Mother's Day

Three years ago I got a positive pregnancy test on Mother's Day.

I was stunned.  I'm not going to lie- I'm the sentimental type.  The symbolism of finding out I would be a mother again on Mother's Day pushed my emotional response into hyperdrive.  I was excited.

Best Mother's Day gift ever.

A few weeks later, I miscarried.

I couldn't believe it.  I'm sure a little piece of my heart fell out that day.  I haven't been able to find it since.

Sure, my life looks pretty normal now.

But something's different.

There are certain things someone will say at a dinner party or a church function, and Trevor and I can communicate with each other with just our eyes.  Sometimes I feel like he's the only one who has an idea of the feeling of loss I'm experiencing.

The dull aching doesn't really go away, but every once in a while something will come along that reveals a rawness to the wound you thought was long gone.

Kind of like those crazy contractions you have hours after having a baby.  You think to yourself, "whoa.  I thought I was done with this!"

But the reality is, you're never really quite done.



Being a mother is difficult and painful.

Not being able to be a mother is difficult and painful.

Being a mother, but not being able to have more kids when you want to is difficult and painful.  Everyone tells you "at least you got to have a child."  or "Be grateful for what you have."

Losing a child before they lose you... I can't even imagine the pain.

Losing your mom is heartbreaking.

Wishing your mom was able to show you love and acceptance instead of hateful words and the back of her hand is painful.

Having the kid you were never sure you wanted and now are overwhelmed with the responsibility is painful.  And lonely.


Are we seeing a trend here?

Motherhood and the lack thereof are painful experiences.

Yet, there is always hope.  Always.

There is always room for joy.

In Romans chapter twelve, Paul tells us to rejoice with those who are rejoicing and weep with those who weep.

I like everything to make sense within my neatly drawn parameters, but that doesn't happen with celebration and sorrow.

It's not one or the other.

It's both.

How do we rejoice and weep together?

We realize that there's beauty in pain, and sometimes a little pain in rejoicing.

I know.  I sound crazy.

The only reason I try to talk about this is because I've lived it.  I've experienced it.

It's messy, and ugly, and gorgeous, and exhausting, and exhilarating.

It's life.

Mother's Day is ugly to me, because I am reminded of the missing piece of my heart.  The hole is so tangibly there.

Mother's Day is beautiful to me, because I have the most incredible children to be grateful for.  I have a mom who loves me.  Who believes in me.

More than any other holiday, this one looks the most like how I feel most of the time: beautifully broken.

So, can we just agree to widen the nets on Mother's Day?

Can we make room for the pain and the beauty: the hope deferred, the overwhelming gratitude?

The depth that comes from the darkest moments can not be replicated.

Let's embrace the mess that is life.

Let's rejoice with those who are celebrating, and weep with those who are mourning.

I know that come tomorrow, I'll be doing a little of both.

Try Hard

I've spent my whole life trying hard.

We've hashed through this quite a bit recently on this blog.

I look all around me, and I see people... striving.  I think "striving" is a good way to describe it.  If you look up the definition to "strive", you'll see words like exert vigorously, make strenuous efforts, or struggle.

It makes me think of yesterday, watching my 3 1/2 year old try to make her way across the back yard.  The problem is we have had over three feet of snow in the past couple weeks.  I watched as she would struggle to take a step, and once she finally did she would sink down in snow up to her armpits.

She was struggling.  An exertion was taking place.  I felt tired watching her.

Before, I tried because I was afraid.  I felt I had already disappointed anyone who mattered to me, so every new person I met felt like a  new opportunity to prove myself.  I tried because I was hungry for restoration. It was a dark hunger, the kind that gnaws at your insides to the point that you feel sick.

Even though I tried, I reserved myself, so that if I failed, I could lick my wounds and comfort myself with the fact that I hadn't given everything I had.

When I allowed God to heal my past hurts, and began to learn how to accept the love He offered me, my trying changed.

Actually, I think at first my trying  pretty much stopped.  It was a gathering of my thoughts, emotions, and past experiences.  It was a regrouping and redefining period.  I kind of sat in this rest of the idea that I didn't have to prove anything anymore.

But I feel like something incredible happened at that point.

Something new was born in me.

I wanted to try again.  But this time I wanted to give everything.  I wanted to jump off the edge of the cliff to fly with no safety net.

I became more brave because I had experienced the grace of God.

Suddenly, I was aware that even if I took a huge, clumsy tumble (that I am known for!), it didn't mean anything. It wouldn't keep God from loving me, or being proud of me.

During this last stint in the hospital, Trevor came into my room with a little stuffed eagle (not an actual stuffed eagle. A stuffed animal eagle). He said he didn't know why, but it made him think of me.

So, I named her Elizabeagle the eagle, because that's how I do.

But honestly, it's probably my favorite thing he's ever given me.  Because, at the risk of sounding extremely corny, I feel like that eagle.   Now I feel like I can soar.

Okay. I'm starting to sound like a Ray Boltz song.

Hopefully this post connects with you! Have you ever struggled with trying for the wrong reasons? Let me know in the comments!

New Year, Same You!

What is it about us that makes us love a clean slate? I'm definitely one of those people.  I love looking outside and seeing a sheet of white snow in its pristine state. It doesn't last long, because I have small children that leave behind a trail that looks like something a drunk buffalo would make.  But, I enjoy it while it lasts.

Nothing makes me sigh in complete contentment like a freshly scrubbed bathroom, mopped kitchen floor, or washed kitchen table.

You know the feeling: sleeping on freshly laundered sheets, rolling around a freshly cut lawn, marvelling at how much better your walls look with a fresh coat of paint.

We love what is... unspoiled.

I think that's why New Year's Eve holds such a feeling of excitement, anticipation, and in a way, sanctity.

We make lists of things we want to change in the new year.  I know I made one.

We look with hope at this year, standing before us wholly unspoiled.

For some reason, a lot of us look at this as our one chance for change.  If we miss it, we have to wait an entire year before we can try again.

The truth is, the clean slate is always available.

Yep.

That's one reason why I waited until January 2 to begin working on my January goals.  I felt like it was important for me personally to break the stigma of having to begin on the first day of the new year.

See, this year is different.  It's the first year I've ever faced in my 30 years where I am extending grace to myself.

I've always convinced myself that being kind to myself and forgiving myself would cause failure.  Turns out I was completely wrong.

Your clean slate is always available.

God doesn't care what day it is.   He is interested in you. Your wholeness.  Your healing.

His time scale is quite a bit different than ours.

Embrace His mercy.  Let Him really love you.

Let Him show you your clean slate.

Even if it is January 2nd.