Another intermission post.  Please read part one, part two, part three, part four and intermission one to catch up if you need to.

The reader with the "what is a good gift" question is still sorting out her second post, but since her comment brought up an important question, I thought I'd stop to share the conclusions that I came to and how I came to them.  Conclusions and the pathways to them will be different for each person and each situation because God loves us so much that He likes to work individually with each of us.  This is simply my experience.

After my third miscarriage, I felt angry, alone, confused, helpless, and so, so sad.  No one I was close to had miscarried to my knowledge.  My own mother had nine successful, full-term pregnancies, and although she was sympathetic as only a mom with a hurting child can be, she had no experience of her own to help me out with my swirling emotions.  Jeremy and I talked about it a bit, but I knew he was hurting, and I didn't want to add my pain to his own, so I kept back a LOT.  Plus, he's a man, and he doesn't see things the way a lady does.  A lady in my church had experienced a few miscarriages after giving birth to two children, and she advised me to simply find joy in my two living children and be content.  (To her credit, that is absolutely not how she meant her words to come across.  I know she struggled long and hard before she could come to a place of peace, but that is the message I took away from our short conversation, and it only left me with more questions and more guilt.)  However, being content wasn't my trouble.  With all of my pregnancies, Jeremy and I weren't trying to get pregnant.  We simply weren't trying awfully hard not to get pregnant -- well, with the exception of these last two pregnancies (this one and the one before that miscarried) with those two we were being more careful not to conceive.  No, my trouble was with all the random emotions and grief left in the aftermath of my babies' deaths.

What do I do with all these terribly strong feelings?  How should I feel?  And more importantly, how should I choose to act regardless of how I feel?  Then, with all the emotions aside, what do these repeated miscarriages say about God?  What in the world could He possibly be thinking?  Why is He okay with this?  Is He okay with this?

I didn't know those answers, so I asked Him.  Over and over and over I asked Him, and a tiny bit at a time, He gave me answers.

He told me things like, "Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!" (Matthew 7:9-11)  I, personally, am a flawed parent, but if my children ask me for something good for them, I will never purposefully give them something harmful.  God, however, is not flawed at all.  He knows everything, and therefore He knows what is harmful and what is not.  He will never, even accidentally, give me something harmful.  He loves me too much.

He showed me that, "Children are a gift from the Lord; the fruit of the womb is a reward." (Psalm 127:3)  If He flat out tells me that children are a gift, then how can I say they aren't?  Even if they are a gift that I never get to see while I'm on earth, they are still a gift, and God only gives good gifts.

He said, "Don’t be deceived, my dear brothers and sisters. Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows." (James 1:16-17)   Don't be deceived!  "God, help me not be deceived.  Help me not deceive myself!" I prayed.

Then there was Job, a man in deep distress over the deaths of his children.  "At this, Job got up and tore his robe and shaved his head. Then he fell to the ground in worship and said:  “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will depart.  The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised.”  In all this, Job did not sin by charging God with wrongdoing."  (Job 1:20-22)   Who am I to judge God's character by what *I* think He should do?  Do I know everything that He knows?

Recently, I read a book called Letters From A Skeptic by Greg and Ed Boyd, a son and father who wrote letters back and forth that ended up being published.  Ed, the father, struggled with a lot of the same questions I found swirling in my heart.  If it is true that God is real, than He either isn't good all the time, or He doesn't really care about my feelings.  Otherwise, how can you explain all the pain and suffering in the world.  One of the things that Greg, the son, points out is that we are looking at it all from a very limited perspective.  We only see our point of view, and our point of view says, "I had a baby, and now I don't.  Where is my baby?  Why can't I keep him or her?  This hurts, and I don't like it at all."  I have a choice.  Do I decide that God is bad because I couldn't keep my baby?  Can I acknowledge that possibly He knows more than I do, and possibly He did the very most wonderful thing He could do by taking that baby back to Heaven so quickly?

Now, let me inform you, I grew up in a solid church that preached the Word of God.  I graduated from a Christian school and went on to attend a Christian college.  (All of this really means nothing.)  What means something is that God has rescued me from the Hell I deserve for the sins I have committed and continue to commit.  I believe whole-heartedly in what God says about Himself in the Bible. 

*But* 

When real, painful life gets played out on the stage of my heart, all the memorized verses in the world don't always mean a whole lot.  There has to be something more.  There has to be Someone more.  That's what God ultimately showed me.

When Mary and Martha grieved so drastically over their dead brother, Jesus did, too.  "When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled.  “Where have you laid him?” he asked.  “Come and see, Lord,” they replied.  Jesus wept.  Then the Jews said, “See how he loved him!”" (John 11:33-36)  Sure, He could have stopped it.  He had reasons for not doing so, but His heart is still moved by my grief.

"You yourself have kept track of my misery.  Put my tears into your bottle—aren’t they on your scroll already?" (Psalm 56:8)  Oh yes, He cares.  I know He cares.  His heart is touched with my grief.

God takes an active part in comforting us when we are sad.  "May the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ be blessed! He is the compassionate Father and God of all comfort. He’s the one who comforts us in all our trouble so that we can comfort other people who are in every kind of trouble. We offer the same comfort that we ourselves received from God."  (Second Corinthians 1:2-4)

For me, it came down to this.  Do I really believe what God says in the Bible, or don't I?  He says He is good.  He says He can turn any bad thing into a gift.  He says He loves me and wants to comfort me.  He caused my pregnancies because He is the author of life, and He gives children as gifts.  He did not cause my miscarriages, but He could have prevented them if He chose.  He's God, after all.  But since He is God, He has to know a lot more than I do. 

Maybe I did need to learn contentment with where I was in life.  (And possibly I learned it a little too well, as my next post might show.)  But much more than that, I needed to settle my relationship with God.  I needed to know Who He really is, and what my response to Who He is should be.  Everyone struggling with troubles like this will have different things to work through with God.  My response ended up being to turn turn into His arms for comfort when I couldn't find it anywhere else, to snuggle my face into His chest and cry my eyes out, "This hurts, God!  I don't like it!"  and as He hugged me closer, to acknowledge, "You are good.  I don't understand.  I don't have to understand.  I just need to know that You are good." 

It wasn't magic.  I mentioned earlier that I sat in a strip of sunshine on the couch and decided.  Well, it wasn't a twenty-minute thought process like my blog post made it sound.  It was more like a four-year thought process.  And that decision did not change my emotions, or my sense of loss.  Rather, it confirmed in my mind that God is good.  That is all, really.  God is good, and He proves it to me over and over -- even though He doesn't have to because He is, after all, GOD.

Intermission over until my friend guest posts.  Back to my story...

This post is an intermission post (for lack of a better term).  To read the preceding posts please click on Parts One, Two, Three, and Four.

This morning when I checked my email prior to writing part five of this on-going series, I found a comment from a reader that so completely described my anguished feelings over the past few years that I asked her permission to share her note with you all.  Although, she and I have differing life circumstances, the question she presents is the same one I wrestled with over and over and over.

Here is what she wrote:

I just finished reading yesterday's post.  I wish I could believe that God only gives good gifts, but I just don't.

We weren't trying when I had the second miscarriage.  It was not quite an accident, but more of a whim.  But I was happy.  And then I was sad.  The loss devastated my relationship with my husband and our relationship with our church.  It made me discontent with my job, which I gave up, hoping that working from home would help with a future pregnancy.  That hasn't worked either.

Credit To: I don't know.  I found several of these images all over the web.  It doesn't seem to belong to anyone? See watermark in top left corner of image.

Now we have no money and no future.

Where is the good gift?

By most medical standards, I'm getting too old for this.  Maybe I should just accept that we don't need kids.  We don't need a legacy.  I'm not fit to be a mother anyway.  I can finally give up the dream and get a full-time job and enjoy life with enough money to pay the bills like we used to have.  And once I don't care about the kids in the nursery, we can join a church.

Maybe I just need to be content and learn to tell people that I really don't need kids to be happy.  It's not a gift I'm going to get.  I'm going to get years of companionship with my husband, a full night of sleep whenever I want, the ability to take long road-trips at a moment's notice.

Maybe without the pressure, I'll get my marriage back.

Her comment took me straight back to that place of disappointed hurt and puzzlement when I was trying to comprehend how a "good" God could allow so much pain to someone He supposedly loved enough to die for.  This reader and I were able to talk via Skype earlier this afternoon, and she had a lot more to say.  So much, that I wondered if she might be willing to write a guest blog post here.

She is considering it, so stay tuned...

This post is a continuation of Part 1 and Part 2 and Part 3.

Two weeks passed while I mustered up the courage to see a doctor.  I had no idea how far along I might be since as part of my ignorance-is-bliss strategy I had been purposefully not paying attention to my cycles.  Jeremy had been making regular inquiries into my health and being very solicitous, but he carefully avoided any baby discussions.  I did as well.  I kept waiting for the painful cramping and the rush of blood that I knew would be coming at any minute. 

When I spoke with friends and family about the baby, I always smiled and summoned joy, and most of the time it truly was genuine joy.  I tried hard not to worry, and since I have a good imagination sometimes I was able to convince myself briefly that there were no reasons to worry.  My close friends were all praying for us and the baby.  They knew cause for fear loomed large and real, but they also know that God hasn't given us a spirit of fear.  They also know that God only gives good gifts.  They also know that God is powerful and loving enough to take any situation and use it for good.  So they prayed.  And prayed.  And prayed.  I, on the other hand, had a hard time praying.  I would start prayers and leave them unfinished.  I would begin thoughts and never complete them because...well, I don't know exactly why.  I suppose it was because I still wasn't sure what I thought of it all.  I wasn't sure what to pray for.  I had gotten comfortable in my baby-less state, and I wasn't really sure I wanted that to change.  Also, I had prayed for my other children to live, and God had said no.  He had better plans for them and for me.  Other than that first time right after the pregnancy test, I never asked God again to let the baby live.  Instead, the only prayer I could finish was, "God, please do whatever is best for us.  I know you only give GOOD gifts."  And I focused on waiting with open hands, choosing joy in whatever would come and choosing joy for the present moments as well.

You know, joy is not always a happy, jump-up-and-down feeling.  Sometimes, it is a quiet, peaceful, calm in the middle of extreme uncertainty.  I could see Jeremy's struggle during this time, and I was quietly amazed also to see his peaceful calm, even though we never discussed it.  Every night, he did ask me, "Do you still think you might be pregnant?"  And every night I responded, "I think so."

Finally, I knew.  It was time to see a doctor.  To put Jeremy out of his uncertain misery if for no other reason.  I wasn't really sure why I was so reluctant to see one, anyway, but every fiber of my being screamed to me, DON'T DO IT!  I spent several days researching doctors in my area.  I called offices and interviewed poor unsuspecting receptionists and nurses.  I had a list of criteria, and I would not budge.  I was out to find the perfect doctor.  This was something I could pray about, and pray I did!  "PLEASE, God!  Lead me to the right doctor!"  I finally had the search narrowed to three, and I made interview appointments with all of them.  I made it very clear to the receptionists that I had not made a decision.  I was not there for a real visit.  I just wanted to talk with the doctors.  Jeremy stayed very involved in this whole process, and he had strong opinions on the candidates, as well.  But never once during this process did we talk about the baby that may or may not be establishing itself in my womb.

Eventually, a decision was made, and we chose a doctor.  Jeremy asked if I wanted him to take off work to be with me for the first official visit, but I didn't.  Why make such a big deal out of this?  I fully expected the doctor to tell me, "Yes, you were pregnant.  The test was accurate, but you are not pregnant any more.  We don't know what happened, but no.  No baby."  I don't think I blatantly faced that thought, but it swirled around with all the others. 

Credit to www.sciencemuseum.org.uk

The visit was going perfectly fine.  I loved the doctor.  He was easy to interact with, and we had the same ideas on how to handle things.  Then he asked me to go to the restroom and provide a urine sample.  "Sure.  No problem." I told him smilingly.  I went to the bathroom and peed into the tiny cup provided and all over my hand as well.  (Someday, I'm going to invent a urine sample cup designed for women.  It will have a giant funnel on the top, and I will become a bazillionaire.)  I screwed the cap onto the cup, dried off the sides with a paper towel, and washed my hands thoroughly.  Then I stood with my forehead against the wallpaper and shook so badly that I could barely remain upright.  This is why I didn't want to come here!  My brain screamed in anger.  This is why I wanted to stay away from the doctor!  I couldn't bring myself to leave that sample to be tested.  Strong anger coursed through my body.  Anger at doctors for wanting to know things like facts instead of just relying on my word that I'd taken a test at home.  Anger at babies for having the audacity to die.  Anger at God for not stepping in and changing the course of history.  I stood there and watched myself storm out of the bathroom with the precious sample cup in hand, yelling wildly at the receptionist and anyone who tried to stop me while I marched right out the door and into my van waiting in the parking lot.  I watched myself speed down the interstate defiantly facing the blaring sun shining into my eyes.

Then the nurse knocked on the bathroom door and asked, "Are you okay in there, Missy?"

"Uh.  Yeah.  ...  I'm finished."

I opened the door and meekly handed her the warm cup.  Then I went to my room like a good little patient and waited without tears for the doctor's news.

To Be Continued...

This is a continuation of Part 1 "I Have To Be Honest" and Part 2 "When Pink Lines Frighten."

Choosing to be happy for an almost certainly doomed pregnancy may sound like a foolish decision, and maybe it is.  Interestingly enough, First Corinthians 1:27 says, "But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong."  So I guess I'm happy to be chosen.  :-) 

The moment I made that choice, my phone rang.  It was my neighbor, Meagan, who had encouraged me to take a pregnancy test, and she wanted to know how I was feeling.  My choice needed to be put immediately to the test.  "Well..." I began.  "I took the test." 

"And..." she prompted into my silence.

"I'm pregnant."

"Oh, Missy!" she paused, "What do you think about that?"

"I...  I don't know yet.  I'm thankful, I guess.  And...scared," my voice broke, and she heard my fear.  "But, I've decided to celebrate the minutes I'm given," I continued in a stronger voice, and my heart stabilized.  Yes.  I would live moment to moment, and ignore the temptation to borrow trouble from the future.  Suddenly, I really was happy.

Jeremy was out of town on a business trip for three more days, so I had time to come up with a creative way to tell him the news.  I decided not to call him.  I knew he would be wading in the same emotions I had, and that is not over-the-phone kind of news in a situation like this.  He finally arrived in town just in time for church on a Wednesday night, so I met him there.  I brought the box of cigars and handed them to him, "These are for you."  I didn't have anything else to say.  I knew it wasn't really a happy announcement for him, and I knew that right before he left me to attend the men's Bible Study wasn't a good time to announce it.  But I also knew that if I waited until we were home, the emotions involved would not have changed.  Might as well get it over with.

Our pastor had been standing nearby, and he watched Jeremy open the box.  "WHAT!?"  He shouted gleefully, "Are you really having another baby!?"  He grinned at me and clapped Jeremy's back.  I forced a happy smile to my face and nodded at him, but Jeremy stood stoically staring at the cigars.  Finally, he closed the box and handed it to me.  "Thank you," he said quietly.

"No, you keep them.  They're for you to hand out to your friends." I replied before pushing them back into his hands and walking away to my own Bible study group.  I had expected his response, but his heartache broke my heart.  After church, I asked him, "How many cigars did you give away?"

"None," barely audible.

"Why not?" I asked, but I knew the answer.

"How do you know you're really pregnant?" he queried, and I could hear the desperation in his voice.  That surprised me.  I didn't realize he would also be utilizing my ignorance-is-bliss strategy.

"I took a test."  I didn't mention that I had kept it the past three days and had been checking it periodically for any changes in positivity.

"Those can be wrong," he stated in that too-quiet, emotionless voice that I only hear on rare occasions when his heart is being guarded against intense pain.

"Yeah, they can."  I agreed soberly.  But I knew this one wasn't.  I also knew that I ought to consult a doctor, but that would make it all too permanent.

To Be Continued...

...Continued from Part One - "I Have To Be Honest"

"I found out I was pregnant" is a little bit of a misnomer.  Rather, at the beginning of September, I became deathly ill.  I vomited daily, was nauseated constantly, and never felt able to do more than stumble back and forth from bed to couch.  I kept thinking it was some version of the flu that would pass, but by the middle of October, I decided I'd better see a doctor. 

My neighbor, Meagan, mentioned that she had had the flu and thought she was pregnant.  She took a pregnancy test before heading to her doctor and found out she wasn't, but she recommended that I do the same before wasting a trip to the doctor.  I left her house disturbed in my spirit.  I knew I wasn't pregnant, and I wasn't about to take a test just to reopen barely healed wounds.  I made an appointment with a doctor regarding my "flu" and waited.  But Meagan's suggestion wouldn't leave my heart.  Finally, angry at myself for even entertaining the idea, I slammed a dirty dish down into the kitchen sink and headed for the bathroom where I had a leftover test stashed in the cabinet. 

I kept rolling my eyes and accusing myself of stupidity while I sat and opened the wrapper.  Part of me was afraid it would tell me I wasn't pregnant, and another part of me was afraid it would tell me I was.  Because even if I was, I'd learned the hard way that's no guarantee of a living baby.

The pink mark came immediately and unmistakably.  "Oh, God!" I moaned, "Please let me keep this baby!  Please let this baby live!"  I knew then what I had been afraid of the entire time.  I didn't want to know that I was pregnant, because maybe if I didn't know, it wouldn't feel so awful when the baby passed.  Oh, you mean I've been pregnant this whole time?  Huh.  Well, good thing I never got my heart attached.  But that bold pink mark obliterated my ignorance-is-bliss strategy.

I left the life-changing plastic stick on the bathroom counter and sat quietly on my living room couch in a strip of sunshine.  Too many thoughts swirled in my head to fully finish any of them.  My heart kept starting prayers, "God!" and ending them right there.  What did I want to pray for?  I couldn't figure that out.  I had so thoroughly convinced myself to be content with no more children, that the possibility of another child took a lot of adjusting.  Besides that, I knew probabilities were against this baby being born.  I sat and decided: I would keep this news to myself.  No one needed to know a baby had started inside me once upon a time, and when the baby eventually died, no one would need to know that still another chunk of me was missing.  I would stay quiet.

Then the Holy Spirit whispered to me.  "Who are you trusting?"  Who am I trusting?  What kind of question is that?  I asked Him.  "Does God give good gifts or not?" He clarified.  Oh...  "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights Who does not change like shifting shadows."  The verse in James chapter one echoed in my soul.  Does that mean this baby -- even if he or she dies tomorrow -- is a good and perfect gift from You to me, God?  My nose starting tingling, and my eyes filled with tears.  "I don't know that I like these kinds of gifts, my Lord."  I told him out loud.  He smiled at me and assured, "It IS good, Missy.  Trust Me."

I sighed and pondered a little bit longer.  Time to make some decisions, but these decisions were so hard to make.

"Okay, God," I finally said.  "I know you only give good gifts.  So this pregnancy -- no matter how long it lasts -- has to be a good gift.  I will rejoice and be glad in it."  I paused, then added with a sigh, "Even if it ends tomorrow."

To Be Continued...

This post has been brewing in my heart for several months now.  I haven't spit it out before because it hurts to put these words into writing and because several of my friends who struggle with infertility read my blog, and I have not wanted to cause them additional pain.  (I love you guys!)  But it is time for me to be honest.

Between the birth of my four-year-old Mercy and now, I have had four miscarriages.  (I truly appreciate your sympathetic hearts, but that is not the reason for this post.)  I don't know that I have publicly shared that information before.  In fact, I know that I have not shared that information.  Only my parents, a few close girl-friends, and a sister or two know about my missing babies.  This is not because I am ashamed or embarrassed, but because in spite of my outgoing, silly personality I tend to keep personal things private.  The truth is, I'm not even now quite sure why I am posting this for you all to read, except that I've been having a nudging that sharing is needed.

Credit to: MCCL Blog (http://prolifemn.blogspot.com)

My friends and former roommates, Alicia, Rachel, and I had discussed several times the importance of being real and up-front about our struggles as people and as women because so often we see from the outside a person's smiling face and joyful words and fulfilling actions and we never realize how much pain is underneath, how necessary our prayers for each other are, how important our friendship and support is to someone else who feels like she must be drowning.  But putting that pain and struggle out there for others to see?  Well, that can be very, VERY hard to do.

Jeremy and I had hoped for a largish family since the time we were dating.  I have eight brothers and sisters, and Jeremy has five sisters so we had some knowledge of what we were talking about.  I had a miscarriage before our six-year-old Liberty was born, but I was so young and it happened so early in the pregnancy that I didn't realize until it happened that I must have been pregnant.  Then Liberty and Mercy came along, and we assumed more would follow.  Well, more did follow, but they didn't make it full-term.  Each miscarriage got harder and harder emotionally, and a few of them were very difficult for me physically as well.  I struggled through so many different emotions that I couldn't possibly identify them all for you, but the main ones seemed to be alternating between anger at God and peaceful resignation of the situation.  You see, I already have two wonderful children, and how could I possibly ask for more than that?  I mentioned earlier my friends who so badly want even one child, and I felt selfish and horrible for desiring three or even four of my own.

In addition to that inner selfishness discussion I was having, I also wanted very badly to surrender to whatever God had planned for my life, and I didn't want to hurt so painfully over my babies and my unfulfilled hopes.  I finally decided enough was enough.  I would stop wanting more children.  I would stop trying to have more children.  I would be completely happy with the two I already had (that part wasn't hard -- Liberty and Mercy really are incredible kids.)  Jeremy, who was struggling through some powerful emotions of his own over these miscarriages, was in complete agreement about not trying for any more.  He wanted more very badly, but he was afraid that somehow he was at fault for the miscarriages (which is funny, because that's exactly how I had been thinking about myself), and he hated watching my pain and not being able to fix it.  Together, we decided:  no more babies for us.

It took me a while to adjust to this new line of thinking, but eventually, I made peace with the thought.  I was starting a whole new life.  My daughters were in school.  I had entire days all to myself.  I could do anything I wanted!  I started working part-time in Human Resources, an area I am passionate about, and I loved every second of it.  I started planning out what the next few years of my life might look like.  It was glorious!

After a while, all that baby stuff in our basement storage area began grating on my nerves.  Why take up space with so many things that we will never use?  A little bitterness reminded me, "So many things that you will never be ABLE to use."  That's it!  I decided.  I'm selling it all.  And so I did.  I put every baby thing we owned into a garage sale, and almost everything sold.  We were left with a crib, a potty chair, two car seats (infant and toddler), and a baby seat for the dining room table.  That's it.  And I was mad that those didn't sell.  What in the world am I going to do with them?

Two months later, I found out I was pregnant.

To Be Continued...

Please watch this YouTube video first, so you can sing along with my new lyrics.


Here are the new lyrics:

Well, let me tell you the story of a girl named Missy on that tragic and fateful day.  She put her voter ID in her pocket, kissed her kids and hubby, went to vote on Election Day.

But will she get to vote, oh will she get to vote?  Well, her fate is still unlearned.  She may search forever in her house and car, and she may never get to vote.

Missy handed her registration to the people at the polls, and she asked them if she could vote.  When she got there they told her she had to have a photo ID, or she'd never be able to vote.

But will she get to vote, oh will she get to vote?  Well, her fate is still unlearned.  She may search forever in her house and car, and she may never get to vote.

Missy's husband joined her at the polling station, and he asked her where her ID was.  "In my wallet," Missy told him, "but my wallet's been missing, and I have no idea where it is!"

But will she get to vote, oh will she get to vote?  Well, her fate is still unlearned.  She may search forever in her house and car, and she may never get to vote.

Now, you citizen of the US, don't you think it's a scandal how Missy keeps losing her wallet?  Fight the absent-mindedness!  Send her lots of chocolate!  Help her vote on Election Day!

But will she get to vote, oh will she get to vote?  Well, her fate is still unlearned.  She may search forever in her house and car, and she may never get to vote.

Photo by: Tijmen Stam (Wikicommons)

Thank you very much, everyone, for singing along!  It turns out, the nice ladies at the poll let me vote using a provisional paper ballot, but it will not be counted until I take my voter registration and my driver's license to the courthouse to prove to them that I am who I claim to be.  I plan to do that today because I found my missing wallet in a grocery bag in the pantry.  You know, one of those bags that you crumple up and save for when you want to throw away something particularly smelly.  Oops.

Two weeks ago, Jeremy predicted that I would not be able to vote in this election, and I hotly protested his prediction.  He cited my past election day difficulties in his reasoning, and I had to agree with him sheepishly.  (Apparently, voting brings out the Kingston Trio in me, as evidenced by that last post link.)  But I insisted that this year would be different!  This year, I had time; I had all the necessary supplies; I would vote!  And then I lost my wallet.

But now it's found, so my fate is about to be learned!  Wish me luck!

Later, Little T's big brother, C, joined us at home and the four of them were very eager to hand out candy to trick-or-treaters who came by.  They organized themselves in advance with each one having a job to do.  One was a door opener, one was a candy basket holder, and the other two were candy passer-outers.  They took this division of labor about as seriously as union workers do, and when the doorbell finally started ringing, no one except the door opener could open the door.  Frequently, the door opener was busy doing other things when the doorbell rang, and so the trick-or-treaters had to stand out in the cold and the rain and wait for the door opener to arrive at his post while the other three children danced around the inside of the closed front door shouting, "Open the door!  Open the door!  Someone's here!  Hurry!  Someone's here!"


Well, the kids decided this would never do.  "You can be a superhero!" Big C decided.  "Yes!" Mercy shouted, and she ran and got her special blue blanket that she sleeps with most nights.  "Here.  This can be your cape, Mommy!" she announced.  I tied it around my neck and posed for the camera.

Then I asked, "What kind of superhero am I?" 

"You can be The Bedtime Superhero, Mommy!" Mercy shouted, "Because you are the best at tucking people in at night!"

My hormonal heart melted, and I bent to give her a quick hug.

"Yes," Big C announced, "and here is your wooden spoon to spank people who get out of bed!"  He dug around in my utensil jar and brought me a wooden spoon.

I had to laugh.  "Uh, thanks, Bud.  Way to ruin the mood."  I grinned at him.  "Can't I have some other superhero thing to use, instead?"

"Here!"  Liberty came running with a green plastic cup.  "You can carry the night-night drinks to thirsty children!"

That is how my Halloween costume morphed into my every night costume, and I gained a new title: The Bedtime Superhero! 
Hey, somebody's got to do it, and I'm glad it gets to be me!

Suppose you are pregnant.  What a fun surprise!  How would you tell your friends and family?  How would you tell your husband? 

Those of you who are lucky enough to own a blog could simply announce it in a post:  I am pregnant. 

There, that got the job done.

But how boring is that?  (I mean, other than the news itself, of course.)  No, Post Announcing will never do.

Facebook makes it easier, because then you can quietly post a photo of your home pregnancy test and wait for the reactions.

Possibly a better way to get the word out is to change your profile picture to your baby's ultrasound picture.  That way, if anyone misses the original posting, four months later when they finally notice your tiny profile pic while scrolling through their news feed, they'll quickly jerk the scrolling to a stop, crawl back up the page and squint at it for a bit.  What is that?  Then they'll click on your name to enlarge the photo to confirm, yes, that really is an ultrasound picture.  (Good thing the ultrasound technician thought to label it "baby.")  Then they'll wonder, "How long that has been there without my noticing?  Will I look like a terrible friend if I congratulate her now after that picture has been there for who knows how long?"  You may cause a slight panic attack in your more prone-to-worrying friends, but hey, at least you'll get the word out, right?

******************************
When I found out I was pregnant with Liberty almost seven years ago during an annual doctor's check-up, I was flabbergasted to say the least.  Later that afternoon at work, I couldn't keep it secret, and I told everybody in my department and a few people I passed in the hallways.  I felt a little bad that I wasn't telling Jeremy or my family first.  After all, Jeremy had a lot to do with it and would have a lot more to do because of it, but I just couldn't keep the news to myself.  I ended up leaving work slightly earlier than usual so I could prepare for the big reveal.

First I stopped off at a Hallmark store (because really, if Hallmark can't figure out how to say it, it doesn't need to be said, right?)  I found the perfect card with a picture of an adorable teddy bear on the front.  The inside said, "Congratulations!  I heard a little someone new is headed your way."  I signed it "Surprise!  Missy" and tucked it back into it's envelope.  While I was in the store, I noticed a little Willow Tree figurine of a father bent over a newborn in his lap.  It called to me.  When I purchased it, the cashier put it into a box labeled "New Dad."  Oh yeah, that's perfect, I thought!

Next I stopped off at the grocery store to pick up some ingredients for Jeremy's favorite meal -- I have no memory of what that was anymore -- and I drove home to cook.  When Jeremy walked in the door of our apartment, his plate was already set and the card and statue strategically placed nearby.  "Hello!"  I greeted him with a kiss, helped him take his coat off, and invited him to sit down.  He thought all this strange, so he hesitated, standing behind his chair.  "What's going on?" he asked suspiciously. 

"What do you mean?" I innocently inquired.

"You're acting funny.  What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on.  Just sit down, and I'll serve your food."

He glanced down at his plate and noticed the statue.  He stared at it for thirty seconds.  Then he regarded me for a few more seconds.  "Are you pregnant?"

"What?  Why do you ask that?"

He pointed at the statue sitting on the table.

******************************
When I found out I was pregnant with Mercy, I planned to come up with some spectacular way of telling Jeremy, but it turned out that I was mad at him for something when he came home, and so after a few lines of opening conversation I snarled, "You'd better get your act together, because you're a dad again!"

"What?" he snapped back at me.  "Are you trying to tell me you're pregnant?"

"Yes I am!" I retorted, "So you'd better straighten up!"

I don't actually recommend this way of telling your husband.  It did not seem to garner excitement or a sense of anticipation when I tried it out, but you may have better luck with it.

*******************************
Last month, Jeremy was due back from a business trip, and I sat on the couch trying to think of something unique and inexpensive that would give him the clue when he arrived home.  That's when that scene from Lady and the Tramp popped into my mind where Jim Dear is handing out cigars to everyone to announce his baby.   That's it! 

I ran downstairs to Jeremy's cute boxes stash.  (Jeremy has a thing about boxes.  If the box is smaller than a certain size, he has a hard time throwing it away because it's just too cute.  So, his cute boxes have been banished to his otherwise spotless office where they are stacked neatly in one corner of the room.)  I found the perfect box -- a cell phone box with a lid that flipped open from the side like a cigar box.  I took it upstairs and grabbed a sheet of construction paper to cut into long rectangles and roll into cigars.  Then I wrote "It's a boy!  Or maybe it's a girl!" on tiny strips of paper and tied them to the cigars with blue and pink yarn.  That should do the job, I decided. 

And it did.

What a strange day this has been.  It all started last night...

We were eating salad picked fresh from my friend Calle's garden for supper.  I had rinsed each leaf individually, but apparently I missed a chunk of dirt hidden in the fold of one of the lettuce leaves.  That leaf ended up on my plate, and when I chomped down on it, the clump of dirt resisted my bite.  Pain scorched through my top and bottom molars just in front of my wisdom teeth, and I couldn't finish my supper.

Poor little Mercy Jane had been feeling fine yesterday afternoon, so I planned for her to attend school today.  About twenty minutes into her bedtime last night, she started coughing again, and whining in her sleep, and coughing, and whining.  Around three in the morning, I carried her to my bed so that I wouldn't have to stumble to her room every fifteen minutes to help her calm down.

She slept until 10:30 this morning.  She obviously needed it from lack of sleep the night before.  What was strange, though, was that Liberty -- my morning girl -- also did not wake up until around 10:45.  She left her bed and sluggishly joined us in my bed.  Neither of them wanted anything to eat, even after sleeping for so long, and I wasn't so hungry myself so we stayed quietly lounging/dozing for another forty minutes or so.  Definitely a strange start to the morning, and I wondered to myself if Liberty was getting sick, and if I needed to take Mercy to the doctor or if it was simply a cold.  This whole time, I haven't been able to catch her with a fever.  It's all just congestion and whiny-ness, but only at night.

Around 11:30, we all forced ourselves out of my big bed and ate bowls of granola splashed with milk.  That was when I realized that searing pain in my molars had not diminished.  I couldn't eat my cereal.  Tonguing the offending tooth brought more pain, and I tried to examine it in the bathroom mirror.  Did it look darker in the middle than my other teeth?  Could it be a cavity that was exacerbated by the chunk of dirt at supper time yesterday?  I decided to call the dentist.  (Mainly because we were supposed to have tacos for supper tonight, and they are my favorite.)  Thankfully, the dentist could fit me in at 3:15.

We went to pick up from preschool our friend who I babysit every afternoon.  Sometime between the bowl of cereal and getting dressed, both Liberty and Mercy had perked up and were laughing, smiling and jumping around with no signs of sickness anywhere, so I didn't worry about infecting our friend.  I needn't have worried anyway.  Little T kept to herself, choosing to color quietly at the table rather than play Lady and The Tramp with Liberty and Mercy.  That was definitely a strange occurrence.  The three of them are usually the three musketeers.  After a while, T went down for a nap, and the other two girls sat at the dining room table putting together their fake gingerbread houses for our town's annual gingerbread house decorating contest.

Finally, it was time to go to the dentist.  I had alternated between eagerness to get the pain to stop and fear at what it might take to get the pain to stop all afternoon.  You know what the dentist told me after poking and prodding his way around?  I had pulled a tendon in my tooth.



Continuing to unwrap my gifts from God today:

7.  A wonderfully gray and blustery day, perfect for staying home from school and snuggling under the covers.

8.  The happy playfulness of my girls with each other, and their sweet attitudes and helpfulness to me all day.

9.  My potentially serious cracked tooth or root canal (in my own mind) turned out to be a heroic tendon that saved the day and only needs a few days to recuperate on its own.

10.  The children's pastor at my church hand-delivered the new quarter's Sunday School curriculum to my front door, saving me a trip and loads of time!  Thank you, Brian!  That was wonderful.

11.  Mercy is obviously feeling much, much better!

So.  I've been reading Ann Voskamp's blog for a few months now. (Because she sends me emails whenever a new post is up.  Anyone who doesn't do that, I rarely get to read no matter how much I want to. *cough* PJ *cough* Suanna)  And I've been pressed again and again in my spirit to start recording the daily gifts God gives me the way Ann does with her 1,000 Gifts List.

I finally started today; the day that Mercy woke us all up with freakish sounds at two in the morning because she couldn't inhale due to congestion, and Jeremy left the house at 5:30 in the morning to catch a flight out to Washington state for a business trip.  The day the girls and I stayed home from church because poor Mercy feels awful, and I had to give my Sunday School class away to another teacher for the morning.  The day I needed to start noticing the good gifts He's constantly giving me.

Here are the gifts I've noticed so far from God.

1. Liberty's exuberant morning happiness as she snuggled her wiggly body as closely as possible to mine under the warm, downy covers this morning.
2. Cocoa covered almonds, mocha-almond granola bars, and throat-stinging apple cider breakfasts.

3. Jetted garden tubs filled with mountains of frothy bubbles that occupy little girls so I can spend some much needed time alone with God.

4. Sunlight sparkling through our leaded glass front door and rainbows painted all over my living room this sunny morning.

5. The cutest lisping sound Liberty's voice makes now that she's missing a top tooth.  I could listen to her forever.

5. Large fireplace hearths that serves as a stage for multiple singing, dancing and acting performances on a daily basis.

6. A soft comfy couch - given to us by friends - that provides an excellent getting-well spot for my resting Mercy Jane.

Jeremy and I have been watching the presidential debates together, the first one with our children.  Four year old Mercy is 100% for Barack Obama, and six year old Liberty is 100% for Mitt Romney.  Jeremy and I grin at each other and ask the girls questions.  "Why do you like him more than the other guy?"

Liberty insists Governor Romney has the best ideas for our country and he wants to do what is right.  Mercy tells us just as emphatically that President Obama is the best one, and no one else should try to be the president when he already is -- that's simply not nice!  Neither one of them will budge from their position.

While I listened to the second debate full of binders and Big Bird, I heard Obama accuse Romney of wanting to cut government funding to Planned Parenthood which offers free mammograms and cervical cancer screenings to women who cannot afford to pay for them (see first 30 seconds of video clip below).


I listened, and I frowned to myself, recalling vaguely somewhere in the back of my mind that Planned Parenthood does not actually provide mammograms and cervical cancer screenings to anyone at all.  Now where had I heard that?

The next day, my friend and I did some research.  Okay, Allie did the research while I asked her questions.  Is that better?  And here is what she found.  After the President's comments at the debate, a group called Live Action investigated Planned Parenthood's claims about mammograms and found that the organization does not -- not anywhere in the United States -- perform mammograms or cervical cancer screenings.  None.  Anywhere.  What the organization does instead is direct women to the state funded program already in place and already being funded by our tax dollars.  Here's the link to that investigation.

My friend Allie was astonished at this finding.  She is part of a women's group that annually raises money to donate to women-related cause.  Up until this past February, they always donated their proceeds to the Susan B. Komen Foundation which supports breast cancer research.  However, last year, Komen quit sending money to Planned Parenthood because they realized PP was simply sending women to other places for anything having to do with breast cancer.  Why should Komen support them when Komen's focus is on breast cancer only?  However, Allie's group did not realize the facts behind Komen's decision, and they chose not to donate their raised funds to the Komen Foundation because they assumed the Foundation's break with Planned Parenthood affected women wanting mammograms.  Here's a link to the research the Susan B. Komen Foundation did when making their decision to drop funding to Planned Parenthood.

With this startling new fact in hand, Allie and I wondered, where can women go who do not have insurance or who are unable to pay for screenings they desperately need?  So, we researched again.  Okay, okay, SHE researched again while I sat back and cheered her on.  Hey, moral support is a big deal, okay?  Here's what we found.  The CDC (Center for Disease Control) a service of the US government and funded by tax-payers, is already providing mammograms and cervical cancer screening to millions of under-insured or unemployed or low income women.  The Susan G. Komen Foundation is very actively seeking out organizations to support financially that provide these services to the same women who cannot afford it, and they have a list of them available for anyone looking.  Also, there is an organization called Pink Campaigns that travels with their mobile unit providing free screenings to groups of people at a time and giving classes and other education on early detection signs and prevention.  Locally, there are many hospitals, churches, businesses, etc. who are initiating events like this one to help women in need.


For me, the bottom line turned out to be that President Obama lied during the debate -- cutting tax-payer dollars to Planned Parenthood will not affect women wanting free mammograms or cervical cancer screenings at all.  If a voter's only concern is that mammograms and cervical cancer screenings be available to anyone who needs them, then they should be happy to know that tax-payers are already funding the CDC (Center for Disease Control), an organization that actually IS providing those services that Planned Parenthood is not.

If the reviews of my children can be trusted -- and, oh yes, I think they can -- then I am no less than a culinary genius.  What?  Is that a horn tooting?

Exhibit A - Breakfast (I've named it cinnamon yogurt with apples because I'm creative like that.)
I spooned organic vanilla greek yogurt into bowls, swirled in some cinnamon and sprinkled beautiful cinnamon on top for effect, then served it with sliced gala apples to be used as edible utensils.  Liberty has since begged to be served this for breakfast on her birthday.  Definitely a score for me!





 Exhibit B - Lunch (spaghetti squash with "sauce" -- feel free to help me name this.)
I bravely tried the timed bake setting on my oven since I would be out right up until lunch time, AND IT WORKED!  I didn't mess it up!  (That alone should earn me Culinary Genius status.)  I set the oven to turn on and off while I was out, and I prayed that the house wouldn't burn down.  Then I placed a whole, uncut spaghetti squash on a baking sheet, and baked it at 375 for one hour.  I returned home after the oven had shut off, but before it had cooled down.  I cut the squash in half, scraped out the seeds, used a fork to scratch the flesh out into noodles and set them onto our plates.  Then I chopped up two ripe tomatoes from my friend's garden, one medium onion, and one clove of garlic and sauteed them all in the skillet along with some dried oregano and basil.  It. Was. A. Maze. Zing.  Amazing, I tell you.  I didn't even need my children's opinions to decide that, but they also agreed and asked for seconds.


Truthfully, I'm not posting this because it is blog-worthy, but because I want to remember these recipes.  My brain gave up on me long ago, so it is with great humility that I accept this title -- and maybe with just a wee bit of bragging.

No, that would take too long; let me sum up.

It has been a year since I first received word that my grandpa was in failing health.  Six months passed while I knew he was dying, and willing my heart to say goodbye was hard.  My posting slowed and stayed confined to silly things, ignoring the deeper grief inside.  In March, my grandpa passed on, and while I know the last thing he would have suggested would be for me to tie a black ribbon around my blog and observe a few months of silence, that's what my heart required.  Who can write when the ache is so sharp?  Words do not approach feelings so deep.


August ended.  Liberty and Mercy tripped off to school, swinging their lunch bags and waving wildly.  "Goodbye!  Goodbye!"  I made a plan full of organization and full-time writing to utilize the school day hours.  Excitement thrilled me; changes always effect me so -- a whole new life!  I wondered if I was up to all the discipline required to make it work.

The phone rang bringing with it an unexpected detour.  Would I like to babysit full-time?  I've thought of that path many times in the past, sometimes even taking a few steps but never pursuing it.  Would I like to babysit?  Uh, maybe.  Let's see how it goes.

So I began babysitting a precocious little three-year-old, but my brain and heart had already anticipated the plan full of organization and full-time writing, and it struggled to switch gears with me.  Several weeks passed while I tried to pull my brain back to the present, but it stubbornly ran ahead expecting to sit down and WRITE at any minute.  It would not readjust itself into the current time.  How do you capture a wayward head?  I finally had to say, "No.  Babysitting is not for me.  Not at this time, anyway.  I'll wait while you find someone else."

And a funny thing happened while I pondered why exactly this babysitting wasn't working.  I remembered my old days with my little girls and all the fun we had (okay, all the fun I had) playing school.  I remembered the curriculum I wrote and the crafts I came up with.  I remembered the thrill of watching their eyes light up with acquired knowledge and listening to them repeat learned information when I was no longer feeding it to them.  I remembered the schedule and the organization as well as the natural flexibility of the days.  I remembered how much I loved teaching official "school" at the dining room table and how much I loved sneaking "school" in when they had no idea they were learning: on nature walks, in the grocery store, at garage sales, in the library.  This babysitting wasn't working because I was trying to live my new adult-on-her-own life with a little kid trailing along behind, and it just doesn't fit that way.  That has never been God's design because children are too important.

Since I have said "No," I do not know how much longer I will be babysitting, but still I sat down to reorganize my days.  I pulled out the old curriculum and crafts and scribbled out items that needed be placed into our new weekly schedule.  Monday marked the first day of the new "school" year for the two of us, and today was the second.  We're already off to a bang-up start! 

And now you are all caught up.  :-)

The time was 4:36 p.m.  Having accomplished all my chores for the day and after reading aloud all 37 books the girls brought home from the library today (some of them twice), I felt I had earned a short break before starting supper.  Since we recently acquired bunk beds over the weekend, and since any new household items automatically becomes a plaything until the novelty wears off, I mentioned that the girls might like to go play "Castle" using their new bunk beds.  To facilitate the experience, I even pulled out some sparkly pink curtains that I intend to permanently fasten in some way around their beds.  I tucked the curtains temporarily beneath the top mattress and allowed them to hang down around the bottom mattress to form a boudoir worthy of a princess (or two) in the bottom bunk.

With the two girls happily exclaiming over their new castle, I felt it was now safe to gather a throw pillow or two and stretch out on the couch in the living room for ten minutes of peace before starting supper.

It was not safe to do so.

Mercy came prancing into the living room as though she were flying.  "I'm Suuuuperhero Merrrrrcy!" she announced and struck a Mighty Mouse pose -- chin up, shoulders back, chest out, hands on hips -- near my pillowed head.

My eyes had not even had time to close.  "Mmm, hi, Superhero Mercy," I greeted her quietly.

"Hi, Mommy!  Our princess curtains fell down!"

Ah.

"And I am Suuuuuuperhero Merrrrrcy!"

Aha.  "That means you can fix it, Superhero Mercy."

In a cartoon announcer voice she answered, "Yes!  I can!  With the help of...  SuuuuuuuperMommy!"

When did she get old enough for this stuff?

Waaaaah, the anguished wail pierced the air just before three year old Mercy Jane came running out to me from the toy room holding her eye, her light brown pageboy haircut bouncing adorably with every step.  "Liberty poked me in the eye!" she complained.  Her fake-sounding cries continued on a monotone note, while tiny bits of tears dotted the corners of her eyes. 

From the toy room a voice called out defensively, "I wasn't trying to hurt her, Mommy!"  (Translation:  Maybe this will get me out of being in trouble.)

I bent to examine Mercy's eye -- no damage.  "Liberty!" I called out.

A second daughter came running from the toy room on lanky legs.  "I didn't mean to hurt her!" she insisted with arms stretch wide to emphatically accentuate her point.

"Okay, if it was an accident, then what do you do?"

My five year old heaved a heavy sigh and breathed out, "See if she's okay..."

I waited.

Nothing happened.  The two sisters stood side by side, one still whining, one frowning fiercely.

"Liberty," I prompted, "how is your sister doing?"

She glanced over at her sister.  "Um, I'm guessing either Good or Not Fine."

I blinked, then stifled a laugh.  'Good or Not Fine' I suppose she's right... "Try again, Sister," I told her.

She sighed again, not so heavily this time, and placed an arm around her sister.  "Mercy, I'm sorry for hurting you.  How are you doing; are you okay?"

"Not good."  Mercy replied, then she sniffed and added in a wavering voice, "I could feel better, but I need the princess crown," she pointed at the crown on Liberty's head.

Ah, emotional blackmail starts early, I see.

She didn't get away with it.