My Deflated Ego

Caiden and I are snuggling in my bed this morning. I'm dozing, and evidently he's studying my face intently.

"Mama, did you know there's hair in your nose?"

I giggle, then explain that it's to keep germs out, and that he has hair in his nose, too.

"Mama, why do we have hair on our heads?" I answer it's to keep us warm, and that I'd look silly without it.

"Mama, why do we have hair on our arms?" I pause, then tell him I don't really know.

He pokes my upper arm, near my shoulder. "Mama, why is your arm bumpy up there?"

"Oh, that's my muscle."

He wrinkles his nose, then frowns. "No way, it's too smooshy to be a muscle."

On that note, I'll be working on my resolutions today.

To Answer a Few Questions:

I've been reading your comments from my last post about Blitz's Adventure with Impalement (so much more impressive with capital letters) and realize I have some updating/question-answering to do. So here goes, in no particular order:

First off, to the person who left a comment about white mocha bath bubbles, PLEASE leave me a comment with brand and buying info!

Moving on, to those who asked how, exactly, Blitz's Impalement occurred, in hopes that your own offspring don't impale themselves on your trampoline, I can assure you it's not likely. In fact, I wouldn't even be surprised if this were the first case of Trampoline Impalement ever recorded. If it is, maybe Leslie will want to enter her dog into the Guinness Book of World Records? Maybe not. But so you can prevent your own accident, here's what happened: Chris was playing ball with both dogs, who were running like the wind back and forth in the dark backyard. Blitz, who has documented episodes of clumsiness, couldn't stop himself in the face of colliding with the trampoline and plunged straight onto one of the bolts that holds the vertical poles together. The bolt sticks out about 1 1/2" and is right at the level of a dog shoulder. Then, because he couldn't see in th edark and, probably, because he was in shock that he'd just affixed himself to a protrusion, he started running, still attached. My husband had to manually pull him off the bolt. (If this is making you queasy, rest assured that if you read it again and again, daily, you'll lose weight. Yesterday I hardly ate a thing; every time I tried to put a bite of food to my mouth, I re-lived The Scene of Horror and lost all interest in eating.) All this to say your kids are probably safe, unless your husband is throwing a tennis ball to them in the dark and they have problems stopping themselves while running like the wind. In that case, you have other problems than a potential impalement.

And to everyone who asked about Caiden's surgery, it went fine, and thank you for asking! We abandoned Grayson's allergist appointment when we saw the Dallas traffic--between pouring rain, rush hour, and several accidents, I'd never have made it, so I just went to the surgical center with Caiden and Chris. Caiden on "goofy juice" was hilarious--he's funny enough sober, but on narcotics, he's a trip! Chris and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. He's still souped-up and feeling pretty good, although I'm guessing tomorrow he's going to start feeling some pain. The anesthesiologist said his tonsils were so huge the breathing tube barely fit down his throat--I'd say it was time for them to come out! That's good; I really didn't want to subject anybody in the family to an unncessary surgery this year:)

Hmm, what else? This is the most random, disjointed post I've ever written, so I'll use that excuse to mention that Grayson appears to be allergic to citrus. (Even as I type I wonder if anybody really cares?) I gave him a Clementine this afternoon and he bloomed into the prettiest case of hives I've ever seen. After the discovery was made, Chris and I remarked to each other that THANK HEAVEN we aren't allergic to Diet Coke. Now that would be a travesty.

To finish this post, can I just mention that the Dallas area was plagued with massive thunderstorms and tornadoes tonight? While we were shutting all our windows and blinds and locating candles and flashlights, I surveyed our house--partially decorated/undecorated with Christmas junk, the invalid, half-shaven, stapled-up dog in the laundry room, our loopy, nasal tonsil patient convalescing in his bedroom, and remarked to Chris that we still have a few days left for a major crisis to happen before this year is over, and wouldn't it be ironic if we were hit by a tornado? And this is why I married this man: he looked at me and laughed. Not at me. With me. And I happily grinned back, sort of half-hoping we'd at least lose the roof, so I could post pictures and write a good story about the end of our year. I'm a little sad to say it didn't happen, but there are still two days left . . .

If you haven't fallen asleep reading this, come back tomorrow. You never know what might happen between now and then:)

Sliding into 2007

This has been quite a year. From 7 cases of the stomach virus and having a baby who needed open-heart surgery, to cancer and kidney scares and an impending tonsillectomy/adenoidectomy (Is that even a word?) tomorrow, we've had our share of medical crises. Some were major, some not so much. Strangely, with our pet history, none of our dramas had involved any animals this year. Yet. So what happened last night seems entirely fitting, considering how 2006 has played out for our family. After all, who could end this kind of year without an animal impalement? Note: The following is not for the faint of heart.

My sister, Leslie, is an animal lover. Our family golden retriever, Lindy, was Leslie's best friend growing up. There are more stories than I can even recount detailing the bond, but it can best be said that if Lindy had been alive at Leslie's wedding, I might've had to give up my matron of honor title. Seeing as how I was six months pregnant at the time, Lindy probably would've looked better in the bridesmaid dress, anyway.

Leslie and her family left for Pittsburgh December 19th, leaving their dog, Blitz, at our house. I questioned her sanity, since I am not known for being an animal lover. I'm an animal liker, but I like them better in somebody else's home. But Leslie kept our dog, Scout, for a week when we were out of town, so I mustered up my graciousness and volunteered to do the same for her. Blitz is a good dog, calm and well-behaved, so he hasn't been any trouble at all. In fact, I had just told my husband that very thing yesterday. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Some things are better left unsaid; they just beg to be disproven once the words evaporate.

Chris took the dogs outside last night to play ball. I was standing at the kitchen sink, thinking that I'd take Blitz for a walk when they came in. Then I heard a sound worse than fingernails on a chalkboard. The sound of a dog in pain is one not unfamiliar to our house--our former dog, Macey, routinely tried to kill a few of our other dogs, so we know the sound well. Usually it stops after a few seconds, once the offending dog has been subdued. This one didn't. I ran to the door, peeked through the blinds, and saw the dogs in a tumbling mess, with Chris in the middle, shouting to get Blitz! Get Blitz! GET BLITZ! I put my hand out to grab him, and my entire palm came away bloody.

At this point, let me mention that I am good with blood. I can watch plastic surgery on Beverly Hills 90210 without hiding my face, and the c-sections on Babies: Special Delivery don't faze me. But this? This had me on my knees. Scout flew through the door, also covered in blood, and I somehow heard the words "impaled" and "Blitz" and "trampoline" through the fog. Blitz was alternately cowering and running in circles, blood was flying, and I was trying hard not to vomit or cry. We traded dogs; I shouted at Chris to Get In The Car and GO! while cramming our credit card in his back pocket, and then Scout and I hovered on the back patio trying to breathe.

All I could think was, We've Killed Leslie's Dog.

Let me insert at this moment that my greatest concern was definitely for Blitz, but the second thought in my head was that I would never live down the fact that we had killed yet another pet. And this time, it wasn't even our own. We're already much-scorned among our family members, seeing as how we've only kept one pet successfully--and he's only three. There's still plenty of time for us to mess this one up, too. I was already picturing awkward family dinners with polite, stilted conversation with the current running underneath, You killed our dog, you killed our dog. I try to remind myself daily that all three of our children are still alive, so that has to count for something. But I wasn't sure if it would with Leslie.

We lifted the bleeding dog into my van--I was so panicked I believe the words, "I don't care if he bleeds all over my car, just get him to the vet!" actually came out of my mouth, and then I called the emergency vet's office in a panic. I felt like I was on the phone with a 9-1-1 operator; she was very calm as I blabbered that the dog we were supposed to be taking care of had impaled himself on one of the bolts from the poles of our trampoline and was very possibly bleeding to death. She said, in that monotone voice I've come to love and appreciate, "Bring him here. We'll take care of him." If it had been me, I would've said, "WHAT? Impaled? Bolts? Bleeding to death? Coverhimupsohedoesn'tdieofshockanddrivelikethewind,lady,oryourdogwilldieRIGHTNOW." That's, of course, why I'm not the telephone operator at an emergency clinic. I panic.

I paced. I shuddered. I made Caiden pray with me, which he did with great flair and drama. And then the realization came, like a bath of ice water: I'm going to have to tell Leslie.

In the next instant: There's no way I'm telling Leslie. I'll make Chris do it.

Chris called from the hospital; Blitz was going to live, and no, none of his major organs had been damaged, and no he hadn't bled to death or died from shock, and yes, his doctor is a Pittsburgh Steelers fan, so Blitz (who wears a Steelers collar) and he were already fast friends. And he had already called Leslie's husband, who would break the news to her, praise God.

So what did I do in a moment of panic and fear? I domesticated. First I removed all blood and nastiness from the kitchen floor, and then I scrubbed the living daylights out of the kitchen. After all, if we were bringing an invalid home, shouldn't the kitchen be spotless? Then I took down almost all of the Christmas decorations and lugged them upstairs. I'm not sure how that seemed like a rational thing to do; taking a bubble bath would've been more relaxing and wouldn't have left my house in complete chaos the next morning. But I sure felt better. There's nothing like tearing a house apart to cope with an impalement.

Chris came home while Blitz was being repaired. The vet, who uttered, "Oh, wow!" in horror when he saw the wound, told Chris that the laceration was wide enough for two whole hands, side by side, to fit into. I told him I already knew that, since my hands had already discovered that very fact, and that I was still washing them. I felt like Macbeth, "Out, out _____ spot!" My sister called, sounding much calmer than I did, and assured me that she still loved us, and that Blitz is so clumsy that he has fallen over from tripping over his own feet while running. I think that's when I started breathing again. (As a sidenote, she said she felt better now, since she had taken Macey to the same emergency vet in the middle of the night several years ago while house/dogsitting for us. She was convinced Macey had ingested glass, since she was coughing like crazy, and our bill for her COLD ended up being $500.)

Chris went back at midnight to pick up the dog, who was now shaven completely on one side, sporting an Elizabethan collar and staples covering an eight-inch tear. When he brought him into the house, my knees went weak. We turned the laundry room into an infirmary and convinced the patient to go to sleep.





Today the house is a wreck. I am wearing half pajamas, half yesterday's clothes, with remnants of makeup smeared under my eyes. Christmas decorations are everywhere, and the rest of the house is bare, devoid of any decor at all. My car? Trashed. Blood on the seats, towels on the floors, and all the junk in it thrown to the back.

But the dog is alive. He'll survive, and so will we. Leslie isn't mad at us, and she's coming home Saturday to reclaim her buddy. It's December 28th. Tomorrow Caiden has surgery to remove adenoids and tonsils (You should hear this kid snore! He can outsnore any grown man, no contest. His tonsils are so inflamed they touch in the center of his throat. But that's a story for tomorrow.) If, by the sheer grace of God, we manage to have an uneventful next four days, I'll be amazed. And highly thankful. After all, we've come through the gamut this year, with medical crises ranging from our heads to our toes (Yes, Grayson is still covered in hives! During Caiden's surgery he'll be at the allergist.). If you know us, and you don't feel comfortable letting your children play with ours anymore, or you start refusing our invitations to dinner, we'll understand. If I were you, I wouldn't want my children to play here, either. We're a time bomb ticking. I think all that's left is for our house to fall into a sinkhole. And hey, there are three more days left in the year, and stranger things have happened.

But like I said, the dog is alive. And today, that's all that matters.

(Pictures used by permission. Leslie says she wants to see her dog. I think she might regret that decision. He was, however, wagging his tail when I snapped the pictures.)

Merry Christmas!

Jesus said to let the little children come to Him.

He also said to have faith like a child.

My prayer for you this Christmas is that you come boldly before Him, like a child would, with faith that He is who He says He is, and that He can do what He says He can do.

That you are wrapped tight in His love, comforted in His embrace, and strengthened in the truth that this Gift is the One that saves us from who we are and from what we have done. It is truth everlasting, love enduring, and salvation eternal. And regardless of any of the earthly challenges you might face this Christmas, with difficult relatives or too little money or uncertain health, that you will walk strong in the knowledge that this Gift is for you.

Merry Christmas, friends.

*This Baby Girl . . .

does not need kidney surgery!

Hooray for Addison:)

Hooray for God!


(And yes, I will be participating in Boomama's Christmas Tour once I get my act together.)

*If you're wondering, this is a picture of Addie in her carseat reflected in the mirror, but that's another story for another day:)

Jaymun

I almost published a post about our day today--three separate pediatrician appointments ending up in tonsillitis, a double ear infection, an unknown virus, two cases of eczema, an unknown allergic reaction, and referrals to an ENT, an allergist, and a pediatric dermatologist. I was feeling some pity for myself, not to mention my purse, which shelled out over $200 today in co-pays and prescriptions.

Then I went here and found out that sweet baby Jaymun, who has leukemia, is now in liver failure and will die without a reverse in the massive infection.

Perspective.

Please pray for him. He needs it desperately.

Snippets from My Journal

I'm going to do something I've never, ever done; I'm going to let you read my journal.

Journaling is a sacred thing to me, something I've done almost daily for over 20 years, filling countless empty pages with my heart's cries, prayer requests, various lists, and Scripture. I have a large box in my attic holding them all, even down to the first one I started. They serve as windows to my soul, as scrapbooks of my life. Everything from the list of things I'd never do as a mother (written at age 10, and including the promise to "Never force my daughter to keep a journal"), to pleas to the Lord to make Chris ask me to marry him, to prayers for my first unborn child are there. I'm not sure I ever want anyone to read them, but they spell out the totality of my life.

Each time I put pen to the first page of a new one, I hesitate. I wonder what events will transpire while this journal is being written, and if they'll be good, or if they'll be hard. I always worry that something catastrophic will happen, and I'll have to write the words down, making them permanent and real.

This year's journal starts in February, with this Scripture:
"For thus the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel, has said, 'In returning and rest you shall be saved, in quietness and trust is your strength.'" Isaiah 30:15

After that I write about turning thirty, our house being on the market, and my pregnancy with the yet-unnamed Addison. She was breech then, and I worried about having a C-section. I thank the Lord that I had no idea that a breech baby would be the least of my concerns later on. I also thank Him that she turned, finally landing on her head at 36 weeks. A few days later, I write this: "I love new journals, Lord, because they're the beginning of something new (and I adore new products!), but I'm also always a little nervous about what might happen to me in the course of these pages~Trusting You to take care of me is, I guess, part of my quest to follow Isaiah 30:15! There's so much I have to surrender to You right now, but I guess that never changes!" And I talk to the Sarah writing these pages back in February, telling her she has no idea how true these words are. I think about that other Sarah with fondness, feeling sorry for her, knowing the words she will soon write will be filled with pain.

I fast forward, looking for May 5th, the day we found out Addison would come early and be way too small for a full-termer. There's no entry. I skim past the pages recounting her birth, detailing starting life with three children, coping with the knowledge that she was in heart failure. And in late May, I find Isaiah 30:15 written again, with these words following: "I wrote this down at the beginning of this journal--different circumstances, a lot less important, really, but weighing me down all the same. I feel subtly lifted up, like there is a thin veil, made up of hundreds of prayers, supporting me. It's a sort of shield that is keeping me afloat. Otherwise, I think I might sink . . ." And I tell that Sarah that she has no idea that heart failure is only the first step on a heartbreaking journey with this baby girl. I see the words, "Praise You in The Storm" and "The Lord is a Warrior" jotted above the entry. I now have a CD with those songs and several others. It's Addison's CD, and I have copies in my car, in my house, on my computer. I'll never hear them again without remembering these lonely months.

June 19th is also noticeably absent. That's the day we took Addie to the geneticist and received the shocking blow--the diagnosis of a genetic syndrome. We thought we were going to "get her blessing," as our pediatrician said. We had no idea the doctor would sit us down and break our hearts. June 20th I write, "I don't want to write, This. Anytime I've begun a new journal, I've always wondered if something huge and catastrophic will happen before I finish the last page. That has never happened, but this journal is the one. And it won't be the only one, but it is the first." In the following paragraphs I recount taking a class on the Holocaust and questioning God's love. I write about finding out just a few days earlier that a friend of ours had been attacked by a serial rapist, and wondering how He could allow such things. And I write of the shattered dreams I had for her, my daughter, as I recite the host of problems her syndrome can cause. My words are brutal, harsh, unrelenting, merciless. I am etching forever the very thing I feared most.

And then I laugh--the entry stops mid-sentence, and it picks up the next day with this: "You know you have three kids when you can't even finish an emotional breakdown!" I'm glad to see that Sarah has retained some sense of humor.

The months fly by, and I start seeing a pattern--fatigue, the feeling of being overwhelmed, worry that I'm just making it from naptime to naptime. My words in July: "I feel so scattered, trying to juggle so much. I feel like everything needs to be done, and as soon as I cross something off, five more needed to be added. It's like treading water, constantly." A month later, I mention that "my head is so full that I got up at 4:30 this morning to do laundry!"

And a couple months after that, "I feel scattered, I'm craving serenity, stillness, rest, peace. I want slow days, home-cooked meals, fresh-smelling laundry. I want naps and quiet walks in the cool, and dark, quiet nights together. It doesn't feel like fall outside, and it doesn't feel like fall in my heart. What can I turn loose of? I'm worn down--worn out--depleted. I keep looking in the wrong places for rest for my spirit. Lord, I need You. Can I fall at Your feet and rest for a while?" I nod my head, identifying with this girl who pens these words. Pages fill up with prayer requests for friends and family, notations of things the kids have said or done that are worth remembering, and long letters to God, praising Him for the work He is doing in my heart and my family.

I notice that the more Scripture that is jotted down, the more my words are filled with praise than pleas. This is from late November, "It's funny, Father, that the immediate trials with Addison have passed, but I remember them and ponder them daily lately. I re-visit June 19th in my mind; I return to Addie's PICU room; . . .I feel all the emotions all over again. But this time I do it in light of Your goodness. I couldn't see You back in June; I was hurt and angry and grieving. . ." The entry ends, praising Him for staying close to me and teaching me through this walk in the valley.

It's a balancing act, this life with Christ. Reading the words in my journal remind me how easily I fluctuate from praise and peace, "Good morning, Lord! It's good to come before You today!" to worry, fear, weariness: "I'm tired today, Lord. My head aches, and though I've accomplished a lot, my to do list is overwhelming. I want a nap but two little ones are awake and can't be left unsupervised. Oh--a third just woke up! The housekeeping tasks overwhelm me. I am behind, and it's hard for me to remember that I just need to keep moving forward. . . The intensity of three kids is so relentless! I long to spend a Sunday afternoon on the couch with Chris, enjoying down time, but when I don't work, we don't eat. I'm exhausted. My cup is down to the dregs. My energy is drained. My joy is wavering. My head hurts."

I read my words this morning as I am once again tired, burdened, overwhelmed. My to-do list seems miles long, and there's not much I can cross off. People need to eat, to wear clean underwear, to be bathed and loved and laughed with. That's all in my job description. And I am tempted to feel sorry for myself. I'm only one person. I'm not a stalwart prairie woman who can churn butter, suck poison from a snakebite, and nurse twins all at the same time! I'm just flesh and blood, full of twirling emotions and thoughts and ideas. I am fragile at times, delicately balanced between humor and hope, and fear and failure. I am not strong. I do not have it together.

But I see the wisdom of those first words in this journal. "In returning and rest you shall be saved, in quietness and trust is your strength." How I feel is going to fluctuate, but He never wavers. How much I can do changes with the seasons of my life, yet He is a bedrock of strength. How much I can cope with varies, but He is always, always the Good Shepherd, willing to lead me through the valley. I am not alone. I am not abandoned. Even as I sit here, reading, He is calling me. He is reminding me that this journey will sometimes be hard, but that if I just call out to Him, He is here. And for those days--these days--when my words are filled with unrelenting weariness, I can rest in Him. My to-do list will still be long, but somehow, I feel better. I can get up and walk on, knowing there is Somebody walking beside me. Those journals in the attic serve as more than snippets of my life; they are tangible reminders that I am never alone. Never. And for that, I can walk on.

A Wake-Up Call

I'm in a bathrobe checking on "my" babies who are in the hospital today (Ivey, Ashley, Jaymun), drinking the last dregs of coffee before getting into the shower. We're going Christmas shopping today. The kids' red sweaters are set out, our lists are made, and I'm looking forward to some time with my four favorite people on earth.

That said, I just read this post at Baby Jaymun's website. His mama, Jennifer, left me a comment on my post about Grayson (see below; this is turning into a linkfest) that her baby, Jaymun, was born this summer with cancer. I've read the entire archives from the journal portion of his website and am again astounded at the burdens some people carry. This most recent post, however, made me cry. It is so good--so powerful--especially at this time of year, that I'm not going to even give a hint. You need to go read it for yourself.

And after you do, my prayer is that not only what she has written, but more importantly, what she did will impact and change your Christmas this year. Because it's not about us. And that this woman, who has every reason to be self-focused, is others-centered, rocks me off my self-absorbed rear and makes me want to go do something.

Read it:)

One Week Ago

My father-in-law noticed a while back that I don't write about Grayson much. In some ways, there's not much to write about him. He's quiet. He's laid back. He's obedient (Praise God from Whom all blessings flow . . .). Unless I want to write about how he says, "Mama, I want grapes! Two blue blankies! Big hug! Brother! Bug!" there's not much I can write about. He's not naughty, he doesn't pray yet, and he doesn't make me play Peter Rabbit with him. Yet.

It took a while to get pregnant with Grayson. Caiden was quick--Chris said, "Let's have a baby." He smiled. I was pregnant. Just like that. We were giddy and naive and expected the next time to be the same way. When test after test showed only one pink line, I began to wonder if Caiden would be our only one. Then I got a birthday surprise--finally, finally two pink lines. My pregnancy with Grayson was entirely different. So different I was convinced he was a girl, and when Dr. White pronounced him a boy, I cried. We'll probably never show Grayson the video of the ultrasound--my sobbing is obvious. Caiden was a handful, never stopping, never quiet, rarely obedient. He was also exuberantly happy every second of the day, which sounds great, but it's a hard thing to discipline somebody who hugs you after a spanking and say, "It's okay, Mama. I still love you!" and then scampers off to do something else naughty. The thought of another boy overwhelmed me.

The name "Caiden" means "exuberant." "Grayson" means "quiet one." We didn't do that on purpose, but it worked out nicely. When I was 32 weeks pregnant I hemorrhaged with Grayson and spent a day in the hospital. I arrived at noon in a state of panic, and when the nurse asked me when I'd last felt him move, and I answered "Last night," she panicked, too. I tried to explain that was common--he rarely moved. Every ultrasound showed him fully extended with hands clasped behind his head and feet crossed, like he was in a lounge chair at the pool. That's Grayson.

At birth I put an "I Love Mommy" hat on his head and told him I already had a Daddy's boy, and he was my Mama's boy. I guess it worked; he spent the next nineteen months as attached to my body as a growth. A very large growth. A very sweet growth. He still hasn't hit the Terrible Twos. He obeys, he snuggles, he asks for "big hugs" and just steals my heart in general. He's the child I prayed for fervently, sure I couldn't have. He holds a special place in my heart reserved just for him.

Grayson is also my child with a relatively normal medical history. Caiden had stomach surgery at five weeks, was hospitalized for almost a week with double pneumonia, and spent the second half of his first year battling infection after infection. He was a difficult inaguration into parenthood. Everybody knows Addie's history--mouth surgery, heart surgery, kidney problems, genetic syndrome diagnosis. But Grayson? A bout of acid reflux, and that's it. He's easy.

I took him to the pediatrician last week. He had an odd rash covering most of his body. He'd already had an ear infection and allergic reaction to bananas two weeks before, and I wondered if this rash was related. I rarely haul all three kids to the doctor for something as minor as a rash. They need to be deathly ill for me to torture myself like that, but this rash had been hanging around for a while and was developing welts. My regular doctor didn't have an opening, so we saw a new partner to the office. He looked at Gray and seemed terribly concerned. He said there were two rashes--hives, and another that's not really a rash, it's bleeding under the skin, called petechiae. He told me that the petechiae could be the sign of a serious problem and wanted to run a complete blood count immediately. I pressed him to tell me more. I told him I'd had a hard year with medically fragile children and didn't want to be worried about nothing. I told him I could handle it. I was wrong.

It seems there are three causes to petechiae on the trunk of the body--a virus, an autoimmune disease, and leukemia. Leukemia. We had the blood drawn, and I took the kids back home. I cried the entire way. Then I called Chris and told him he needed to come home immediately. Chris got on the computer and prayed online with his sister and her husband in Australia all evening. I wandered around the house aimlessly, doing dishes, playing the piano--anything to numb my mind, to keep it from thinking. He asked me to pray; I said no. He asked me to sit with him while they prayed; I said no. I didn't want to pray anything coherent. I spent the evening in a silent plea--"Not this, Lord. Not Grayson. Not my Grayson!"

We've learned a lot of hard lessons dealing with Addison's health this year. I've even said a few times that I wouldn't take any of it back, at least not for myself. I'd spare her the pain and the uncertain future, but I wouldn't remove it from my own experience. I thought I'd become strong. I thought I could handle a new crisis with grace, with hope, with faith.

But watching his sweet blond head as he slept that night, sucking on his thumb and clutching his rocket blanket, I knew I was not strong. I did not have hope; I couldn't cling to faith. All I could do was stay curled up in my mental fetal position, numb and aching at the same time. I told Him that I didn't have the strength to deal with another sick child, that I refused to consider that my precious son, the child close to my heart, could have cancer. My posture the entire evening was refusal. Refusal to take what the Lord might allow.

Our appointment was the next morning. Chris and I went together, and when the doctor told us Grayson's counts were normal, and that it was a virus, there was very little relief for me. Looking back, I think that's because I had refused to surrender Grayson to the Lord. I had refused to tell Him that I would accept His will for Grayson. I clutched him tightly to my heart and wouldn't let the Lord have His way with him. Chris felt the relief--he had prayed with hope, with faith, with trust in the Lord's goodness. I hadn't.

My best friend Bridget always tells me I'm too hard on myself. I think I probably am, but other times I give myself so much more grace than I'd ever give anyone else. My reaction was normal; the depths of a mother's heart are beyond comprehension. I did what was expected: when confronted with a crisis involving my child, I fought hard. But looking back, I fought against the very One, the only One, who loves this child more than I. I may have carried Grayson in my body, felt him move, and loved him before his birth, but He is the one who formed him. He is the One who died for him. Grayson is safe with Him. And when tested, when asked by Him if I'd be willing to give Grayson to Him, I failed. I wonder what blessing there might've been at the end of the test if I had passed. I'm ashamed that I reacted with such stubborn refusal; I can call it mother's love, but I know my own heart, and I know that I held the very One who loves me best at arm's length. I am a Christ-follower; I'm called to respond not with what is "normal," but with what is "supernatural," with what makes the world wonder at the trust I have in my God. I have such a long way to go.

Christmas Pondering

I've tried to write this five or six times now, each time erasing what I've written. My grandma has written about missing out on the reason for Christmas, and it has made me stop and take stock of why I really celebrate.

I like to think it's for the coming of Christ, that I know the true meaning as I gaze at long lines of grumpy people on spending sprees at the mall, that I say "Merry Christmas" instead of "Happy Holidays" at Target, that I don't buy gifts for myself in December but instead buy for Angel Tree children and drop change into the Salvation Army buckets.

But after reading her post and thinking about it--really thinking about it--I'm starting to wonder if it's because I love red velvet and evergreen boughs decorating my table, Christmas mugs filled with hot chocolate, Christmas Eve services that make me feel sappy and nostalgic, and buying gifts for others that make me feel benevolent.

And I won't do it because my children are too young to understand--and honestly because I'm not sure I can--but I'm tempted to take all the decorations down. To unstring the lights and put the ornaments back in their bins. I'd like to take back the gifts I've bought and erase my own Christmas wish list, put away my Winterberry china and stash the Christmas music back in the attic. I'd like to strip Christmas of what it has become and return to what it was meant to be.

And on Christmas morning, instead of spending it in a flurry of gift-giving and receiving and stuffing myself with holiday food, I'd like to spend it in quiet reflection of what it really means that Jesus Christ, God Himself, clothed Himself in humanity and gave up His dignity to be born in our broken, fragile world. That He still came, fully knowing that not too many years later, after being rejected by most He would meet here, He'd be crucified. And He did it all for love. He didn't do it so I could have warm, comforting Christmas memories; He didn't do it so I could spoil my children with too many gifts; He didn't even do it so I could show benevolence to others--He did it to save me from the depths of my own sin. And He did it so that I, after receiving that, would share that same gospel with others around me who are still drowning.

And I wonder if, on Christmas evening, I'd still feel that vague, unsettling unrest of soul I usually feel as I look around the spoils of the day and know that I missed something. That I spent the month trying to achieve and accomplish and attain, and that in the end it'll all be long gone, anyway. I wonder, if I spent the day in stillness before Him, would Christmas turn into something truly magical? Something satisfying? I think so, but I'm afraid I've become too saturated with this world to try it. That alone takes away a lot of the lustre of the gold ribbons and twinkling Christmas village lights, and I realize that somewhere along the way I missed the point. And I wonder, on this December morning, if it's not too late to start over? Because that would be the best gift I could receive this year. Thank you, Grandma, for reminding me of the Reason for it all.

Merry Christmas, Baby!

I saw this meme at my Aunt Barb's, and then my mom's--they were very sweet. Then I saw it at Big Mama's, and it made me laugh out loud. And since I can still see a few slivers of ice outside my window and am feeling incredibly festive, I thought I'd do this now, before it's 80 degrees again.

My Christmas Memories

1. Egg nog or hot chocolate? I've never actually had a taste of eggnog, but the idea of it makes me retch. There's a reason the stuff is only sold once a year. Blech. And since I have a well-known addiction to affinity for chocolate, I'll take it any way I can get it.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just set them under the tree? Well, Santa does whatever Mrs. Claus is able to do each year. This year Santa has purchased his very own trademark paper and tags, so Mrs. Claus is going to try her best to wrap the gifts. With three children to wrap for this year, though, there may be a few that just don't make it! I'm pretty sure The Three won't care.

3. Colored lights or white? We have a running debate here. Chris thinks colored lights are tacky (Sorry to y'all who use them. I repeatedly tell him he's a lights snob.), and I actually like both. Our house and trees are all in white lights, but the boys' trees are in colored. Everytime we drive by our neighbor's house, completely decked out in colored, Caiden oohs and aahs, and I tell Chris that although white lights might be prettier, we sure aren't winning the popularity contest with the kids.

4. Do you hang mistletoe? We used to, but I don't know where it went. We still kiss plenty without it.

5. When do you decorate for Christmas? I'll confess it right here: I HATE decorating for Christmas. I still love Jesus, and I even make Him a red velvet cake for His birthday every year (which He graciously allows me to eat, usually all by myself). But lugging the bins of junk out of the attic, undecorating my house with our normal stuff, decorating with the Christmas stuff, and then putting it all back again a month later absolutely WEARS ME OUT. If it were up to me, I'd have nothing but a Christmas tree and house lights. But I love my family, so I faithfully do it every year the weekend after Thanksgiving. Then I gleefully put it all away the day after Christmas. I've even been known to undecorate Christmas evening. I love the feeling of a bare house! My best friend Bridget thinks that's absolutely horrific.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish, excluding dessert? Hmmm. We never actually have the same thing twice. We've had fondue on Christmas before, which is my favorite meal, but technically it's not a holiday dish. So I'd have to say the Christmas wreath cookies my mom and I used to make. And yes, I realize that's a dessert, but whoever wrote this meme shouldn't have included that caveat. Because really, all I care about are the sweets.

7. Favorite holiday memory as a child? After the Christmas Eve service at church we used to drive around town and look at all the lights. Then we'd go home and I'd get to stay up late and open all the presents from my dad and stepmom. My dad lived several states away, and I only saw him a couple times a year, so he totally overcompensated by sending me more gifts than a child ever has business receiving. It was awesome.

But hands-down the best part of the evening was when all the candles were lit at the church service and we'd sing "Silent Night" a capella. It still makes me cry every year, and not just because the candle wax is melting down my fingers.

8. When and how, did you learn the truth about Santa? I don't remember. So I'm changing this to "What is your favorite Santa memory?" When we lived in North Dakota and my parents were just married, my mom had my dad climb onto our roof--let me re-emphasize that we lived in NORTH DAKOTA, where blizzards and white-outs were a common occurence--and stomp up and down in snow boots, dropping pieces of carrots and cookies, and then jingle bells outside my window, so I could hear "Santa" and his reindeer. When I think back on that, it's probably one of the sweetest things my dad has ever done. I do wonder, though, if he pondered during those frigid moments if marrying my mom was worth it, if it meant he had to tromp around the roof in subzero weather to convince his new five-year old daughter that Santa existed? Thank you, Dad. It was worth it to me.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Well of course! Growing up we always opened our matching pajamas from my Aunt Barb and Uncle Rob. Now we do the same thing for our children, except for four years ago when Chris gave me a Canon camera, so I could take pictures of Caiden at the Christmas Eve services. Caiden was teething and running a high temperature, so the pictures aren't that great, but that's beside the point.

10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree? Reluctantly? Okay, that sounds really bad. I decorate it with all of the ornaments Chris and I had growing up. When I told my mother-in-law shortly after we married that my parents had sent me all of my childhood ornaments, she was sweet enough to give us all of Chris'. Then she gave me some beautiful Christmas balls she made when she was a little girl. I love them and appreciate her every year when I hang them.

We also buy an ornament every summer to remember our yearly vacation. This year we bought a cowboy sock monkey in Keystone, but I think I'm going to find a beautiful pink heart to commemorate Addison's heart surgery. I'd find a kidney-shaped one to memorialize her kidney troubles, but that's gross, and besides, I've never seen a kidney-shaped ornament.

11. Snow. Love it or hate it? Love it! Love it! Love it!

12. Can you ice skate? Well, my mom says I can in her Christmas meme, but that would be a serious overstatement. My dad used to take me skating when I'd visit him in Colorado when I was little (Yes, I call both of my dads "Dad," if that's confusing you.), and he was pretty good. I, on the other hand, am not good at anything requiring athletic ability. And I'm too old and scared of pain to attempt it now. So I think I should say no.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift? Hmmm. I have no idea. As I've mentioned, Chris spoils me rotten, so every year he gives me my favorite. And my dad and stepmom spoiled me rotten, so every year growing up was good, too, except for the year I got an enormous package from them, only to open it and find a suitcase without anything inside. You can imagine how that thrilled my 13 year old heart.

My mom never fails to find me really special gifts, and I just got goosebumps remembering the year she found for me the sheet music to my favorite song, If I Stand, by Rich Mullins. This was before eBay and the Internet, and I remember that she called publishing houses everywhere, because it was out of print. Even last year, when she gave me a little devotional written by a missionary friend of mine, Chris commented on how thoughtful her gifts always are.

14. What is the most important thing about the holidays to you? Every year I wear myself out trying to buy the best gifts, make the house the most beautiful ever, and make it the most magical ever for our kids. And the next year I can't remember anything but the memories we made spending time together. So this year I'm trying to slow down, make sure my kids know Jesus is the main thing, and enjoy it. I'll let you know how that goes:)

15. What is your favorite holiday dessert? Aha. Now here's the question I was looking for! I'm not a One Favorite kind of girl; I have lots of favorites! I love holiday wreath cookies, pecan sandies, my grandma's fudge and popcorn balls (They're to die for!), and peppermint hot chocolate.

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition? Going to the gazillion Christmas services at our church and visiting all of my friends who work at and go there. Even though our church is big, we know everybody, and it reminds me of growing up in a small town. I love it.

I also love presents. I mean seriously, who can't say opening presents isn't one of their favorite traditions?

17. What tops your tree? An angel. We used to put my Humpty Dumpty ornament on our treetop growing up. Chris says it's the ugliest ornament he's ever seen, which might be true, but it holds a special place in my heart. Shoot, if I could figure out a way to rig my stuffed Snoopy to the top of our tree without it toppling over, I'd put him there. I realize angels and stars are holy, but I love seeing a childhood favorite up there. Chris would be horrified, so we stick with our generic angel. She's propped up over a roll of toilet paper, though, which makes me giggle every year.

18. Which do you prefer, giving or receiving? I love receiving from people closest to my heart because it's such a tangible expression of love. But I have to say that choosing gifts, wrapping them, keeping secrets, and then seeing their faces when they open them is my favorite.

19. What is your favorite Christmas song? Good night, I have too many to list! O Holy Night is my favorite hymn, and Sarah McLachlan's Song for a Winter Night is my hands-down all-around favorite. It's melancholy and lonely and reeks of snowy nostalgia. I love it.

20. Candy canes. Yuck or yum? I like to hang them on the tree, but I don't eat them. I don't care to waste my calories on sugar without chocolate involved.

Tonight we're going shopping for all the kids with my brother and sweet sister-in-law, and combined with our "snow" and this meme, I'm feeling terribly festive. I might even start working on the Christmas tree. In the meantime, if you do this meme, be sure to let me know, so I can visit yours! Happy Friday, y'all:)