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!

"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!)

What a Gift!

(Warning: major mush factor)


If you would have asked me seven years ago who I was going to marry and stuck my husband in the lineup, I absolutely would have said, “not THAT guy!”

On that fateful day over seven years ago—our first day at West Point when we met—everything about him screamed “not my type!” He had a tough exterior, a seemingly defiant demeanor, and of course that super sexy buzz cut (admittedly not his fault since all male new cadets at West Point are subjected to this great tradition on the first day). At any rate, I was totally not interested. And he’ll be the first to say that he definitely didn’t see anything special in my goody-two-shoes ways either…

But thanks be to God, we later warmed up to each other enough to have a real conversation or two, learn each others’ first names (I actually laughed when I learned his), and eventually take a deeper look.

Like any road, ours has had its twists and turns, but Peter’s support, sacrifice, and ability to provide the care we need at literally each moment has remained constant. He has the uncanny ability to draw me out of my shell and embrace my vulnerabilities when I try to hide them. I’ve felt his strong arms lift me when I had no physical strength of my own; I’ve heard his words of love and comfort lift me out of grief and pain. I’ve seen his smile, heard his laugh, and felt his joy as we’ve shared life’s blessings. I’ve watched him selflessly let go of his own dreams and opportunities to give us the best life possible, despite the fact that it means so much sacrifice on his end. I've listened to his prayers, leaned on his faith when mine was weak, and followed him along with God into the great unknown without reservation.

On so many occasions he's surprised me with little gifts for no reason, a note of encouragement, or just the right story with the right laugh factor that will make my day. He is fiercely loyal, fiercely competitive, and secretly sensitive. I’ve been privy to his keen intelligence and have battled with him to see who could find the worst OER or NCOER bullet or the make the best Scrabble move. I’ve watched him do the heavy lifting, the manly projects, and the taxes. I’ve shared his love of hockey, skiing, and great wine; I've and tolerated his love(obsession) of Colorado and ridiculously spicy food.

And despite the old adage a man’s stomach is the way to his heart, my observation is that his kids are. There’s nothing that melts my heart more than seeing his heart melt when he’s around our children; watching the way he interacts with them, sharing his amazement at the wonderful gifts that have been born out of the depths of our love, feeling how his heart breaks as we experience loss and lead each other through it.

He is my husband, my soulmate, the completion of “US.” He is my Peter, and on this anniversary of his birth when we celebrate his life, and on Valentine’s Day when we celebrate our love, I submit that I could not be more grateful to God for both.

I love you, my Love...Happy Birthday and Happy Valentine's Day!

Look Who's Talking...

It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly I had my first official conversation with Marie, but I was taken aback a few weeks ago when I stopped in the middle of a dinner conversation with my wonderful husband to hear my beloved two year old, who would usually be making annoying noises by this point in the meal, trying to butt in with her own account of what happened during her day. Her mastery of language has been a gradual process, of course, but recently her proficiency seemed to just blossom overnight. As a language major, I considered myself to have somewhat of an affinity for language…though I admit, I found the whole concept of language development slightly less enthralling when taking my mandatory linguistics course five years ago. Yet these days it’s been more entertaining than I could have imagined to have a front row seat in the evolution of toddler speak.

For instance, the endearing error of Marie's mix-and-match of the first and third person: “Marie wants to brush my teeth and get her hairbrush too.”

Or the concept of time. “Marie, what did you do today?” “I read a book last weekend.” Hmmm. “Marie, do you want to go sit on the potty?” “Not today, in a while. Tomorrow.” Ok, tomorrow it is then.

Then there’s her tendency to form a question using whatever verb she expects you to answer with. Rather than always saying, “Mommy, what are you doing?” she will substitute “doing” with the word “going,” “having,” or “taking.”
Q: “Mommy, what are you having?”
A: “Cereal.”
Q: “Daddy what are you going?”
A: “To work.”
Q: “Mommy, what are you taking?”
A: “A shower.”

Pronunciation has been a continuing effort, as cute as that little toddler lisp is…like when she says “yike” instead of “like” or “Ewik!” instead of "Erik" (which is quite an improvement from her ever-entertaining original pronunciation of ‘ookie’—which we absolutely WILL tell his first date)! She’s getting better at saying “spoon” as opposed to “foon,” but for some reason is ignoring our insistence that she try to pronounce the ‘l’ more clearly in the word “clock.” She’s also somehow mixed up some of her constantans so that “dog” has become “gog” and “truck” has become “cuck.”

There are also those instances where no matter how grammatically correct she is, we can’t help but shake our heads or laugh. Or both. The other night at dinner she was intent on asking everyone repeatedly, “How was your first day, Mommy? How was your first day, Daddy?” First day of what, I’m not sure. Suffice it to say that we each had a great first day. Multiple times.

She also caught on quickly to the concept that batteries make the world go 'round, and if there are dying/no batteries, a broken toy results. Like the Glow Worm that she can’t sleep without. Hence the travesty when Glow Worm started singing his swan song and we couldn't find new batteries in the house. But it was ok, because according to Marie, Daddy was going to fix it when he got home. “Daddy will go to the store and get clean batteries,” she announced. My hero.

Tonight her application of her newfound language skills was to try and reason her way out of going to bed. “I don’t want to go night night!” she whined. “Well what do you want to do instead?” we asked. “Go to Walmart,” she answered without hesitation. Of course. Because that’s what we all do when we don’t want to go to bed yet.

And finally, every so often there’s that gem of a phrase that captures my heart and makes me melt…like the times she calls out, completely unprompted, “Thank you for cooking!” and best of all, “I love you, Mommy! You’re the best Mommy!”

And the smile that accompanies it is priceless.

Unplanned

Last night, I had the privilege of hearing author Abby Johnson speak and was amazed by her courage. In the midst of suffering incredible loss as a mother and facing an exhausting legal battle with her former employer, Planned Parenthood, she has emerged not only more resilient, but ever more capable of sharing the truth. Her ability to share something so deeply personal and painful--especially in the face of her critics--speaks volumes. Abby now continues to reach out to women in crisis with incredible dignity and compassion, giving real help to those facing struggles similar to her own. For those women who have personally experienced the fragility of life, this woman is an absolute blessing.

Abby Johnson featured on the 700 Club:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kf1FVJ6dH5Y 

 

Available at:

http://www.amazon.com/Unplanned-Dramatic-Planned-Parenthood-Eye-Opening/dp/1414339399/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1294797658&sr=8-1

“Time to face up, clean this old house…”

I know very few people who actually like cleaning. Years after leaving home I can still hear my mother’s words: “Don’t put it down, put it away!” Granted, it’s a great feeling when things are clean and organized…but the work it takes to get there is pretty far down on my list of fun things to do. So naturally I was overwhelmed last night as we attempted to get all of our Christmas stuff put away, surrounded by piles of decorations, memory boxes, toys, laundry. The sheer volume of it all was so daunting that I was tempted to just walk away for a few more days in favor of something easier. But as we picked up one item at a time and dealt with it, the room became not only cleaner and more pleasant to be in, but I felt my internal load lighten as well. Once we actually started (with much credit going to my wonderful husband for keeping us on track), it was easy. I realized it’s the initiative piece of the puzzle that I’m missing…the act of will to just make myself to start the task that I need to work on—one item at a time—in order to move forward. As I pondered this last night, the good Lord ever so gently elbowed me in the ribs and said “let’s do some house cleaning in that spiritual junkyard of yours, too, huh?!” And with all my bemoaning aside, I admit that it’s time. I've discouraged myself into a stalemate for far too long, overwhelmed with all the things about myself that I need to change or make better, spiritually, emotionally, physically. So, here I go, one item at a time. No walking away, no picking up an item and putting it down unless I've fully addressed it and put it away where it goes. First up: accepting the joy in life.

“...time to breathe in and let everything out…” –Sanctus Real   

                               

P.S. I’ve given up on 100 words. For now.

100 words or less

Sooo it’s been awhile. I’m shamefully bad at math, but even I can calculate based on the dates that it’s been almost a year and a half since my last blog entry. And that I quit after exactly three entries…yikes. My self-diagnoses is a lack of motivation with a touch of insane busy-ness. But I’ve realized a big problem with my other posts was an acute case of word spew, too. So I’ve decided to try something new: keep up the posting, but in 100 words or less. In case you’re wondering, this post is now exactly 100 words long. But I’m giving myself 200 extra words this time for the year of updates I skipped. Suffice it to say, I’d like to get back on the bandwagon and the “New Year, New Me” thing is the perfect excuse. So here are my updates and goals:

1. My hypno-baby, Erik, was born 15 months ago. The hypno-birthing was nothing short of amazing—I hope I’ll get to use it again!

2. Having my husband home for the past year has been nothing short of amazing. Here’s to him staying home for a long long time!

3. The end of 2010 was filled with significant ups and downs, and has helped me appreciate my beautiful family (and in fact, my life) infinitely more than I could have imagined. Now I just need to work on letting them know that.

4. I’m slowly moving forward in my one-step forward, two steps back journey of faith. God has put some wonderful people in my life recently to help me stay on the path!

5. Final goal: finish the Christmas cards this week since New Year’s has already come and gone!

Now if only there was a word count feature in this blog... 

All you who are hungry...

So when did eating become work? For someone who likes food, it's hard to imagine that eating could ever turn in to a chore. Yet in the space of a few pregnancies, the mere prospect of eating has taken on a whole new light for me.
With my first pregnancy, it was simply the dreaded morning (all-day) sickness that did it. In my naivety growing up, I did not realize that morning sickness lasted more than a few days. Imagine my shock when I was told that it should (but might not) dissipate by the end of the first trimester. I bravely forged on with my food intake for a day or two...and then it hit me. It was like a switch had been flipped overnight. I begrudgingly accepted the trimester-long sentence as night after night, my poor husband named off every item in the pantry as a prospective dinner idea while I gagged and berated him for his insensitivity to my nausea. In the back of my head, I tried to use rationale--after all, it wouldn't work to simply starve for three months straight, would it? Yet as rationale caved to misery, starvation seemed not a bad option. Somehow, between dry cereal, triscuits (which I now look at with contempt), and peppermints, I survived, and luckily even began to thrive again as I coasted in to second trimester.

The second pregnancy stepped my struggle up a notch. I vividly remember sitting at my desk the day I "got" to tell my boss that I was pregnant (again, for the second time in two years, which the Army does not look kindly upon). As supportive as he was in my emotional hour, he for some reason chose that moment in time to come talk to me armed with a pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (never mind that used to be my favorite). That day, as he gave me his pep talk and told me not to worry about others' opinions between bites of his Reese's, it was all I could do to clamp my mouth shut, hold my breath, and pray that I didn't lose my measly lunch of crackers at his feet when the sickly sweet smell of chocolate and peanut butter accosted my delicate nostrils.

So, fully knowing what to expect 'this time around', I armed myself with saltines, oyster crackers, pretzels, and every bland cereal known to mankind. Yet I was in for a rude awakening. It was not so much the nausea that had me doubled over this time (although still a contributing factor), but the sheer, ravenous hunger that gripped my stomach within a half an hour after consuming anything. It couldn't be possible...I was eating seemingly constantly despite my gag reflex. Yet by some ironic twist, after all the food I kept ingesting, I was still constantly plagued by hunger. I soon realized the cause: between growing our new little munchkin and still nursing my oldest little munchkin, my body was literally screaming (in the language of searing pangs of hunger) for more calories. By month two, I was simply tired of eating. By month four, I was literally exhausted by the mere sight of food. Never mind that I had to plan not only breakfast and lunch, but dinner every night as well, since my dear husband was off in Afghanistan dealing with his own struggles. Still, there were many nights I envied his position: Wouldn't it be wonderful to just walk into a dining facility and be handed dinner every night? Just be told what to eat? No menu planning, no cooking... Well, at least I could dream.

I now sit at the brink of the end of this pregnancy, and I honestly wonder sometimes how I've managed to feed myself enough to still be alive. Pre-pepared dinners have helped, and many a bowl of cereal has served as crisis intervention for sudden hunger pangs. Most of the time I simply cope by staring woefully at the open fridge and rifling through cabinets, finally convincing myself that I need to eat something, and hence forcing a something or other down my throat.

But the wonder has led me to a deeper contemplation as well. How have I managed to spiritually feed myself during these times of crisis? The similarity between my physical need for food and my spiritual need for
nourishment is striking, really.

I have always loved to eat; I have always loved my Faith. I went through phases of being picky about one food or another, just as I went through phases of favorite prayers or acceptance of Church teachings; in the end, though, I came to develop an appreciation for good food, as well as great Faith. Through college and beyond, despite my ups and downs trying to maintain a healthy diet in both arenas, I came out on top. At the onset of our marriage, I was about the healthiest I have ever been both physically and spiritually. I loved my natural and healthy foods, I enjoyed a good workout, my prayer life was in good order, and my husband and I were growing in our marriage daily.

Enter motherhood. Just as eating became a chore, in many ways my prayer life did as well. It became work to force myself to meditate on anything profound, let alone utter a rote prayer such as a Hail Mary or an Our Father. My husband and I still took time to pray (or say, in my case) a rosary every once in awhile, and I forced myself to tune in during Sunday mass, but I was not well nourished.

As for my spiritual life during my second pregnancy? As my physical hunger for food seemed to double, so did my need for spiritual food. Forget the stale rote prayers or even concentrating at mass--with a toddler looking for every possible avenue of escape from the pew (to include spontaneous tantrums) it became virtually impossible. Yet I craved something to fulfill me. Without my husband around to confide in or draw solace from, I spent many a day feeling desperate for any form of consolation. Just as I scoured the fridge and cabinets for something to fill my empty stomach, I surfed the internet, flipped through TV channels, and called home far more than necessary trying to feed my starving soul.

Yet it hit me recently that these shallow means of fulfillment--even if they taste alright at the time--simply cannot sustain me. Especially when my family needs me to sustain them. As nauseous or exhausted as I might feel, I still need to get dinner on the table for our resident one-year-old, and in my belly for our soon-to-be bundle of joy. It doesn't matter that I don't feel like thinking up yet another meal, or that I don't have the energy to whip up something. It is precisely due to my lack of energy that I need to eat and gain some energy. It is, in fact, those times when I feel the most begrudging toward food that I need a good meal the most!

Ditto with my spiritual nourishment. It is the times when I am most busy, most overwhelmed, and most begrudging toward prayer that I need it most. I have cried out to God many a time when I feel utterly frustrated, lonely, misunderstood, or simply weary: God, isn't there anyone? I can't deal with this alone right now! Please send someone, I just need someone...

But if I listen closely enough, it's in those moments that He responds, ever so gently, What about Me?

And if I step outside my self-pity just long enough, I'm reminded that He is truly the best nourishment I could ask for, the essence of what I really need--even if it takes extra work. A few crackers might be the easy fix to hold me over for a short while, but in the long run, only a real meal--achieved with real elbow grease--will result in fulfillment and growth. So face the kitchen I will--and hopefully teach my children to do the same!