This Mother's Day...

This Mother’s Day, there are so many things I could take for granted. I could complain about the fact that there’s an actual blizzard happening outside right now halfway through May (no really, I couldn’t joke about something so painful), or that I’m feeling under the weather, or that my toddler spent his whole “nap” screaming from his crib that he wanted to eat chips. I could gloss over (as I too often do) the reality that though the days are filled with lots of needs and wants, I’m blessed with every intangible I could ever wish for, both this Mother’s Day and every other day. I have so, so much to be thankful for. I get to spend each day with my beautiful children; my own loving, supportive mom is just a phone call away; my doting husband has spent this day and so many others spoiling me to no end.

So today, I am doing my best to cherish those things that others do not get to take for granted, and trying to lift up in prayer those who are living a very different reality. Just yesterday we learned that Peter’s young cousin passed away; I can’t help but think of his sweet mother who a day later is having to face her first Mother’s Day without her son. Our hearts are just aching for her, for her husband, and for their daughters who--instead of celebrating today--are utterly crippled with the grief of a lost son and brother.

I am thinking of all of the other mothers who, like her, are aching to spend Mother’s Day a child who is no longer here. I am thinking of all the daughters and sons who wish they could send a card or have brunch, but their mothers are aren’t on this earth. I’m thinking of those whose mothers are still living, but instead of a joyous celebration, they carry the grief and stress of strained relationships or deep hurt or failing health.

I’m thinking of all the mothers who don’t have the incredible support of a family or husband that they deserve. The moms who would give anything to spend the day with their children instead of driving off to work. The single moms who wake up alone every day and work to be everything and more for their kids and get little or no recognition in return. The mothers and children separated by distance and tragedy, the girls from Nigeria and their mothers who with every beat of their heart ache to be reunited.

As I consider all the heartache that for some will overshadow the joy of this day, I’m thankful we have the example of a heavenly mother who has been there in every way. She is a mother who personally and intimately embraced the indescribable joy of motherhood—a mother who has felt the burn of all-consuming love for the child God gave her, then just as intimately lived the heart-rending grief of holding the body of the son she carried and raised and poured her soul into—only to let him go. And through it all, she clung to the promise that God’s truth and love would win in the end. So I’m thankful that even in the raw realness of suffering and injustice of this world, even on this day that should be joyful for all but is agony for some, we can rely on the example of our Savior’s mom; we can cling to that same promise, we can lean on the same hope—that God’s love and everlasting happiness will win in the end. I’m thankful that God made motherhood such a pivotal role in the human experience; so important, in fact, that he wanted his own son to experience it in the midst of His plan to save the world. And I’m thankful that—when aligned with His will—motherhood can still be one of the most meaningful and redemptive experiences for women and children alike.

So today, though my heart is heavy for others, I am reveling in the little blessings and happy and funny moments that should always matter so much: Our little saints who are always praying for us even when I’m too busy to think of them. My Erik who said he wants to marry me when he grows up (a dream quickly and pitifully crushed by his Daddy who revealed that I’m already taken). My Marie who spent all week sneaking around making Mother’s Day projects for me. And who wrote about the day I was so weary that I put on a movie and made oatmeal for dinner as one of her favorite memories.

My Ethan who still asks to snuggle with me, and who made the observation earlier (after asking if he could pee and toot and poop on the potty) that the words “poop” and “toot” rhyme (boys and their potty humor).  My incredible husband who was not only influential in giving me the gift of my motherhood, but who supports me in word and deed every step of the way. My own mother, who has given me so many gifts and experiences that I could write a book (or ten). 

Many days and in many ways it is a hard life. Many days it is an unbelievably wonderful life. But above all, it is always, always a blessed life!

Hurt, Hope, and Heartstrings

Though I didn't plan on posting today, there are a few things that have really tugged at my heartstrings and should be shared.

First I'd like to petition your prayers for my friend, Julie, and her family who are in a world of hurt right now, to put it lightly. I found out today that they were in a car accident earlier this week and lost their six month old son, Tony, yesterday morning. From what I know, both Julie and her husband Todd were treated and released, but little Tony was in critical condition and just didn't make it. Utterly heartbreaking. Although I haven't been in touch with Julie much since college, I can vouch for what a beautiful person she is inside and out. When I moved from West Point to Pennsylvania as a shy and timid third grader, Julie walked confidently up to me on the playground the first day of school and asked if I wanted to be friends. Thanks to her, I had a best buddy from then on to sit with every day on the bus, walk home with once we got to middle school, carpool with once we got to high school (I still can't believe how patient she was every day when I was late), and just share some wonderful times with. She is such a caring and kindhearted person, as is her husband. Please please pray that they are just surrounded with love and support in the months to come as they try to make their way through this tragedy that no one should ever have to experience.
Thank you.

I'd also like to share these two videos that both reduced me to tears, but for much happier reasons:

The first is an amazing testament to the hope that can come out of a tragedy and the fact that good people are still out there making miracles happen.

This Old House

My dear husband said something yesterday that hit me like a slap in the face: "Can you believe that in one week this place will be empty?"

I wasn't sure whether to cheer, hug the walls and cry, start hyperventilating, or just swallow the large lump of panic constricting my airway and sink further in to my cozy cloud of self-denial. (You can probably tell by the fact that I am lounging around writing this that I chose option d).

A few hefty sighs later, I don't think I've made much progress in the move-my-family-across-the-country department, but I've decided that maybe I'm not as good with change as I thought, and I need to spend some time processing it all (time I don't really have, mind you). This post, therefore, shall serve as my guilty indulgence.

Home Sweet Home!

So riding on the coat tails of my little revelation last week about love and beauty, and in concert with the adage that "love makes a house a home," I will regale you with the fairy tale of how a tired little house on a small plot of land became the regal kingdom and shining castle of a desperate young couple and their miniature horse giant dog. So grab some tissues and buckle in, because my emotions are running full steam ahead.

Eternal Happiness

Today was my grandmother's interment. It's been a long wait since she passed away on November 15th, but she was finally laid to rest today next to my grandfather in Arlington National Cemetery. I'm sad that I couldn't be there to be a part of it, but I'm thankful that after almost 20 years, she is now both physically and spiritually reunited with the love of her life.

My wonderful brother was kind
enough to send some pictures...

The fact that they're together in eternity gave me some time today to reflect on their previous life together, too.
My grandfather had the honor of being buried at Arlington because of his service in the Navy. He enlisted when he was 17, conning his mother into signing his contract, and was assigned to the USS Murphy at the height of World War II. He was on board in the English Channel during the D-Day invasion, served as part of the crew who escorted Prince Ibn Saud of Saudi Arabia to the Yalta Conference, and later saw some of the worst fighting that the Pacific Campaign had to offer.

A Beautiful Life

Helen Marie (Sykes) Swartz

July 25th, 1926 - November 15th, 2011

This past weekend we embarked on a very ambitious trip to see my parents and relatives. Though it seemed half crazy to attempt such a journey with two toddlers and a two-week-old, it turned out to be the best decision we could have made; we got to spend the last few days of my grandmother's life with her before she slipped peacefully from this world to the next on Tuesday morning. She had been suffering from cancer for quite some time, and I could not be more thankful to have spent a few precious last hours with her and know that she had the chance to meet her newest great-grand baby before she died. It was such a gift to sit by her bedside and hold her hand, pray for her and the journey her soul was preparing to make, and thank her for investing herself so completely in my own life during the many years she spent as my grandmother.

I don't think I can possibly honor her properly or recount all of the ways she's touched my life with just a few simple words. There are so many things that have endeared her to me and so many memories that I don't ever want to forget. But capturing even a few of these—and giving others a glimpse in to her wonderful life—helps to paint a picture of the blessing my grandmother was in my life and the lives of so many others.

My grandmother grew up during the Great Depression, the youngest of nine children. Some of the last conversations we had were of her memories from this time. She described her father taking in strangers and feeding them for weeks at a time, even though there was barely enough for her own family. "I would sit at the dinner table and look longingly at the last piece of meat. But I knew that I was so little, and that my brother needed it more than I did because he was so much bigger than me," she would tell me. Talk about putting sacrifice into perspective.

She met my grandfather as a young teen and would tell me stories of young love and courtship in the 1940s, and how she loved go out with cousins and friends to dance the night away. When my grandfather enlisted in the Navy during World War II, she waited four agonizing years for his return. (And we think a 12-month separation for deployment is bad). Once he returned safely, they married and my grandma devoted herself to raising four children and travelling the globe with my grandfather (who spoke four languages) as he made his way up the corporate ladder in international trade.

My first memory of Grandmom, as we called her, was visiting me as a young girl when we lived in Vicenza, Italy. Together we toured the sites, climbing to the top of the dome at the Vatican, walking around the Coliseum, climbing the tower of Pisa, and chasing the pigeons in St. Mark's Square in Venice. She called me her 'doll baby' exceedingly often, and I always was a bit confused as a kid when she exclaimed, “I could just eat you up!”

First line of defense against unwanted
paparazzi: sticking out her tongue

When we moved back to the U.S., my fondest memories consisted of holidays at Grandmom's house and summer vacations together at the beach. From one visit to the next we'd look forward to her feast of beef brisket, rice, and green beans, not to mention the multitude of cookies and candy that we could get away with eating at her house. The grandmother I knew was always full of spunk and mischief. While sitting around the big dining room table for meals, she was known for pretending to sneeze green peas into her hand or looking at us and sticking out a tongue full of food when no one else was looking, but denying any mischief whenever we protested. (At restaurants she would substitute an accordion-folded straw wrapper for the peas during the 'sneeze'). After big family meals the board games would come out, and the teams of girls vs. guys would form; whether it was Charades, Pictionary, or Dominos, Grandmom was unflinching in her enforcement of the rules and usually the loudest when it came to heckling the men folk. As recently as this past Mother’s Day, well into her battle with cancer, she joined in on multiple hands of Dominos as ruthlessly as ever. Always a card shark, she could be found daily at the kitchen table playing solitaire while watching Wheel of Fortune or The Price is Right. She taught us early on how to play every card game under the sun, and had no mercy even when playing against a five-year-old. Thanks to Grandmom, my brother was a Rummy master before the first grade.

Donning a toilet paper  dress
at my bridal shower

Grandmom had quite the soft side to her too, never missing the chance to be there for us during birthdays, concerts, or any remotely important event…even sitting through my five-hour gymnastics meets with her bad back to support me. And she catered to us at absolutely every opportunity. Once when visiting her house my brother asked for some of Cream of Wheat for breakfast. He liked that she made it with white sugar (as opposed to brown sugar like our mom did) and asked for more. Five times. And each time, she heated up the stove and made my brother more, laughing and asking incredulously how he could eat six bowls of the stuff. Once I became a tween who loved shopping, she selflessly sacrificed her time and sanity, allowing me to drag her to every store in the mall and then some. And when my brother jokingly decided to re-designate her as “Granny,” she rolled with the punches; we’ve called her Granny ever since.

She and Peter's grandma made quite
the pair, getting lost while
taking the gifts up at our wedding

A convert to the Catholicism, Granny also had a unique perspective on her faith that I came to appreciate in recent years. She wasn’t extremely outspoken about it, but when she shared about her faith experiences and her conversion, they were some of the most fascinating conversations I had with her. And some of my favorite one-on-one times with Granny were the days we would drive in to the city, just the two of us, and attend her Novena at the Chapel of the Miraculous Medal. We sat in the very front row during the service, and afterwards we went to the little gift shop where she allowed me to pick something out. As I’ve gotten older and become more mature in my own faith journey, her quiet example becomes increasingly more significant.

Though I said my goodbyes this past Monday with a heavy heart and my fair share of tears, I know that is simply the reaction of the human element. I’m grateful for all of the times my grandma continued to be present without question to support me in life—graduation, West Point banquets and commissioning, my wedding, meeting and visiting my own children—and her presence will be dearly missed in such times. But my spiritual intellect knows that she no longer suffers in human form, and that it's her eternal life which bears the most significance.

Commissioning

Her soul is very much alive as she makes her way to everlasting glory, and though I already desperately miss the grandmother who filled my life with such love and joy, I fully believe in her continued ability to love us from her new place in this world…and the persistent thought in my mind as I held her hand for the last time on Monday was, “I bet it’s going to be absolutely beautiful there, Granny.” Indeed, I have no doubt that the brilliance she’ll encounter is beyond our wildest expectations.


My grandmother lived 85 full and happy years on this earth, and in the few short days I was able to visit this past weekend I was overwhelmed by the number of other friends and relatives—some traveling quite far—who came to see her. I know that if she filled my own life with such complete joy and love, the impact she’s had on thousands of others over the course of 85 years must be compounded exponentially.

 And that is truly the beauty of a life fulfilled.

Mother's Day 2011

Thank Heaven for Beautiful Souls

My friend Caroline is a fabulous mother who has been through so much in the past few years. She is a role model for so many, and we were honored tonight to remember her beautiful son, Cale Harrison Hidalgo, in a special way. Cale passed away just prior to his birth on June 28th, 2010, and Caroline has done an amazing job of honoring his short life in so many ways since he was born. This year, as part of October's National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month, Caroline and other families who have lost their children invited friends to light a candle at 7pm on October 15th in memory of Cale and babies like him who are with God.

So at 7pm we lit the candle with our children, said a prayer and sang a special song for Cale and all the little souls who have gone straight to heaven. Thanks to Caroline, we also took the opportunity to honor the lives of our own two children whom we never had the chance to meet.

I am reminded in times like this how important it is to to acknowledge all beautiful souls not just for their existence on earth, but for their eternal life in heaven. Though the ache that comes with no longer getting the chance to see or hold the ones we love remains very real, the love we have for them is not in vain. They are more than just memories; they still exist as living souls who serve as powerful advocates for us in heaven until we can join them. And when we do, it will be forever with a God who loves each of us--unborn babies, energetic children, and disgruntled adults--more than we can fathom. What a beautiful thing that is!

In the Space of A Year

It’s amazing to realize how much has transpired in the space of a year.

Pearl earrings from Peter--for
our baby who would have
been due in June

A mere year and change ago, I was in a pretty dark place, having seen yet another “specialist,” trying to process the word ‘infertility’ as it was being thrown at me, and wondering what it meant for our future—a future that we’d dreamed would be filled with the beautiful chaos of lots of kids in the years to come. Then, within weeks of hearing that ugly word, we were face to face with the full reality of my diagnosis as it played out in front of us, saying goodbye to the new little life that we’d created with God’s help, seemingly filled with promise. Three months later, another painful goodbye. I knew it was pointless to question God’s will, since my mere human logic simply couldn't comprehend infinite wisdom. But I felt I wasn't ready to let go of the dreams we had or the expectations that we’d set for our future. If God was taking us down another road, I knew I had to learn to let go and try my hardest to trust Him, whether that meant bearing and raising another child or not. Yet in my humanness I wanted more time to come to terms with it all.

My daily argument with God (either while driving to work or trying to fall asleep at night) usually went something like this:

Me: "God, why?"
God: [silence]
Me: "Is it because I was being selfish? Did I not deserve them?"

My "Precious Feet" bracelet,
with little feet the same
size as a 10-week-old
baby in the womb

God: [silence] Or maybe that exasperated sigh came from Him?
Me: "I promise I won’t worry about what others think this time. And I won’t complain about anything at all if I'm pregnant again!"
 God: [silence…while rolling His eyes]
Me: "Okay, I know, deals are stupid. But was the doctor really right? Please just tell me if there’s a chance or not!"
God: [silence]
Me: "So are You saying we should adopt? [pause] Because if that's what we're supposed to do, then it would be better to do now since we have the money because when we get out of the Army we might not and...and..."
God: [silence]
Me: Sigh. "How come you never tell me anything?!"
God: "Trust Me."
Me: [silence] Did He really just say that or did I think it? 
God: "I can hear what you’re thinking."
Me: "Oh, right. Okay, You win.. I’ll work on the trust thing. But I still wish You would tell me more…"

And so my daily battle continued; I tried not to give up hope as the prospects seemed more and more dismal. Finally, on an ordinary day while driving home from work, my heart and my brain finally met halfway and resolved to give up the reigns. “Okay God…whatever you say. And I’ll try not to be disappointed if it’s not what I want.”

He must have just been waiting for that simple concession, because it seemed like no time at all before we had clearly discovered what God had in mind. We've since been party to an absolute miracle, rapidly growing into plain sight despite my initial doubt; now a full eight months have passed with one Ethan Hjelmstad gracing our lives.

Miracle boy Ethan at 4, 10, and 20 weeks!

So many other little miracles have been born from the uncertainty and loss of the past year as well: as husband and wife, our love has matured and grown wiser as we support each other, both in “for better” and in “for worse.” We’ve found some meaningful ways to honor the gifts of life who graced our own lives for such a short time, mostly because of the efforts of my wonderful husband who I swear sometimes knows me better than I know myself. And most importantly, we've learned how vital it is to appreciate the gifts we have in front of us instead of only concentrating on controlling the future.

15, 18, 24, and 34 weeks!

If this past year is any indication, I’m sure we’ll be in for a wild ride in the coming months. While I know the answer to my prayers isn’t always going to be the one I (think I) want, and the coming year holds even more uncertainty than ever in terms of career plans, health, and life in general, I also know that God’s plan trumps ours for a reason. It’s always easy to see it in hindsight, but I just pray I continue to remember that invaluable lesson in the days to come.

To Those Who Serve

"This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it." --Psalm 118:24

Lately I’ve had some heavy things weighing on my heart, and it’s hard to write about more light-hearted subjects with more important things running through my head. Though I’ve tried to push such thoughts away when it comes to putting words on the page, my motivation for triviality has fallen flat. So I’ve realized that maybe it’s time to do just that—time to address the things that matter most.

On certain days my heart sinks as soon as I pull in to the parking lot at work. It has nothing to do with my workload that day or a busy schedule; it’s the flag in front of my Division Headquarters that gets me. Most days it flies high and mighty and proud above the building for all to see. But more often than it should, it flutters quietly at half-mast, the same level as the monument that stands across from it to honor the soldiers from Fort Drum who have died from combat. And when the flag is at half-mast, it usually means one thing: we will be adding another name to the plaque on that monument.

If only it were just a name.

Not a life. Not a son or daughter, father or mother, brother, sister, cousin, friend.

Maybe I was naïve when I signed up to be in the Army, devoting a what seemed like a huge chunk of my young life to military school and a mandatory five years of service after. It made perfect sense when I was still starry-eyed and didn’t really know, when I only thought of it as an honorable way to contribute to society like my own father did, and at the same time an opportunity for a great education and exciting job once I graduated.

My disillusionment didn’t last long, but I was already bound by contract. So I quickly learned in the “real” Army to still put every ounce of effort I had in to a job I disliked, a job with significantly less value than I’d anticipated when I first raised my right hand eight years ago. I learned to grit my teeth when hearing the same elusive phrases during meetings, the ones that meant we would be wasting more time and getting nowhere. I learned to choke down the guilt each time I walked out the door to a little voice saying “Mommy, I don’t want you to go to work!”…or worse yet, the shame and hurt when that little voice didn’t even care to acknowledge me when I arrived home because it was so customary for me to be gone. And when so many well-meaning people happened to see my uniform in public and thank me for my service, I've learned to smile graciously, trying to push aside the bitterness while thinking, “it's not me you should be thanking...if only you knew.”

But these things don't hold a candle to what so many others have been through.

And that’s what these last few years—specifically the past few months—have really taught me. What I do and how I serve is just a miniscule cog in the big green machine. My work pales in comparison to the work of others with whom I serve; my sacrifices are small. I can lament all day long about the things I didn’t consider when signing up, but in reality the sacrifices I continue to watch others make paint a pretty rosy picture for me.


Those sacrifices are many, too many. Out of respect for privacy I’ll not go in to detail, but I will say this: I did not sign up so I could helplessly wipe away the tears of a young and newly widowed mother, or to watch friends’ lives turned upside down and inside out as they face a completely altered future and navigate the twisted annals of the army medical system. I did not sign up so I could name the names of classmates or those from my unit now memorialized. I didn’t sign up to face that flag on the days it floats at half-mast, knowing that I will soon be verifying the information to put on this year’s plaque—knowing that for each name on the plaque there are three or four times as many injured Soldiers at a hospital somewhere figuring out how to redefine their lives. And these are just the Soldiers; beyond each one, there is another family rallying around a hospital bed or left at a gravesite, begging to wake up from their nightmare. Though each of these Soldiers may have signed on the dotted line, none truly signed up for this.

The weeks leading up to the 10th Anniversary of September 11th only stoked the fire for me. Our nation was suddenly roused to incredible patriotism, patriotism that’s seemed sadly latent for much of the past ten years. Yes, as a nation it was important to reflect on the monumental events of 9/11 that changed the course of our history forever, but I can’t help but feel that it was all been a bit sensationalized. As I digested the mounting number of news stories and radio shows on the subject, all analyzing the events and trying to somehow reinvent their meaning (as the news must do), my frustration also mounted. Were the other anniversaries not so important? Those really touched by the tragedies certainly grieved just as much in previous years. On most days there was no buzzing media trying to make headlines out of their tragedy or support them through their grief. The families and friends of victims as well as a growing group of affected soldiers and their families have had to live with the true reality of those events every day for the past ten years.

It’s easy in these instances to ask, “why?”

It’s easier yet for me to ask a more pointed question: “why them, and why have we been so lucky?”

I posed this question to my husband one night a few weeks ago, wondering aloud why so many good people have to suffer through such unjust sacrifice, and wondering why we haven’t (yet?) been tested as such. Not that I’m inviting tragedy, by any means. But none of the wonderful people I love were asking to go through their trials, either. “I almost wonder if that’ll be us soon,” I said to Peter.

“Well, we can’t just live every day in fear,” he said. And of course he’s right. But it didn’t ease my mind much until I heard some very timely words of wisdom during our priest’s sermon at church the next morning—it was like he could read my mind.

To paraphrase, (since I wasn’t exactly taking notes) he said this:

Watch TV or listen to the radio long enough and you’ll see that the world does a good job of writing off weekdays. You’ll hear complaints for every Monday, comments about living for the weekend. But we need to realize that EVERY day—Monday or not—is a gift from God. I can continue to plan for the future, but at any moment my plans for tomorrow could be completely altered. I don’t know if I’m going to wake up tomorrow or not. I may not see another Saturday again. Or my life might change drastically in some other way. But regardless of what day it is or what my life circumstances may be, every single day that we are on this earth is a gift from God, another chance to make our lives count.

Such a perfect (and perfectly simple) concept, yet so difficult in application. But the the light bulb went on for me, and it immediately challenged me to see the flip side of my previous question: instead of  asking,“why,” I should ask “what.” What have I done to make today count? And instead of seeing only the pain in others’ tragedies, I can understand that each new day they are given is also a gift. It doesn’t mean that their pain will disappear, or that their days won’t be incredibly difficult. But their days still matter, and God in His wisdom (that we so easily fail to understand) has a purpose for each new day He grants.

So instead of living in fear of the future or sorrow for others, I can let go of my woeful attitude in favor of something more meaningful. Instead of wallowing in despair or frustration when I see another headline or flag at half-mast, I can try to find a tangible way to help to carry a burden or at least send my honest, sincere gratitude to those who deserve it most. And I can always work harder on turning each heavy thought into a prayer for someone that really holds weight. In my own little bubble, I can continue to plan for a future with hope and confidence while thanking my husband more, hugging my kids tighter, turning off social media distractions and spending more time tuning in to the amazing blessings in my life right now, the ones I so easily take for granted. Even as I continue my countdown to “better” things—like getting out of the Army—I will try my best to remember that there is no guarantee for tomorrow. That I should face each day—even Mondays, even the work I wouldn't choose again—with a sense of joy, embracing them with everything in me.

Only then can I truly honor those who have sacrificed—and will sacrifice—so much more than I have. The friends who carry on with undeniable courage, the families who grieve, the names on a plaque with so much more life and meaning behind them. Maybe, just maybe I can make make this gift of today that I’ve been given truly count--not just for me, but for them.

*And thank you--you know who you are*

Destination: Lourdes Part II (The Spiritual)

Why are you still searching...as if I'm not enough?  -Tenth Avenue North

I came to Lourdes for many reasons. The selfish part of me of course had signed up for the trip so I could be back in France for the culture, the food, and to experience a place where peace and tranquility supposedly reigned. But the other half of me felt driven to go for others who couldn’t make the journey, for friends and loved ones who are fighting some battle with illness—the visible and the invisible—or for those who live every day with the pain of past tragedy, seeking to somehow be whole again. Others in my group came for these same reasons, each seeking some kind of healing our own right. And truly, God did not disappoint. But to understand why one would travel halfway around the world to a little town in the French boonies to ‘get healed,’ one must first be a bit acquainted with the significance of the place.

Although we gathered with military from across the world for this particular week, Lourdes originally became known for reasons far removed from the Soldiers who originally met there during World War II. In fact, it was almost 100 years prior that Mary, the Mother of God reportedly appeared to a young and sickly peasant girl named Bernadette Soubrious at a rocky outcropping by the river. The townspeople of course assumed Bernadette was mad when the story of her ‘meetings’ with Mary surfaced, especially as they witnessed her strange antics at the grotto (or cave-like rock) near the river where she would run to meet with the ‘beautiful lady,’ praying and interacting with what appeared to be an imaginary character that no one else saw. But there were still some unexplained events that caused quite a stir: during one of the meetings, Bernadette reported that the beautiful lady had instructed her to ‘go wash and drink from the spring.’ Confused, Bernadette looked around, seeing only the river far behind her. She eventually began to dig under the grotto where the beautiful lady appeared, and within moments a spring began to trickle out of the ground. This same spring now produces over thousands of gallons of water a day, which you can see immediately upon arriving at the grotto. While it’s not unbelievably remarkable that a spring could be present in such a location so close to the river, the completely pure water coming from the spring, (submitted constantly to water quality tests with no explanation for its purity or acclaimed healing properties), is what has scientists shaking their heads as the years pass.



The Grotto

 Equally remarkable are the unexplained healings, incredibly well-documented by doctors and scientists alike, which tend to occur at Lourdes. The first was a woman with a withered and paralyzed arm who had watched Bernadette dig to find the spring. After the crowds of townspeople left, she went with her family to dip her arm in the water. Immediately upon touching the water, her arm straightened out and she regained full use of it. Since then, there have been over 65 approved ‘unexplained cures’ (of the hundreds of thousands claimed), all scrutinized by the most skeptical and impartial board of medical and scientific professionals that can be found, who question and test every plausible theory for a person’s healing to prove that it was not ‘miraculous’. And only physically quantifiable injuries or diseases are even considered to go before the board—others reported cures, such as stress and anxiety disorders and mental health diseases are dismissed as simply too subjective. The commission jokes that they must keep replacing the atheist that is required to sit on the board because he or she keeps converting after attempting to disprove the unexplainable.

At any rate, believe what you like, but it’s impossible to deny the fact that with or without explanation, things just seem to happen at Lourdes. Of course, I don’t necessarily believe that God only makes miracles happen at a place called Lourdes. I think that such miraculous healings, cures, or conversions can happen anywhere and anytime that God wills. But I believe that He uses opportunities (like our trip to Lourdes) to reach us when we decide to step out in faith and be open to His will, His love, and His peace in our harried lives.

I think this is why those soldiers—plagued by the terror of war—flocked to Lourdes in 1945, seeking refuge in a place where love and peace reigned above hatred. And I think this is why people today, plagued with whatever demons control their lives, continue to flock to an otherwise unimpressive French village: some small part of them knows that in searching for God—in the form of love, healing, and peace—He will not let them down.


The lovely convent where the nuns
who pray for us live--it looks out
over the Grotto

So with this confidence I did the best I could for those people who couldn’t be there, for the prayer requests I brought with me. You’ll be happy to know that I was able to deposit each one in a little box at the grotto, and each day they’re collected by sweet little nuns whose only mission in life is to pray for us. I spent every moment I could muster asking God to send help or comfort in some form or another to all those on my ‘list,’ and asked others to pray as well. In return, God granted me my own little moment when I least expected it, that left me with no questions as to His power to answer our prayers according to His will.

It happened in a crowd of thousands of people during a combined military event called the Eucharistic Procession. In Catholic speak, it means “face to face” time with Jesus in the form of a consecrated host placed on the altar that everyone can see. We were all decked out in uniform and walked or wheeled together in a parade-like formation to an enormous underground church. Once inside, multiple color guards marched past, and prayers and hymns were offered in multiple languages. A priest then placed the host—Jesus in bread form—on the altar. And then it was still, quiet. An amazing feat considering the thousands of people present. And at that moment it hit me. An absolute overwhelming feeling of love, acceptance, peace, contentment, all rolled in to one. It was as if I was completely safe, wrapped in a love so powerful that I could have stayed there forever. I didn’t want to leave, I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t even know what it was for, why it happened, what exactly I was supposed to do with it. All I knew was that it wasn’t something produced by this world. It was divine.

I slowly realized that it was for me to share, for others to experience. It was for everyone in our group who came to Lourdes with the heaviness of their own tragedies and brokenness; some of their burdens more visible than others. And the manifestation of this divine love shared by others became so incredibly evident as the week went on, revealing itself in life-changing ways.

On a daily basis, we attempt to survive in a world that is driven by competition, image, judgment, grudges, and revenge, a world where people are quick to belittle others and slow to give praise, where they avoid eye contact and encounters with those who are visibly handicapped or have experienced some personal tragedy. Some assume that when the life of another is not perfect, when it has been filled with pain or loss, that person has in some way lost the capacity to carry on a normal conversation or be treated like a normal person. But in Lourdes—in our broken, suffering group—this was not the case. Even in a wheelchair, with a cane, during moments of stress and anxiety, people were regarded as fully human. Others did not shy away from them. They did not look to someone else to push the wheelchair. They didn’t glance with skepticism out of the corner of their eye when the person in uniform with the cane hobbled through the military procession. They listened lovingly when the stories surfaced—stories of assault, violence, the terror of war, the loss of a precious loved one—and asked questions, offered support, and acknowledged the hurt that so many others are afraid to confront. And at the end of it all, the broken were still regarded as human…human with newfound friends who would treat them as such. Who refused to be annoyed by personality traits or discount their struggles. Friends who offered to push the wheelchair in to town for a shopping trip, to the hotel rooftop for a view, or up the enormous hill to the top of the cathedral. Friends who checked in on each other when there was a migraine, or an anxiety attack in the morning, then invited each other to dinner that night. It was clear that no one was avoided or considered less of a person simply because of their disabilities or circumstances. Like the parable in the Bible of the body and its many parts, each member of the group recognized the dignity and purpose of every other person. As Paul said in 1 Corinthians 12:

The eye cannot say to the hand, “I don’t need you!” And the head cannot say to the feet, “I don’t need you!” On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, and the parts that we think are less honorable we treat with special honor. And the parts that are unpresentable are treated with special modesty, while our presentable parts need no special treatment. But God has put the body together, giving greater honor to the parts that lacked it, so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.

And what a beautiful thing that was to witness first-hand.

I know that this kind of love and charity absolutely exists in other parts of the world. But it takes so much time and effort and sacrifice to constantly put someone else before your own wants and desires. It’s the sacrificial kind of love that Christ spoke of so often, the sacrificial kind of love that the group shared so willingly; the love that literally dies unto itself to give life to another, that our broken world so desperately needs. And I truly believe it was this love—tangible, divine love that touched me so powerfully—that drastically changed the lives of so many people there in the space of a week. On the last evening, we met as a group to go over travel logistics, but also had the opportunity to share the ways the trip had impacted us. Two and a half hours (and many tears) later, it was clear that such fabled healing was real. I can’t claim any physical proof of the miraculous. But I heard the stories, I saw the bond of God’s love give those with no hope a family, a purpose, and a life worth living. And simply bearing witness to the peace and joy on the faces of so many wounded souls, not quite as shattered as they were the week prior, is enough evidence for me to forever thank God for His incredible, life-changing love.




"I'm So Blue" - Our mascot who reminded us wherever we went
to pray for all deployed Soldiers



"Good" Grief--and other Blessings

“This is not about where you've been, but where your brokenness brings you to…” 

–Tenth Avenue North

There are times when the experiences that define us come to bear a significance we can no longer ignore. As the past many years of living with endometriosis begin to blur together, I have to acknowledge that it has defined who I am despite my desire for the opposite.  Over the last year, as my life has taken some sudden and unexpected turns, reality has cemented itself with certainty against my stubbornness to accept it. As I sat in the specialist’s office last year—hearing the words I least wanted to hear—I had no idea how quickly we would see the far reaching effects of my condition.

Reeling from the doctor's news that my body might no longer cooperate in sustaining life, I left my appointment bracing myself to choose a positive outlook, coupled with a healthy dose of denial. Her advice that trying to 'beat the clock' was our best option for more children seemed realistic enough. But a miscarriage soon after was a jolt to my carefully constructed reality. Though I briefly acknowledged my sadness—our loss—on occasion, I told myself that it was a good thing that I wasn’t too deeply affected and I was able to continue living my ‘normal’ life.  So I tried not to think too long about the baby we had lost and instead focused on the one who we might have one day. After all, since God’s plan is always for the best, and this was part of it, it meant that I just couldn’t see the bigger—and better—picture, right?

We talked about the future, about baby names, about rearranging the kids’ rooms, the stuff that kept us optimistic. I tried to ignore the worsening pain, knowing that I needed to focus on the hope of what God could do, not the doctor’s predictions. But three months later, driving to the ER and shaking like a leaf, I knew deep down that this wasn’t just another painful episode; something was wrong. It was an ectopic pregnancy this time, and the baby I now carried had no chance of survival. The pain of the first loss flooded me anew, and through the fuzziness of the morphine I tried to wrap my head around the fact that my body once again was rejecting this new baby, a baby we had hoped and prayed for.  Why?

After surgery I focused on my physical recovery, my brain telling my heart that dwelling on the past and getting all emotional wouldn’t help. I presented my cheery self at work, and seldom gave in to the tears at home. I was thankful that I hadn’t fallen into depression, but thought this meant I should spend as little time as possible thinking about the children who we’d lost lest I feel grief.

It’s taken some time, but I’ve slowly come to the realization that grieving doesn’t mean I have to walk around constantly defeated and gloomy. But it does mean that I should take the time to acknowledge the times I do feel the sadness and loss, and allow myself to experience the depth of my emotion and grief instead of running from it or attempting to minimize it. In this way I can honor the children I didn’t have the chance to hold, but still have the chance to love, just as I love my other children. I can also share the burden of this grief with my loving husband, recognizing how he as a father also grieves for his children. Not a day goes by when I do not think of them, especially with the daily reminder that my physical scars bring, but I now focus on the opportunity to thank God for the blessings of each child in the midst of the pain. So many questions remain unanswered, but I know that God in his perfect and unconditional love grieves so much more than me, and the grace he pours out to sustain us is more than we can imagine. My condition, the loss of our children—they are not punishments, nor do they mean that God doesn’t care; on the contrary, through this suffering God has given us an opportunity to draw closer to him and experience the unconditional love we need, the love that he literally gave his life for so that we might experience it.

Some have looked at our ‘perfect’ family and implied that our loss can be validated by the fact that we already have two beautiful children running around at home. They assume that our losses don't matter since we already ‘have our hands full', we 'already have a boy and a girl.' Indeed, they matter. Many see each additional child as a burden, but we understand that each life God has entrusted to our care is an additional blessing, created to love and be loved. Our two children at home have helped us understand the absolute—and eternal—worth of our children in heaven; the essence of who they were during their short lives, and who they are now in eternity. God very deliberately creates every precious soul, and they are on "loan" to us for an indeterminate amount of time, but we are thankful for each moment of all of our children’s lives, no matter how brief.

And all of our children, on earth and in heaven, also allow us to understand the sheer miracle of the new soul I now carry, visible evidence that God is still very much in the business of making miracles, no matter how dismal the world’s prediction!

I admit that the absolute joy of expecting another child is often overshadowed by my limited human understanding, the questions and worries of wondering if and when ‘it’—another death, more loss—may happen.  But when I silence my own imperfect rationale long enough to hear true Wisdom prevail, I see how each moment of this child’s life is a gift to be cherished, that each moment of the past 12 weeks as our newest child’s life has graced our own lives has been special. As all the screenings, precautionary ultrasounds, and doctor’s visits reveal our precious child growing bigger and stronger every day, our excitement grows exponentially. We cannot predict what the future holds; we can only hope and pray that we will be able to love and raise this child in the same way we have our first two. But in light of the past year that has redefined our family in so many ways, I now thank God for the blessing of each moment we have had—and will have—with every one of our children!

 Baby bean at 3.5 weeks old, snuggled up safely with a nice strong heartbeat!

   About 12 weeks along! We got this one good face shot above, but all the profile shots were blurry because Baby was too busy waving arms and legs around, dancing, and even sucking his/her thumb at one point!

12-week bump! (I hit 12 weeks today, 15 April, and our baby could not be doing better!)