A wise person once said, 'You never know when you will meet your next lesson in life.' Well, okay, no wise person ever said that. I made that up just now but I'm pretty good at faking wise every now and then and it's TRUE. Lessons come in all shapes and sizes, most of them pretty surprising. Andis and I's most recent lesson has come in the shape and size of our 12 year old, recently adopted, geriatric dog Snoop-Lion. Let me back up a tad.
4 months ago we lost our sweet, sweet boy Jackson to lymphoma. It came and he went within a week and all of a sudden we were left with this huge gaping hole in our hearts shaped like a lanky Austrailian shepherd with one blue and one brown eye and the cutest freckles you ever did see. Don't get me wrong, I'm THANKFUL that he went so quickly and didn't have to suffer much, but oh my gosh talk about an emotional train wreck. I was. And of course when you are an emotional train wreck and you weren't expecting to be, the only thing TO DO is STUFF that hole with something that looks and feels and acts similar. The PROBLEM is, whatever you're stuffing with, usually ends up having the opposite affect as what you had originally hoped.
Snoop-Lion enter stage left.
I had spent a few weeks mourning and then I spent another few weeks feeling guilty for how quickly I wanted another dog and then I spent a few hours rationalizing that if we ADOPTED a dog and saved it from a life of small spaces and noisy neighbors and looming euthanasia, the fact that I wanted another dog so soon was appropriate, right? Say 'RIGHT'. So, naturally I'm looking for puppies because who wants an older dog anyway? That's like wanting to have another child and then stopping and saying, 'Nah. I'd rather change an OLD PERSON'S diaper instead, and adopting the first grandpa you see.' Pretty sure that happens never. But despite my inital thought process, it popped in my head that an older dog might be nice. Because let's face it, those midnight potty training sessions are not all their cracked up to be. However, I thought older as in a year or two or three, not three TIMES four! So, I'm scrolling through the pages and pages of dogs and becoming more and more depressed that I can't bring ALL of them home and then I see him. Snoopy. For such a terrible name I couldn't peel my eyes away from his face because he looked like Jackson's long lost twin, or maybe his dead beat dad or maybe a creepy uncle. My heart dropped into my stomach and time hung in the balance for 1,2...like the masochist that I tend to be in my darker moments, I clicked on his profile and there it was....Snoop-Dog was 12. That's 84 in dog years people. EIGHTY FOUR! He could have been Jackson's GREAT-GRANDPA. I started balling. I mean, break your heart in two, body wrecking sobs. Never mind that I was at WORK, at the FRONT DESK where crying of this nature is typically frowned upon. I had to have him. Throw out all reason and all common-sense, my grieving heart knew that NO ONE in the entire WORLD would adopt this old dog but ME, RIGHT NOW, and only because I was in the throes of grief. (NOTE to SELF: Probably not a good idea to make ANY permanent life changing decisions while in the throes of grief. A new hair color or some retail therapy would work, perhaps even some real therapy, but not adoption. In the future, let's spend some time thinking through this ok? Ok.) So, of course, next order of business, the Husband Call, dun, dun dun. What husband in his right mind would say NO to a slobbering, sobbing, broken hearted, grieving woman who lost her one and only furry baby. Well, if you MUST know, MY HUSBAND would. I don't call him 'the Risk Assessor' behind his back for no reason. So, in addition to my slobbery sobbing, I had a carefully crafted list of pros and cons to 'make sense' of this entire interaction. And if that didn't seal the deal, I followed it all up with an extra heart wrenching, but I WANNNNNNTTTTT HIM. Thankfully, I didn't have to pull out the snotty, 'Well, I don't care what you say, I'm going to the shelter anyway' card. That usually doesn't go over too well and needs to be reserved for extreme scenarios which thankfully are fewer and further between as I pretend to mature. Husband permission in my back pocket, borrowed cash from co-workers in my wallet and a heart full of hope, I pointed the car West. My destination? To Save A Life. Little did I know it might just be my own.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Thursday, August 15, 2013
The worst 4 letter word of them all.
S-P-A-M. SPAM! I'm not talking junk up your email, irritating virusey junk from a website you visited a million light years ago, I'm talking Specially Processed American Mystery, Spare Parts, All Meat, Shoulder of Pork and hAM, pink and white marbled block of pulverized mystery meat soaked in a gelatinous glaze that was created in 1937 two years before WWII began during which there was NOTHING LEFT TO EAT. Conspiracy? I think so.
And the life and times of SPAM didn't end there.
People all over the world eat spam. You can find that it's weasled its slimy little way into just about every meal and snack out there. From ASPAMagus rollups to my personal favorite, Huevos SPAMcheros and everything in between. In FACT, Hormel just sold it's 7 billionth can of spammy goodness in 2007!.....? Maybe people are wisening up....
SPAM is celebrated from coast to coast with ENTIRE festivals devoted to it's infamy.The annual Spam Jam held in Hawaii the last week of April for starters and Spamarama, a yearly festival held on April Fool's Day in our very own Austin, Tx. Even the small town of Shady Cove, Oregon is home to the annual Spam Parade and Festival. (Could they have done better with that title? I think so.)
Celebrities like Monty Pyton and Weird Al Yankovic have created ballads about SPAM and you can even find a few modern day songs on itunes with SPAM as the token muse.
You can find SPAM paraphenalia at the click of a mouse! Items like sweat bands, athletic (what the...?) tees and even iphone covers.
In fact, SPAM has really evolved since the late 30's and now is offered in a myriad of varieties like Jalapeno SPAM, Hickory SPAM, SPAM with cheese, Black Pepper SPAM, Hot & Spicy SPAM and don't forget SPAM Classic.
I'll spare you the nutritional, er lack of nutritional details but suffice it to say SPAM is not a friend of anything on your body, head to toe, least of all your heart, liver, thighs, belly, pancreas, bootay, love handles....ok, we're back the original thought; SPAM is not a friend of anything on your body; head to toe.
So, now that you've all been sufficiently disgusted and are probably gagging on your lunch, let me tell you, as Paul Harvey would say, 'the REST of the story'.........................
It was a normal Tuesday evening. Well, actually a bit abnormal because up to this point in pregnancy I have been a WRECK. I mean like, get home, eat a snack and get in bed by 5:21 wreck. Exhausted with a capital E and the triple digit temps don't help. So, let's start over. It was an abnormal Tuesday evening during which I actually had the energy to cook dinner! So, feeling great about myself and this surprise burst of energy, I decided to step it up a notch and make something out of the park healthy. This has not previously been the norm so you can imagine the pleasure I was having at my own sense of awesomeness. Baked sesame salmon, brown rice and steamed veggies was on the menu and considering my diet had consisted of saltines, smoothies and let's not forget a few meatball subs thrown in for good measure, BOY did it smell good. The rice was done, veggies were on low and salmon had 15 minutes left on the timer. And all of a sudden, amidst the savory scents in my kitchen, it hit me like a ton of bricks, like a wave of babies, like a two ton truck.....ALL.I.WANTED.WAS.SPAM! And it wasn't just one of those fleeting 'oh my gosh what just came over me' moments. I wanted SPAM and I wanted it now. I was like Bella from Twilight when she was a baby vamp on the trail of her first human scent. If there was SPAM within 20 miles I was gonna find it. One problem. The salmon. Was cooking and by this time it had 14 minutes left. "I could totally make it to Brookshire Brothers and back in 14 minutes." I mean, in my fever, my energy was growing to Olympic proportions by the milli-second. In haste, I let Snoop-Lion out in case the place burned down, grabbed my keys and sprinted, literally sprinted out the door. And as I approached the automatic doors at Brookshire Brothers, I had a brief moment of rational sense during which I started to ask myself 'WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOin.......but then I felt it. My self-control, rationale and common sense blown to bits by the fan over the door. Within moments it was already headed toward the next town. And I was headed to the mystery meat product aisle. I'm usually pretty focused when it comes to 14 minute trips to the grocery store but I was like a carb and fat deprived caged beast who had been recently uncaged only to find myself as a lucky contestent on that game show, Supermarket Sweep. Everything that I had said 'no' to for the last 32 years in any shape, form or fashion found it's way into my cart that day. In under 12 minutes I had pillaged and the booty was bountiful. Flaky biscuits, white bread, creamy peanut butter, grape jelly, all beef hot dogs (or maybe they weren't; I wasn't THAT focused), BUTTER, velveeta mac and cheese and of course, the entire reason I was there in the first place....you guessed it. A can of Classic SPAM. I got home just as the timer on the salmon was going off. And despite it's deliciousness, I promptly put it in a tupperware and proceeded to slice and fry up my can of SPAM. I had some cold. I had some hot. And if it wasn't SO delicious it would have been disgusting. Well, let's call a spade a spade. SPAM was, is and always will be disgusting, but to me, that night, it might as well have been prepared by the Iron Chef himself because it was everything I had hoped it would be. I was hoping to have polished off the evidence before Mr. G came home but I was still reveling in my spamthusiasm when he clomped through the door. Not having been served actual dinner for several weeks at this point, you can imagine his surprise at the option of not one, but two dinner choices. Sesame salmon, brown rice and steamed veggies (the obvious choice right?) or fried spam and maybe I had made some mac and cheese too....and maybe just a few biscuits were baking in the oven as well. A man after my own heart with a fondness for things slightly redneck, poor, fattening and trashy, we sat down to the best dinner the Goble table had seen in WEEKS. As we layed in bed that night, feet and hands swollen from the SPAM induced astronomical sodium levels, the common sense part of my brain kept trying to convince me to feel guilty for the crap I had just fed my baby. But there was another voice, a smaller voice that piped up and shouted above the guilt and worry. 'Meh. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger and you never know when the next WW is coming.'
SPAM. It's not what SHOULD be for dinner, but sometimes the difference between what SHOULD be and what IS, is night and day.
For more useless information, comical recipes and time wasting activities, check out www.spam.com. Pay particular attention to the 'Catapult Dairy Cows from a castle and into a line of Frenchman' Game. You won't be disappointed. Or maybe you will. Regardless, don't eat SPAM. And don't wear it on your head either.
And the life and times of SPAM didn't end there.
People all over the world eat spam. You can find that it's weasled its slimy little way into just about every meal and snack out there. From ASPAMagus rollups to my personal favorite, Huevos SPAMcheros and everything in between. In FACT, Hormel just sold it's 7 billionth can of spammy goodness in 2007!.....? Maybe people are wisening up....
SPAM is celebrated from coast to coast with ENTIRE festivals devoted to it's infamy.The annual Spam Jam held in Hawaii the last week of April for starters and Spamarama, a yearly festival held on April Fool's Day in our very own Austin, Tx. Even the small town of Shady Cove, Oregon is home to the annual Spam Parade and Festival. (Could they have done better with that title? I think so.)
Celebrities like Monty Pyton and Weird Al Yankovic have created ballads about SPAM and you can even find a few modern day songs on itunes with SPAM as the token muse.
You can find SPAM paraphenalia at the click of a mouse! Items like sweat bands, athletic (what the...?) tees and even iphone covers.
In fact, SPAM has really evolved since the late 30's and now is offered in a myriad of varieties like Jalapeno SPAM, Hickory SPAM, SPAM with cheese, Black Pepper SPAM, Hot & Spicy SPAM and don't forget SPAM Classic.
I'll spare you the nutritional, er lack of nutritional details but suffice it to say SPAM is not a friend of anything on your body, head to toe, least of all your heart, liver, thighs, belly, pancreas, bootay, love handles....ok, we're back the original thought; SPAM is not a friend of anything on your body; head to toe.
So, now that you've all been sufficiently disgusted and are probably gagging on your lunch, let me tell you, as Paul Harvey would say, 'the REST of the story'.........................
It was a normal Tuesday evening. Well, actually a bit abnormal because up to this point in pregnancy I have been a WRECK. I mean like, get home, eat a snack and get in bed by 5:21 wreck. Exhausted with a capital E and the triple digit temps don't help. So, let's start over. It was an abnormal Tuesday evening during which I actually had the energy to cook dinner! So, feeling great about myself and this surprise burst of energy, I decided to step it up a notch and make something out of the park healthy. This has not previously been the norm so you can imagine the pleasure I was having at my own sense of awesomeness. Baked sesame salmon, brown rice and steamed veggies was on the menu and considering my diet had consisted of saltines, smoothies and let's not forget a few meatball subs thrown in for good measure, BOY did it smell good. The rice was done, veggies were on low and salmon had 15 minutes left on the timer. And all of a sudden, amidst the savory scents in my kitchen, it hit me like a ton of bricks, like a wave of babies, like a two ton truck.....ALL.I.WANTED.WAS.SPAM! And it wasn't just one of those fleeting 'oh my gosh what just came over me' moments. I wanted SPAM and I wanted it now. I was like Bella from Twilight when she was a baby vamp on the trail of her first human scent. If there was SPAM within 20 miles I was gonna find it. One problem. The salmon. Was cooking and by this time it had 14 minutes left. "I could totally make it to Brookshire Brothers and back in 14 minutes." I mean, in my fever, my energy was growing to Olympic proportions by the milli-second. In haste, I let Snoop-Lion out in case the place burned down, grabbed my keys and sprinted, literally sprinted out the door. And as I approached the automatic doors at Brookshire Brothers, I had a brief moment of rational sense during which I started to ask myself 'WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOin.......but then I felt it. My self-control, rationale and common sense blown to bits by the fan over the door. Within moments it was already headed toward the next town. And I was headed to the mystery meat product aisle. I'm usually pretty focused when it comes to 14 minute trips to the grocery store but I was like a carb and fat deprived caged beast who had been recently uncaged only to find myself as a lucky contestent on that game show, Supermarket Sweep. Everything that I had said 'no' to for the last 32 years in any shape, form or fashion found it's way into my cart that day. In under 12 minutes I had pillaged and the booty was bountiful. Flaky biscuits, white bread, creamy peanut butter, grape jelly, all beef hot dogs (or maybe they weren't; I wasn't THAT focused), BUTTER, velveeta mac and cheese and of course, the entire reason I was there in the first place....you guessed it. A can of Classic SPAM. I got home just as the timer on the salmon was going off. And despite it's deliciousness, I promptly put it in a tupperware and proceeded to slice and fry up my can of SPAM. I had some cold. I had some hot. And if it wasn't SO delicious it would have been disgusting. Well, let's call a spade a spade. SPAM was, is and always will be disgusting, but to me, that night, it might as well have been prepared by the Iron Chef himself because it was everything I had hoped it would be. I was hoping to have polished off the evidence before Mr. G came home but I was still reveling in my spamthusiasm when he clomped through the door. Not having been served actual dinner for several weeks at this point, you can imagine his surprise at the option of not one, but two dinner choices. Sesame salmon, brown rice and steamed veggies (the obvious choice right?) or fried spam and maybe I had made some mac and cheese too....and maybe just a few biscuits were baking in the oven as well. A man after my own heart with a fondness for things slightly redneck, poor, fattening and trashy, we sat down to the best dinner the Goble table had seen in WEEKS. As we layed in bed that night, feet and hands swollen from the SPAM induced astronomical sodium levels, the common sense part of my brain kept trying to convince me to feel guilty for the crap I had just fed my baby. But there was another voice, a smaller voice that piped up and shouted above the guilt and worry. 'Meh. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger and you never know when the next WW is coming.'
SPAM. It's not what SHOULD be for dinner, but sometimes the difference between what SHOULD be and what IS, is night and day.
For more useless information, comical recipes and time wasting activities, check out www.spam.com. Pay particular attention to the 'Catapult Dairy Cows from a castle and into a line of Frenchman' Game. You won't be disappointed. Or maybe you will. Regardless, don't eat SPAM. And don't wear it on your head either.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
To Trust or Not to Trust. That is ALWAYS the question.
"The laughter died out on his face, and very seriously he asked, "Do you love me enough to be able to trust me completely, Much-Afraid?" She looked at him in the usual startled fashion...."You know that I do love you Shepherd, as much as my cold little heart is capable. You know that I love you and that I long to trust you as much as I love you, that I long to love and trust you still more." "Would you be willing to trust me, he asked, even if everything in the whole wide world seemed to say that I was deceiving you-indeed that I had deceived you all along?" She looked at him in perplexed amazement. "Why yes, she said. I'm sure I would, because one thing I know to be true, it is impossible that you should tell a lie. It is impossible that you should decieve me. I know that I am often very frightened at the things which you ask me to do, she added shamefacedly and apologetically, but I could never doubt you in that way. I'ts myself I am afraid of, never of you and though everyone in the world should tell me that you had deceived me, I should know it was impossible." "Much-Afraid, supposing I really did deceive you? What then?" It was her turn to be quite silent; trying to grasp this impossible thing he was suggesting and to think what her answer would be. What then? Would it be that she could never trust, never love Him again? Would she have to be alive in a world where there was no Shepherd, only a mirage and a broken lovely dream?....To lose him? Suddenly. She BURST into a passion of weeping..."MY LORD, if you can deceive me, you may! It can make no difference. I must love you as long as I continue to exist. I cannot LIVE without loving you." -Hannah Hurnard
Unlike most people, or LIKE ALL people who are desperately trying to get pregnant, and tracking every single thing that can possibly be tracked, Andis and I found out we were expecting uncannily early. Like two weeks. In fact, we were so early that our first ultrasound was a perfect picture of a happy, healthy and VERY EMPTY uterus. Insert furrowed brow, here. All things considered; our rocky baby history, how early it was, how empty my uterus still was, it would have been appropriate, like most normal people, to wait until the 'safe' 12-16 weeks before we started making baby announcements. If there's anything you've realized about us by now it's that you won't find 'normal' next to our names in the dictionary. So, true to irrational, passionate, spastic form, we waited 12-16 minutes. It started with a few close friends and family members and then it trickled to cousins and co-workers and then the lady at 7-11 and our realtor and our realtors sister and then the neighbors and then Edward at the post office and the brotherhood of fire fighters' and from there, to infinity and beyond. You see, despite my seemingly empty uterus and the rocky baby history and all the 'shouldn'ts' and 'not a good ideas' and 'maybe you should think about this's', my joy could not be contained. That's the thing about joy. It's sticky. If it catches you, it's REALLY difficult to shake even though that cloud of fear you feel is still hanging from your shoulders. Joy has a way of shining right through that cloud; like the sunshine after a thunderstorm. Doesn't mean the clouds disappear entirely, just means the sun is stronger. And so it was. My joy was more overwhelming than my fears. It couldn't be contained. And it couldn't be contained because joy in my world isn't a fleeting feeling but rather a philosophy; a choice, every day to BELIEVE, HOPE and TRUST in a GOOD GOD. "The Lord is my strength and my shield; in HIM my heart TRUSTS, and I am helped. My heart exults and with my song I give thanks to Him." Psalm 28:7 Do I always feel like trusting? No. Do I always feel like giving thanks when I'm in pain? No. But when I make that choice, I am helped and I am helped by being given the strength to find abundant joy that no amount of fear can snuff out. "Great peace have those who love your law, nothing can make them stumble." Psalm 119:165
You know it was difficult losing a baby several years ago after we had told friends and family. I was embarrassed, ashamed, and spent several months afterwards wanting to crawl into a deep, dark hole and disappear because the pain seemed too much to bear. Some of those memories still haunt me and at times have caused me to be a 'tad' OCD when it comes to aches, pains and random cramps, but are the memories of that pain enough to keep me quiet? HECK NO. That's the thing about pain right? It's easy to remember what it looked like, felt like, how it made us act, but when we think back on it, it's impossible to REALLY FEEL it like we did before. For example. My most painful moment after that situation was on Valentine's Day; 7 short days after I ended up with barely a pulse on an operating table. I had been sliced open in no delicate fashion and every single thing I tried to do induced a level of physical pain that I had not yet experienced. Walking, sitting, laying, rolling over, peeing, coughing; you name it, it hurt. And on top of that, every moment of physical pain reminded me of my empty belly and my aching heart which brought on the throes of emotional pain that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Yeah, life was not awesome then. But on that particular day, the day of Hallmark induced romance, the day that Andis and I had both sworn off permanently until we met and had our very first date 4 years earlier, I found Andis, in our kitchen, whipping up some amazing gourmet creation and telling me to stay on the couch, he would call me when it was ready. You see, I had gotten lost in a cloud of sleep, pain and vicodin over the last week and didn't realize it was Valentine's Day. And I panicked because I had nothing for him. I had no card, no special cologne, no homemade coupon book, no love letter, no lingerie. I had none of that.....and I had no baby. I felt like the ultimate failure. And usually when I find myself with nothing to give I'm pretty good about faking it, but as I sat on the couch with a crayon (the only writing utensil I could find; Go Figure.) and a torn piece of notebook paper with an old grocery list on the back of it, in an attempt to make a card or write a love letter of sorts, I realized I didn't even have the words . If I could have ripped out my bleeding heart and peeled back the layers and shown him that buried under all of that pain and anger and loss and vicodin was a love for him so pure, so powerful that St. Valentine had nothing on me, I would have. But open heart surgery is not my forte and even if it was, I might have been concerned that all we would find was not the big, perfect, red heart you see in cartoons but a small, shrively, barely pumping blood sad and angry heart in it's place. And I wept. I looked in the mirror at my swollen face, my wet hair, my tshirt and pj pants, no bra wearing self with my crayon written meager attempt at a love letter and I wept. Because it was painful. And to be honest as I recall that moment several years ago, I find myself tearing up at the thought of it, but no matter how hard I try it is IMPOSSIBLE for me to RE-FEEL the pain of that moment. Does the possibility of losing this baby and being there again scare me? YES, YES, YES. Does is scare me so much that it stops me from laughing in delight and shouting in joy that we are going to have a baby and TRUSTING God that everything will work out how it's supposed to?! NO WAY. "So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and NO ONE will take your joy from you." John 16:22
I trust him because I love Him. And because I trust Him, I have joy no matter what the future holds. It bursts through the clouds and shines through the pain, everytime.
So if you're day of joy is yet to come, just remember...."He will yet fill your mouth with laughter, and your lips with shouting." Job 8:21
Unlike most people, or LIKE ALL people who are desperately trying to get pregnant, and tracking every single thing that can possibly be tracked, Andis and I found out we were expecting uncannily early. Like two weeks. In fact, we were so early that our first ultrasound was a perfect picture of a happy, healthy and VERY EMPTY uterus. Insert furrowed brow, here. All things considered; our rocky baby history, how early it was, how empty my uterus still was, it would have been appropriate, like most normal people, to wait until the 'safe' 12-16 weeks before we started making baby announcements. If there's anything you've realized about us by now it's that you won't find 'normal' next to our names in the dictionary. So, true to irrational, passionate, spastic form, we waited 12-16 minutes. It started with a few close friends and family members and then it trickled to cousins and co-workers and then the lady at 7-11 and our realtor and our realtors sister and then the neighbors and then Edward at the post office and the brotherhood of fire fighters' and from there, to infinity and beyond. You see, despite my seemingly empty uterus and the rocky baby history and all the 'shouldn'ts' and 'not a good ideas' and 'maybe you should think about this's', my joy could not be contained. That's the thing about joy. It's sticky. If it catches you, it's REALLY difficult to shake even though that cloud of fear you feel is still hanging from your shoulders. Joy has a way of shining right through that cloud; like the sunshine after a thunderstorm. Doesn't mean the clouds disappear entirely, just means the sun is stronger. And so it was. My joy was more overwhelming than my fears. It couldn't be contained. And it couldn't be contained because joy in my world isn't a fleeting feeling but rather a philosophy; a choice, every day to BELIEVE, HOPE and TRUST in a GOOD GOD. "The Lord is my strength and my shield; in HIM my heart TRUSTS, and I am helped. My heart exults and with my song I give thanks to Him." Psalm 28:7 Do I always feel like trusting? No. Do I always feel like giving thanks when I'm in pain? No. But when I make that choice, I am helped and I am helped by being given the strength to find abundant joy that no amount of fear can snuff out. "Great peace have those who love your law, nothing can make them stumble." Psalm 119:165
You know it was difficult losing a baby several years ago after we had told friends and family. I was embarrassed, ashamed, and spent several months afterwards wanting to crawl into a deep, dark hole and disappear because the pain seemed too much to bear. Some of those memories still haunt me and at times have caused me to be a 'tad' OCD when it comes to aches, pains and random cramps, but are the memories of that pain enough to keep me quiet? HECK NO. That's the thing about pain right? It's easy to remember what it looked like, felt like, how it made us act, but when we think back on it, it's impossible to REALLY FEEL it like we did before. For example. My most painful moment after that situation was on Valentine's Day; 7 short days after I ended up with barely a pulse on an operating table. I had been sliced open in no delicate fashion and every single thing I tried to do induced a level of physical pain that I had not yet experienced. Walking, sitting, laying, rolling over, peeing, coughing; you name it, it hurt. And on top of that, every moment of physical pain reminded me of my empty belly and my aching heart which brought on the throes of emotional pain that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Yeah, life was not awesome then. But on that particular day, the day of Hallmark induced romance, the day that Andis and I had both sworn off permanently until we met and had our very first date 4 years earlier, I found Andis, in our kitchen, whipping up some amazing gourmet creation and telling me to stay on the couch, he would call me when it was ready. You see, I had gotten lost in a cloud of sleep, pain and vicodin over the last week and didn't realize it was Valentine's Day. And I panicked because I had nothing for him. I had no card, no special cologne, no homemade coupon book, no love letter, no lingerie. I had none of that.....and I had no baby. I felt like the ultimate failure. And usually when I find myself with nothing to give I'm pretty good about faking it, but as I sat on the couch with a crayon (the only writing utensil I could find; Go Figure.) and a torn piece of notebook paper with an old grocery list on the back of it, in an attempt to make a card or write a love letter of sorts, I realized I didn't even have the words . If I could have ripped out my bleeding heart and peeled back the layers and shown him that buried under all of that pain and anger and loss and vicodin was a love for him so pure, so powerful that St. Valentine had nothing on me, I would have. But open heart surgery is not my forte and even if it was, I might have been concerned that all we would find was not the big, perfect, red heart you see in cartoons but a small, shrively, barely pumping blood sad and angry heart in it's place. And I wept. I looked in the mirror at my swollen face, my wet hair, my tshirt and pj pants, no bra wearing self with my crayon written meager attempt at a love letter and I wept. Because it was painful. And to be honest as I recall that moment several years ago, I find myself tearing up at the thought of it, but no matter how hard I try it is IMPOSSIBLE for me to RE-FEEL the pain of that moment. Does the possibility of losing this baby and being there again scare me? YES, YES, YES. Does is scare me so much that it stops me from laughing in delight and shouting in joy that we are going to have a baby and TRUSTING God that everything will work out how it's supposed to?! NO WAY. "So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and NO ONE will take your joy from you." John 16:22
I trust him because I love Him. And because I trust Him, I have joy no matter what the future holds. It bursts through the clouds and shines through the pain, everytime.
So if you're day of joy is yet to come, just remember...."He will yet fill your mouth with laughter, and your lips with shouting." Job 8:21
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)