, through each contraction for the last 30 minutes of labor. When I realized that smashing my forehead into ceramic tile over and over again was “soothing,” I thought to myself, “Wow, this must really hurt.”  I did find out later that day from my friend and co-worker Tessa who was taking care of the patient next door that at one point, the patient said, “So, is that what you sound like without an epidural? If so, I want one.” Apparently, we made an impression on her.

F.            I also kept asking, “How will I know how to push?” I was quite fixated on this. I felt pressure from your head starting at about 8cm (especially since you were OP). Wendy kept saying, “You’ll just know.” Well, it’s true. At the end of a long, painful moan, without even trying, I started to bear down and push. In the shower.

This leads us to why a lot of L&D nurses get a little nervous when their patient labors in the shower towards the end. You don’t want to catch a baby there. Once I had the urge to push, everyone told me I needed to head for the bed. Stacy had checked me about 15 minutes before and said I was 9cm dilated. (It was the first time she had ever done a cervical exam on someone standing up, in the shower. What a friend.)

I had a brief moment of clarity as I arose from the birthing ball and began to make my way out into the room to the bed. This is my place of employment. And I’m completely naked. And there are 9 people in the room. I panicked. All I remember is Dr. Lamar’s calming voice coming from somewhere in the room. “I will get you a sheet. You’ll be okay.” That really put me at ease. Not only was my doctor in the room, ready to deliver you, I also wasn’t going to be completely exposed to anyone and everyone I sit next to and each lunch with at work.

I slowly made it into the bed in between contractions. At first, they had me lying on my back. That was so unbelievably painful. I pushed through one or two contractions that way. Daddy said I was gripping the bed rails so tight and pulling them inward to my chest that he was sure I was about to break them. Honestly, I bet I would have if I pushed a few more times that way. And somewhere in the there, Dr. Lamar checked me and said that you were OP. (We didn’t know this until now.) “It can’t be OP!” I cried…loudly. I knew how tough OP deliveries could be. He said it’d be okay and that hopefully the baby would rotate while I was pushing. Dr. Lamar then suggested I tried pushing on my side. I rolled to the left and pushed through one contraction. Again, unbearably uncomfortable. At this point, Wendy suggested that I get onto my hands and knees and try pushing that way. A couple of things about that: We are so fearfully and wonderfully made. It is our body’s natural way to help rotate an OP baby and take the pressure of the back of the baby’s head off of the mom’s tailbone when you are on your hands and knees. So obviously, this became the most comfortable and chosen position to push. HOWEVER, it had been a running joke amongst the L&D nurses and OB-GYNs that I would deliver that way. Not because it’s not great and comfortable and natural, but because it looks a little awkward to the outsider. Yet HOWEVER, at this point, I did not care how awkward it looked…I wanted you OUT.

So it was, on my hands and knees I started pushing. I remember Stacy trying to get your heart tones and then checking my pulse at the same time. I knew she was having a hard time distinguishing between your heartbeat and mine and that yours may be dangerously low. And I got very nervous. In 1.5 seconds, I came to a quick conclusion that I was about to be rolled out of the room for an emergency c-section. As long as you were healthy, I didn’t care. “The baby is down!” I cried out. Stacy and Dr. Lamar assured me everything was fine…you were fine. I felt immediate relief. And I continued to push. Once my mind wrapped around the fact that I was pushing, I got really nervous again. I pushed almost 2 hours with Grant. It was horrific. I was certain that I literally would not survive 2 hours of pushing again.

Enter Jesus. Without me saying ANYTHING, Wendy leans over into my ear and says, “This does not have to be the same as last time. You are almost there. This is different.” Pretty amazing, huh? Yet again, exactly what I needed to hear to continue on.

Somewhere in the midst of a push, I felt something crack. It happened to be your right collarbone. (But I’m still not certain it wasn’t my tailbone, too.) And after that crack, I felt you start making your way out.

There is something called “The Ring of Fire” in delivery when a baby’s head is crowning and about to exit. Let me tell you…I know where it got its name. IT BURNS. At that point, I had this overwhelming desire to push but Wendy convinced me to pant through a contraction or two so I wouldn’t tear as badly. Then, I heard someone say how much hair you had. And I heard the excitement in your daddy’s voice as he said that you were almost here. I had to start pushing again. And after 10 minutes total of pushing, out you came.

I thought I heard Dr. Lamar say the word “she” or “her” but I wasn’t sure. And honestly, I don’t know who even announced that you were a girl. I heard afterwards that Dr. Lamar asked Daddy, “Do you want to tell her?” and Daddy said he wasn’t sure himself of your gender and was really afraid he was going to say the wrong one. At some point, it sunk in that you were a GIRL. I wasn’t completely shocked, but I couldn’t believe it. I HAD A GIRL!

I immediately felt relief after you were out. I rolled back over and they handed you to me. You were BEAUTIFUL! You had so much dark, thick hair. I saw what everyone was talking about! And you were so long! (21.5” and 8lb 3oz). Your head was perfectly round and you were so alert! I held you for a few minutes, cried, laughed, hugged and kissed Daddy, and handed you to the nursery nurses.

Blair Elisabeth, after you were born, I was the happiest, most fulfilled person on the planet. You were here. You were healthy. You were a girl. I delivered naturally. If I could do that, then I could do ANYTHING!

Your big brother Grant got to meet you first. He was enamored and gave you a giant kiss right on the mouth. He ran out into the waiting room and told all of your grandparents that you were a girl. Everyone was so excited…especially your grandmas! The family, Wendy, and Erin all loved on you. All of my work friends came and saw you. Sarah, Katie, Alli, John, James, David & Bery all came to see you. We texted friends and family and put a picture of you up on Facebook. You breastfed beautifully about an hour after you were born. You, my dear, were quite a hit! And rightfully so.

There are a few days I look back on in my life with absolute thankfulness, gratitude, and joy. The day I believed in Jesus and asked Him to be my Savior, the day I married your Daddy, the day your brother was born, the day I went to something called Discovery, and October 30, 2012…the day you were born. I am beyond grateful and so honored that Jesus picked me to experience your birth and to be your Mommy. Other than knowing Him, there is nothing sweeter.

I love you, sweet Baby Blair. I will always cherish you and will never forget how precious of a gift you are. Thank you for being my daughter.

Love,

Mom