Feel-Good Food

Pain is a fact of life. But when you’re stuck with some chronic pain condition or another, it’s hard to figure out how to strike a balance between being tough and still maintaining functionality. The good news? I think I've happened upon some relief for many of us medicine-hating pain sufferers (including those of us with endometriosis)!

Any gal with endo pain can attest to how quickly it renders you useless, and it’s important to have plenty of strategies on hand to be functional when it hits. As much as I hate (HATE) taking medication unless necessary, Advil quickly became my most reliable staple in the past decade or so (NSAIDs, or non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs seem to work best for those with endo pain).

But this pregnancy has put me in a quandary; Advil isn’t safe while pregnant, and my endo pain continues to worsen as our little guy continues to stretch out my insides (as he well should!). I couldn’t think of a better reason to deal with the pain, but I still want to keep myself as low-risk as possible while keeping our little man safe. What to do?

[Disclaimer: I've already consulted my OBs. Many claim that pregnancy ‘cures’ symptoms of endo—or at least puts the pain on hold—and think that the worst thing about endo and pregnancy is not getting pregnant in the first place. But for those of us with pain from some mean scar tissue who are still lucky enough to get pregnant, the docs’ claims couldn't be further from the truth. The pain is there, very real, and we want relief only second to protecting our baby.]

My
not-so-beloved
companion

Since my OB’s only suggestion was—once again—Tylenol with Codine or narcotics (because it’s super cool to both drug my baby AND be too loopy to work), I took to the proverbial streets to find out if there were any non-medicinal solutions for relief. Through some of my own research and enlisting the advice of moms who have ‘been there’, I discovered some great pain-relieving suggestions. Besides the ones we've all heard before (yoga, deep breathing, drinking more water, heat packs…heat isn’t good for the baby, by the way) I got recommendations such as wearing comfortable shoes (like combat boots?), and the real gem: incorporating natural anti-inflammatories into my diet. Makes complete sense, especially since people obviously found ways to deal with pain for thousands of years before Advil came on the scene. Why didn't I think of that one before?

So with great excitement, I loaded up last week on my friend’s suggestions—basically any fruit with dark red skin or pulp that acts as a natural anti-inflammatory. Plums, blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, and praise the Good Lord for these puppies:

Mouth-watering dark red cherries!

Oh so delicious. And glorious that these things are all in season to right now!

I also came across this website that touts its own list of anti-inflammatory foods:
Top 10 Anti-Inflammatory Foods You've Got to Know

Best of all, my OB even endorsed these foods yesterday as a good alternative to meds for both me and the little guy. I don’t expect any cures, but after a week it seems that these fabulous foods are actually taking the edge off the pain, and doing no harm to my taste buds in the mean time. So if you’re sick of meds but still need a reprieve from some sort of pain or inflammation, check them out. Talk about sweet relief!

The Potty Chronicles: A Strategic Victory

Update: No less than a week after the Day of Madness, it appears my 'just let it go' strategy has paid off. We've had not one, but two stubborn toddlers begging to use the potty on multiple occasions...with hardly any accidents! Life is much easier when they're fully invested and have decided they want to participate. Keeping my fingers crossed for continued success!

The Potty Chronicles: Confessions of a Madwoman

I wish I could say that our potty training adventures bring out the best in me; that I approach each saga channeling my inner June Cleaver with a happy sing-song voice and dazzling smile, full of encouragement and enthusiasm that assumes nothing less than success as my darling girl beams up at me with proud little eyes.

Not so.

I think I more closely resemble this gal:

Oh I can encourage, alright. I can coax, prod, and reason, offer up m&ms till I’m blue in the face, beg and plead...and eventually threaten and count to three while giving The Look. But at this stage of the game I’m about out of tactics.

It’s been a long battle: 6+ months if you count actively “trying,” closer to a year if you add in the initial novelty of sitting on the potty (which quickly wore off) or hinting at/talking about/reading about All Things Potty. To include the Elmo’s Potty Time DVD which plays on loop every time we get into the car. (Guess which little girl refuses to watch any other DVD since Elmo’s Potty Time came on the scene?) Suffice it to say I no longer enjoy waking up thrashing in the middle of the night as Elmo and his minions haunt me once again with their off-key chorus:

“Grandparents do it! Teeeens do it! Even famous kings and queens do it! You can do it! You’ll use the poooottttyyyyyy!!!”

Engrossed in Elmo's Potty Time

When our on-again, off-again efforts were on again these last few weeks, I started to get hopeful. Yet after all the celebration and jubilation of one step forward (along with a very timely blog entry from my favorite mom blog), that darn brick wall that we can’t get over, under or through emerged once again at the last minute, and futility once again seems to reign. Even as I resorted to Facebook laments and pleas for advice (I really try not to do such things, but thank you, Facebook friends, for the encouragement), the hope was fading fast for our almost-three-year-old, who obviously inherited a double dose of our stubbornness.

Let me be clear about one thing before I go on: though I speak as if I’m the only one stuck in the potty training do-loop, the real credit goes to Peter who took an entire week off of work (hooray for 'use or lose' leave) to work on potty training. And very special credit goes to our Nanny Dearest (she puts Mary Poppins to shame) who has been the one in the house every day of those past 6+ months trying to encourage Miss Bashful—along with her own daughter, who’s the same age—to do their thing.

But alas, it all came to a head this weekend after Peter closed out his week of big-girl-undies shopping and truly valiant efforts. Saturday morning, we picked out the Favorite of the Day (My Little Pony) and put them on. We asked every five minutes if the pee was ready to come out. (No). We got ready to go run errands and asked if the pee needed to come out before we got into the car. (No). We went to Lowe’s. Still no pee. We went to Panera. A very squirmy Marie. Finally after coaxing her the entire lunch hour, she relented to go to the potty with Daddy. 30 minutes of hogging the stall later (and traumatizing an unknown number of men using the urinal as she asked “Daddy, what’s that person doing?”), a defeated Peter and full-bladdered Marie emerged. Bed Bath and Beyond was even worse—after doing the “my bladder is going to explode” dance and shedding many alligator tears she conceded to going in to the women’s room with me, whereupon she had an out-of-body tantrum whenever she heard the sound of someone using the stall next to us. We lasted a good 20 minutes, but I gave up shortly after the final person sitting in the next stall had an unfortunate bout of indigestion, and I attempted to hold my breath in between Marie’s concerned questioning of “Mommy, what’s that sound? Does she have a toot?”

This is Mr. Froggy. Some days we
adore him.
Others we loathe him with
a fiery, fiery passion.

Back at home, Miss Hold-It-At-All Costs still did not want to emit the contents of her bladder prior to nap, so the ever-ingenious Peter (well usually he is!) argued that we shouldn’t put a diaper on during nap because she needed to understand consequences of holding it all day (yes, she has had accidents before and knows what it’s like). He even put Mr. Froggy Potty next to her bed. My response: “No way am I cleaning that up!” But after reassuring me that he would be the one to clean it up and nothing would get ruined, I gave in.

He then scampered off to finish the shopping trip that had been cut short by the potty saga, and naturally had not yet returned when I heard the first tortured strains of “Mommyyy! I’m weettttttt!” coming from the kids’ room. It wasn’t the gallon of pee everywhere that set me off, or even the fact that a key member of our clean-up team was MIA. It was the fact that our little girl was still wearing her nice, new, pretty dress shoes that Daddy hadn’t seen fit to remove at naptime, and the shoes that we had paid good money for were now dripping in pee. Nothing would get ruined, eh? I was miffed. A cranky Erik followed us as I dangled Marie in front of me and ran to the bathtub, and very soon a sheepish Peter returned to meet my wrath. (Poor guy). By the end of bath time, he had apologized a hundred times, started the washer, and allowed me to cool down a bit.  As we stood in the bathroom drying the kids off, I matter-of-factly began to lecture Peter about how My Way is best, but a strange sound stopped me short. I turned to see a completely oblivious Erik emitting a perfectly arcing stream of urine which was bouncing off the kiddie stool and splattering the bathmat. Peter and I both looked at each other in shock and confusion, trying to process what was happening before we burst out laughing. His comment (after telling me that I got what was coming to me): “You have to blog about this.” Happy, my dear?

The fabled shoes drying in the sun after a thorough
rinsing and some Lysol action. We'll
see if they pass the test.

My comment: At the expense of a few loads of laundry and the dress shoes we’re attempting to salvage, I think it’s finally getting through my thick skull that there are plenty of techniques, but no My Way or the Highway when it comes to potty training. Each kid is different. Forcing it too early—or based on an agenda— doesn't necessarily produce results if the environment’s not right. (And yes, I have an agenda: stop paying for at least one set of diapers before the next diaper-clad Hjelmstad arrives). But at the end of the day, we’re no worse off than when we started, and as Peter has so cleverly stated, if all his friends are potty trained then she’ll probably get there soon enough. Simply put, the kid’s going to go when she’s ready. Hopefully before we have to register for kindergarten.

So here’s to flushing the stress of battling with an unwilling subject down the drain, and letting nature take its course when the sweet girl is good and ready.

(But maybe Erik would be willing to start cutting our diaper budget in half…?)

Daddy's Girl

A Daddy’s Girl I am, and always will be. My earliest memories of my dad are the fuzzy kind, circa the mid-1980s. I remember playing with him on the jungle gym he built in the backyard of our tiny military quarters, and the day he taught me to ride my brand-new big girl bike with training wheels. We lived in Italy where his Airborne unit was located, and it didn’t take me long to figure out that the Army was a big part of our lives. We went to the drop zone to watch him float from heaven to earth in a parachute, and he taught me early on give him “head yabbas” (head butts) in lieu of kisses and shout “Airborne!” when jumping from the changing table into his arms. If he only knew how quickly he’d influence me to follow in his footsteps!

When we moved to West Point, I remember walking hand in hand with my dad to football games and telling him over and over how I wanted to be an Army Cheerleader when I grew up. One day my dad asked my brother if he wanted to go to a Sandhurst team practice (an annual military skills competition for cadets at the West Point). My brother declined, but I jumped at the chance. Using my pink-and-white-striped backpack as a rucksack, I gleefully ran along next to them as they navigated through the lake, woods, and swamp (although I was mad that my dad carried me through the swamp instead of letting me sink up to my eyeballs in mud like his cadets did).

He was always an Army man to me, but as I grew, he quietly demonstrated what it means to be a faithful and devoted husband as well. I watched him put his career on the back burner to do what was best for the family in the years my mother battled Lyme’s Disease, even moving to a dull job in PA and taking an early retirement so she could be stable. I also learned to appreciate his quiet but goofy sense of humor, and can vividly recall the trip when I learned that we were driving on the PA Turnpike, not the "turnpipe" as he'd taught us. He could easily revert back his boyish ways, and whenever we saw that mischievous grin or twinkle in his eye, we knew we were in for an adventure.

Ever the sports guy, he was my biggest fan when I started gymnastics, coaching me through the rough patches and cheering me on during endless gymnastics meets. As I moved from gymnastics to diving meets, he would stand on the pool deck in the suffocating chlorine air with the video camera to tape each and every team member’s dive. And during the hours of time spent in the car between practices and meets, he selflessly jammed out with me to my favorite radios stations and endured one too many renditions of Brittney Spears (or, has he dubbed her, “Broccoli Spears”).

Even as I became that and sullen and defiant creature known as the Teen Girl, he always knew how to reach me with the perfect combination of lighthearted humor, tough love, and a small dose of “I told you so.” It was in these years that I remember learning the most about his character. He was, and is, a stickler for honesty, and I clearly remember some rough moments when I had to answer for my actions. With my mom I knew what buttons to press, could continue to mouth off or argue my point. But oh, how I dreaded when my dad walked in my room. He didn’t have to yell or even say a word. His serious, disappointed stare could bore a hole in my heart—I would tear up in an instant, wishing I could just disappear through the floor. It just killed me to disappoint him. When the rest of my friends’ parents just signed off on their 50 required hours of chaperoned driving so they could get their license, my dad made sure to log every minute because it was "the right thing to do." No way were we cutting corners. I griped out loud plenty, but secretly respected him for it, and because of him I knew how to change the oil, as well as the flat tire on my date’s car a few weeks later (while my poor date could only sit and scratch his head in embarrassment).

And even after I left home, if the event was important, my dad was there. After a long first summer of “basic training” at West Point, he was standing there in the crowd watching me as we marched back from field training. In his excitement at the first glimpse of me, he forgot about the video camera in his hand and ran down the street trying to keep me in sight; watching the playback of the ground bouncing up and down is utterly dizzying.

A few years later he was standing there at the edge of the airfield in the middle of the night when I completed my final jump at Airborne School, having driven hours so he could present me with the first pair of Airborne wings he had earned on the same airfield 26 years earlier. 

And in the next months as the uncertainty of my future loomed—what branch of the Army I’d be in, where I’d be living—my dad was there again, driving 4 hours to West Point for ‘Branch Night’ to surprise me and simply offer support when I found out what my future in the Army entailed (only to turn around and drive the 4 hours back home that very night). 

Head Yabba!

Since then, he’s graciously walked me down the aisle and ushered me in to a new chapter of my life as a wife, mother, and as part of the ‘real’ Army. Though the Army has changed a great deal since he was in, my dad is still my sounding board, understands my frustrations, gets the endless acronyms, and supports me through it all. And I’ve realized in the past few years that the values and nobility that I thought defined our profession don’t really come from the Army, but from my dad. When I’m disappointed by things that are lacking in my organization, I realize that I expect these things because of my dad’s humble service and example. My dad’s values—his noble character, humility, and strong, quiet faith—translate to everything he does, in and out of uniform, and continue to be my inspiration in ways he’ll never even realize.

It's not lost on me how lucky I am to have such a wonderful father, and experience the love and involvement that many others never have. But my greatest joy is witnessing the similarities of my dad’s example and the interaction I see daily between Peter and our children. Every day he gives them the one thing that I cannot-- the Father they want and need. It's obvious that Marie is already quite the Daddy's Girl, and Erik is pretty smitten, too. Mommy is okay and all, but Daddy is the one they run to when we arrive home from work, the one they ask for when they wake up, the one who teaches them to throw a ball or hit the puck, the perfect human jungle gym. 

And he’s the one who reminds me how precious life is when the going gets tough, continuing to find meaningful ways to honor the lives of our babies in heaven. Peter’s sacrifice, patience, love, and understanding as a father have already influenced our kids--and me--beyond measure, and how thankful I am that their lives will be just filled with the kind of Father’s Love that I know so well. 

So thank you to these beloved men who have blessed our lives so abundantly, and Happy Father’s Day!!!

It's...A...

The results are in! 64% voted for a girl and 36% voted for a boy. And the majority of you were…

(Can you tell?)

(Now can you tell?)

(How bout now?)

…wrong! It’s a boy! And we are so excited. Of course I had no preference to begin with, but it’s exciting to finally say, “He is kicking me!” or tell Erik and Marie that mommy has a baby brother in her belly, instead of a brother OR sister. They have been great with giving hugs and kisses to “the baby” already, and now they know that it’s their brother they’re hugging and kissing!

My welcome home sign from the kids at the end of the day
(Thanks, De!!!)

Needless to say, we are incredibly grateful to celebrate today in such a happy way, thankful for our new son and for the gift of life in general.

*   *   *

I would also like to ask for everyone’s prayers for another life we are grateful for today. Our dear friends, Tera and Tyson, have been deployed to Afghanistan since February. Yesterday Tyson was very seriously injured, and while we are so thankful for the gift of his life, we beg for your prayers as he faces an uphill battle in the healing process and will live a very different life in the future. We are thankful that Tera is able to be there by her husband’s side right now, and ask for continued prayers for her and both of their families as well. 

Our beloved Quinks as they leave Ft. Drum

 

This goes for all other troops and their families as well. Even when the trials our soldiers face are not covered by the daily news or highlighted by some holiday, each and every day there are men and women far from home dealing with the tragedy of war, and others are trying to recover from life-changing injuries, and families are grieving a son or daughter who has given their life in service. Please do not forget them; they deserve our prayers, especially since it is the one thing we can always do to make a difference for them.

Boy or Girl--What Will 'It' Be?

Well, provided that Baby decides to cooperate, we will be able to find out on Monday! Which is a good thing, because my maternal “gut feeling” has been wrong now twice. You know how some moms just know? Well, apparently, I just don’t.

I swore up and down till the moment Marie was born that she was a boy. Yes, we tried to find out. No, she did not cooperate. So we took that as the sign that ‘it’ should remain a surprise, even when we had the opportunity to find out during subsequent ultrasounds. But I just knew she was a boy until the very second she came out and I exclaimed incredulously, “It’s a…girl!”

With Erik, I convinced myself for the longest time that I didn’t have any gut feeling as to whether ‘it’ would be a boy or a girl. Peter was about to deploy, so he got the vote to either find out or keep it a surprise, and he decided that he wanted to find out the gender at the same time. And ‘at same time’ would not be until the baby was born, providing that the baby’s timing lined up with Peter’s 2 weeks of scheduled R&R. (Thankfully, it did). So I told the ultrasound tech that we wanted to be surprised, and she kindly made us a CD chock full of ultrasound pictures that I could send to Peter. That night, I promptly whipped out the disk and spent the next few hours comparing our baby’s pictures to every last Google image I could find of boy or girl ultrasound pictures, from 6 weeks all the way up to 40 weeks. After all my sleuthing and studying, I was convinced we were having another girl. After all, I’d clearly seen the three lines that equal ‘girl’ (I still maintain that I saw them!) and I even felt a little guilty that I’d figured it out in all my cleverness without my husband’s consent. Eventually I told Peter that I had a hunch based on the pictures because I just couldn’t take the guilt any longer. Until, of course, Erik was born…boy parts and all.

This time, I got the vote as to whether or not we find out. I’ve felt very strongly from the moment I saw the positive test that I wanted to know whether this baby was a boy or a girl. I wanted some way to bond more closely with this baby, to call him or her by name while I was still pregnant, because I didn’t get that chance with our two children in heaven. Though we’ve given them special names and remember them in prayer every night, I still hate the fact that as their mother, I don’t know whether they are my son or daughter. The fact that God knows is a comfort, but I still wish I could. And since God’s given us the wonderful time we’ve had thus far with this miracle baby, I plan on taking full advantage of the technology that can allow us to get to know him or her better!



18 Weeks!

That said, I know that others will certainly still have their opinion. It seems to happen the most with complete strangers…you can see them look twice, trying to figure out if you just ate too many burgers or if that bump is indeed from a baby. The conversations always start out the same:

“When are you due? Is this your first? Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

If it’s your first, you have to be prepared to hear more advice and birth stories than you’d ever have time for. And if you don’t know what ‘it’ is, you have to then be prepared for a full blown analysis of how high or low you are carrying, what your birth order is, if you have the dark line on your stomach, what your astrological sign is, what the child’s is supposed to be based on the due date, what color hair you have, how tall you are, and whether or not you’re craving wasabi peas (among other old wives’ tales that originated in the middle ages).

My favorite encounter was the time we were shopping in the paint department before Marie was born, minding our own business while trying to decide between shades of green for the gender-neutral jungle-themed room. The questions from the employee behind the counter began, true to form, and when we got to the part where we didn’t know if ‘it’ was a boy or a girl because the baby hadn’t cooperated during the ultra sound, the analysis began. In the space of five minutes she swore up and down that it was a girl while inspecting my height, width, and bump position, and walking around behind me to make sure she didn’t miss anything (AWKward). She even called over another coworker to aide in the analysis. And by the end of the inspection, she’d changed her mind and was now 100% certain that it was a boy. I didn’t have it in me to tell the lady at the paint counter—the sweet, sweet lady who had never before seen me in her life—that maybe my anatomy had a little more to do with the ‘way I was carrying’ than my child’s gender. Because to my knowledge, the only non-invasive way to determine whether the x or y chromosome won the race is through an ultrasound. Unless you’re lucky enough to have a winged messenger appear and tell you you’re having a son (who will save the world).

But be it sugar and spice or snips and snails, we’re already thankful. And beyond lucky to be in this position, where people will ask such questions or make well-intentioned comments, old wives' tales and all!

3 days and counting!

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



Destination: Lourdes! (Part I - The Physical)

Well I’m back…and better than ever! (No really!). It was a whirlwind trip, but amidst the crazy schedule and festivities, I was blessed with a bit of peace, a lot of love, and the kind of renewal that so often escapes us in our daily lives. I loved that I was able to experience this refreshment both physically and spiritually, and as such, I’ve decided to break up my account of the trip into two installments: fittingly, the Physical and the Spiritual. (It’s also my attempt to avoid the novel that would otherwise ensue, while still hitting the highlights of the pilgrimage. Please take note of the word ‘attempt’). Enjoy!

Part I - The Physical
To see, smell, taste, hear, or touch the beauty of this world…this, this is Life! -Anonymous

To say that Lourdes is beautiful is an understatement of great proportion. The moment I stepped off of the bus after 18 wearying hours of travel, I was met by the graceful green river, the snow-capped Pyrenees mountains rising up majestically over the quaint village, the grand and arching granite arms of the cathedral reaching out to welcome visitors, the serene peace of the candlelit grotto serving as the bedrock of the church. As we settled in, the serenity was punctuated by the pomp of military processions, formations from around the world drawing crowds and cheers as they paraded through the streets in colorful dress uniforms with their lively bands, or bagpipes in the case of the Scots. The air of jubilant celebration mixed with quiet reverence was striking, almost a paradox, but both seemed to instantly pull me in. At every turn there were volunteers catering to us—who had paid out of pocket to do so—serving our meals, cleaning our rooms, playing tour guide upon request. They promptly served a much-needed lunch beginning with baguette, glorious baguette, and then sent us off to rest and enjoy the sanctuary. That night, and every night thereafter, we fell asleep to the lullaby of hymns from the late evening service at the grotto, and awoke to the same hymns floating across the river from the sunrise services. Though I never sacrificed enough sleep to make it to those services, we had ample opportunity to join the rest of the nations in a slew of other events designed to celebrate our unity. We stood together as soldiers from the first morning service at the grotto (with the English-speaking military crowd) to multiple military processions during the day and at night to the International Military Mass on Sunday, where literally thousands filled an underground chapel that could easily fit more than one football field in it. It was incredible to watch each color guard march by, proudly representing their own country but lining up side by side with other nations, exuding a tangible sense of dignity and respect for those around them. During the services we had the pleasure of listening to prayers and readings offered in multiple languages, and translated on the mega-screens in still more languages. When ‘off duty,’ we traded patches and coins with other soldiers, and one night the Spaniards crashed our dinner, invading our dining room and taking the liberty of streaking the colors of the Spanish flag on everyone’s faces. They taught us traditional Spanish dance and cheer (ole!), followed by a rowdy dance party in the courtyard, of course. And yes, even the nuns joined in! We also got to know the crazy Irish (who could be heard celebrating, regardless of the hour, on the floor above us) and the slightly more reserved Brits, and many spent a few evenings on the town together building rapport as only soldiers can.

And oh, to go out on the town! During the first brief interval with nothing on the schedule, I was able to escape for a quick visit to some souvenir shops with my roommates, complete with a detour to the patisserie for a croissant au chocolat (okay two). The second trip to town involved a local café that looked over the river, where I was able to watch the lazy water gliding by and the people scurrying about, and listen to the music from the bandstand below while savoring my lunch of salad with hollandaise dressing and a croquei-monsieur with tomato. There I met two French chaplains who jovially called out “mon Fis!” (my son!) to the French soldiers wandering in and out of the café, and the soldiers would respond good-naturedly with “mon Pere!” (my father!) and chat happily in return. During the next venture I encountered a local family sitting on a bench near the river with their Great Pyrenees, the same beautiful dog breed that we fell in love with when we discovered our own Great Pyr, Samson. I had been hoping to at least see one from a distance since the breed is native to the area (being at the foot of the Pyrenees mountains and all), but couldn’t believe my luck when there was another gentle giant, as they’re called, sitting right in front of me. So as any dog lover would, I stopped and chatted them up about their Pyr, and told them about ours, and had a lovely conversation—all in French—about how much we adored our pets. I followed my discovery with a celebratory crepe au nutella and a stop at a bistro, where any number of soldiers (from any number of countries) sang and danced the night away with a few guitars.

And if treating my taste buds weren’t enough, all week long I feasted my eyes on the indescribable sights surrounding me. In the lower chapel of the Lourdes sanctuary grounds, meticulously placed tiles told the stories of Christ’s life in some of the most beautiful mosaics I have ever encountered.
In the crypt and upper chapel, I saw stunning chandeliers that at one time held real candles, and must have been incredible to behold when lit. And when leaving the chapels, I was met with that view that continued to take my breath away—the graceful arches below me with flags from each nation represented, soldiers of every nationality, creed and color along the banks of the gentle river, the skyline of the town and castle (belonging to King Henry the IV) and mountains above me, and above those, blue sky that seemed to stretch forever toward the heavens.

And in the midst of it all, it didn’t matter that my feet ached at the end of the day, my body yelled at me to sleep more, that my stomach gnawed at me for more baguette. Because at the end of each day, I could say with certainty that it was worth it, and the rest of my senses agreed. For the most part. I did sleep through the group picture (but the baby needed it!) and—woe is me—missed out on my quest for French wine on the last day because the Italian food I’d eaten the night before decided to attack me. (Lesson learned: never trust ‘real’ Italian food in France). But bed-ridden moments aside, the physical renewal of the trip was exactly what I needed…and all that beauty and goodness I was able to experience through my senses unlocked a hidden door to my soul, paving the way for a spiritual renewal like no other!

Stay tuned for Part II—The Spiritual!

On a Wing and a Prayer

Next week I have the privilege of jet setting off to France for a week, and you don’t have to know me too well to know that I’d easily spend a year holed up in a little chateau eating brie and drinking chardonnay if I could!

But this trip has more purpose than a simple vacation. I’ll be travelling with a group of ill and injured Soldiers to Lourdes, France, for an event called the International Military Pilgrimage. Translation: thousands of military members from armies around the world will come together for a week to stand alongside one another and pray for peace in our broken world.

The concept began over 50 years ago during World War II, when French, Russian, British and American soldiers would meet at Lourdes to pray together for peace. A few years later a German chaplain who had been a Prisoner of War for years was discreetly invited to attend, and the tradition was born from there as more countries joined the gathering each year.

So while I’m definitely excited to be reacquainted with real baguette, authentic croque-monsieurs, and crème brûlée, (and to bring back a bottle of Pinot Noir to celebrate with about 5 months from now), I’m even more honored to be able to spend time with a group of people who—regardless of rank, nationality, or creed—want to build unity and attain peace. Talk about powerful!

I also see this as a unique opportunity for me to spend a week free from the distractions of my normal daily life, getting to focus on prayer in a way I normally wouldn’t. And since there are so many of us out there in the same boat, overwhelmed by needs, situations, uncertainty—I’d like to bring your prayer requests with me!

So let me know how I can pray for you—or anyone else you know in need of prayer—and I’ll write it down in my little notebook of intentions! Send a message, email, whatever. And no matter how many pages I fill, I’ll be spending a good chunk of uninterrupted time daily for at least 7 days straight praying for each and every prayer request. Promise.

And I only ask for one thing in return: prayers that I stop procrastinating already and get through a review book or two so I can restore a bit of my deteriorating French (and not fail my group as resident translator)! S’il vous plaît?

The lovely town of Lourdes

"The Notebook" - Filling pages with prayer requests as we speak!

On Motherhood

The cartoon on my day calendar a few years ago summed it up pretty well. A new mother stood in front of the CEO's desk at “Motherhood, Inc.” listening to her job description. The employer stated, “You will work a 24-hour shift daily, to include weekends. No breaks allowed. You get one vacation day a year…it’s called Mother’s Day, but you still have to work.”

There’s nothing like the honest truth to give you a good laugh. I’ve learned a lot about motherhood in the past 3+ years (exponentially more than I had in the 20+ years prior!), and while I'm no expert, I know there's still a lot more to it than is contained in that simple cartoon. I’ve learned that you are a mother long before you hold your child in your arms. From the moment you see that plus sign (or the actual word ‘pregnant’ if you don’t believe that the plus sign is dark enough and you make your husband go get the expensive kind), you’re a mom. From the first few exhausting moments of denial or excitement, or sometimes both combined, you have left the calm shore of so-called freedom and entered the scary and tumultuous and amazingly wonderful sea of motherhood. You’re a mom when the nausea and smell aversions hit you, when they turn into cravings for a dill pickle (or two!) a day despite your reluctance to perpetuate the old wives’ tale. You’re a mother when you wake up to an empty and retching stomach at 2 am and unenthusiastically reach for the strawberry granola bar that you were supposed to eat at 6am. And then lie awake for two more hours. You’re a mom as you schedule that first doctor’s appointment with quiet anticipation, then count the seconds until the next one. You’re a mom whether you get to hear that blessed heart beating in the first weeks of new life, or whether you stand helplessly by as the precious life within you slips away, and you will it to be a mistake, plead with God to somehow undo it, would trade yourself, your life, to have your baby’s life back. You’re a mom when you witness the first amazing movements in black and white on the screen, when you feel the first flutters of your child moving within the safety of your womb. You’re a mother when you embarrass your husband by walking up to perfect strangers in the mall without pause and asking how they like that brand of stroller that you’ve been researching like a madwoman. You’re a mom as you pour over reviews of the best safety gear, the protective mama bear in you having been unleashed with a fury that won’t cease for the next 18…20..30 years. You’re a mom when the worst pain of your life becomes the best ordeal you’ve ever been through once you glimpse that beautiful, precious, perfect face for the first time, the one that has been miraculously created and contains half of you. You’re a mom when you realize that no all-nighter you’ve ever pulled at school could ever compare to the utter exhaustion you feel now, but no all-nighter has ever been worth what you have now. You’re a mother when you know you need a nap but can’t help staring at your new baby instead, when you swear on your life that your baby is by far the cutest child who has ever graced the face of the earth (even though looking back at pictures you were maybe just biased, because your child is obviously way cuter now). You’re a mother when you wipe away spit-up, poop, drool, and boogers without a thought, when you drag yourself out of bed for a fifth time in the middle of the night to change sheets and give baths because the evil stomach bug has descended upon your house. You’re a mom when your hugs and kisses magically make boo-boos disappear, and when your heart breaks as you watch them wave goodbye to you through the window, wishing more than anything that you could stay with them instead of going to the job you don’t want. You’re a mom when you hear yourself asking like a broken record where the time has gone, when did they get so big?! You’re a mom when you know how far from perfect you are, when you wish that you yelled less and hugged more, and pray that your kids turn out okay despite it all. You’re a mother when you seek out the experienced moms who surely know the magic secrets to establishing sleep schedules and mastering potty training because their kids are little angels while yours are throwing tantrums. You’re a mom when you figure out how you can save up for that Disneyworld vacation one day instead of that cruise to the Greek isles (but maybe we could do both?!). And you are truly a mother when you at long, long last FINALLY realize how much you owe your own mother.

I clearly owe my mother my life. We all do. She selflessly chose me over the nausea and crowded intestines and sleepless nights. But I am beyond fortunate that what I owe my mother does not stop there. I owe my mother the love, nurturing, and unwavering support that has completely saved me from crashing and burning in life. I owe her the long drives to the gym on weekdays and weekends alike, the hours spent waiting for the gymnastics meets to end. I owe her the unconditional love of those treacherous tween years when I told her through signs to stay out of my room and avoided her existence…but deep down needed her more than ever. I owe her the patience of endless trips as my personal shopper, my chauffer to sleepovers and dates, my stylist for homecoming and prom. I owe her for the care packages and heartfelt notes that sustained me as I set off on my own into the great unknown, and the title of Wedding Planner as she stayed up all night getting carpal tunnel from tying hundreds of wee little party favor ribbons. I owe her for the quiet example of how to be the wife my loving husband deserves, for unlimited access to Mom-star when I’m driving, Dial-a-recipe when I’m cooking, therapist when I need to vent, and birth coach when it’s time to give her a grandbaby. I owe her for my love of writing, faith, and Italian food.  I owe her for being there in person to give the love that only a mother can give as I grieved our lost child, and for the phone calls from the ER at 3am that sustained me as she prayed me through another loss. I owe her for the example I continue to learn from as she loses days of sleep on end to help a friend in need, or, these days, shuttle back and forth to visit and care for her own ailing mother. In fact, the life lessons that I owe my mother are so numerous that I can never begin to repay what I owe. I can only hope an inadequate “I love you” somehow expresses my gratitude. And, of course, my plea for continued guidance in the years to come!

It’s true, the gift of motherhood is never-ending work. But it’s also a never-ending reward. So, this year on Mother’s day, I thank God for allowing me to be the mother of the children in our care and in His care, for the gift of my own mother, and for all the mothers who have forever touched my life!

My motherhood role models! 

My big gifts!

My little gift at 15 weeks!