Saturday, November 18, 2017

Happy

Apparently my boss has been talking about me.  To his wife.  I know because she told me when we ran into each other in Hobby Lobby and I helped her with a craft project.

He's not sure why I'm so happy all the time.

This made me chuckle because I'm not sure if other people in my life would describe me as happy all the time or not.

I knew this conversation was the perfect opportunity for me to tell my boss' wife all about what God has done for me and how I can have joy even if it doesn't match my circumstances.

Instead of delivering an eloquent speech salted with the Holy Spirit, I clumsily said, "It's God.  God is the reason I'm so happy."  Insert awkward silence.  Then I changed the subject back to what we were originally talking about.  I felt like a kid in Sunday school who didn't understand the question but shouted "Jesus!" as if it was surely the answer.

But I haven't stopped thinking about it since.

There's so much I could've said!

Plus I started evaluating myself.  How happy am I?  How much of my joy do I let leak out to other people?  Why is it so easy for me to compartmentalize my life stress so I can always be cheerful at work?  Don't other people in my life deserve the same cheerfulness?

Here's what I've come up with.

I think I really am happy.  I haven't always been, and I won't always be, but I'm happy in this season of my life.

I treasure my kids.  I love them like mothers love their children.  But I also savor my babies.  Because we've been through the fire and we are mostly on the other side.  Still standing.  All together.

Imagine someone you loved deeply who has passed away.  Now imagine that you got that person back.  That is basically the life I am living.

I didn't know if my son was alive or dead.  He did not look alive.  First responders didn't know if he would be revived.  Four hours later, when I finally got to see him, he was on life support with no sign of life within him.  Minutes passed like weeks for I-don't-know-how-long.  I lost my baby, and then I got him back.

There's has not been one day since that hasn't been affected by that accident.  Every.  Single.  Day.  I am aware that Griffin's mere presence is a gift.  And I can't help but feel the same way about my other two children.  And my husband, for that matter.  My husband, who is the winner of the title Best Husband Ever.  For realz.  It took months to heal from the trauma of what we went through, but we are finally healed enough to bask in the awesomeness of being a whole family.

So every morning my alarm goes off and I grumpily hit snooze until panic tells me that we're all going to be late unless I get up NOW.  I sleepily uncrumple myself and head directly to the kitchen for coffee.  But I come around the corner and see precious, soft Griffin at the table.  He's alone, eating breakfast, reading his book.  He's in just underwear and he is the softest thing ever created.  His hair is crazy and his cheeks are begging to be kissed.  And I am eerily aware of this alternate life path where Griffin didn't receive miraculous healing, and my morning walk to the coffee pot would not include the detour to kiss his sweet face.  So I kiss him a few extra times.  And maybe just once (twice) more.

Then I have the task of waking Nora, which is roughly like slaying a dragon with my hands tied behind my back and shackles on my feet.  But her long, lean body is tucked snugly under her blankets, and only her mass of wild, living hair is visible.  When I kiss her warm, smooth cheeks, she wakes just enough to tell me what she wants for breakfast.  She often croaks out, "Please and thank you."

As I make Nora's breakfast, Nolan groggily saunters into the kitchen.  He makes his own eggs for his breakfast and then he makes and packs his own lunch.  He cares if his outfit matches and if his hair looks good.  I notice that today he looks 0.1% less like a boy and more like a man than yesterday.

And I know that I get to enjoy them exactly like this for this morning only because tomorrow morning they will be a whole day older and closer to being teens and then adults.  I have no idea what it will be like when I can't just kiss their faces whenever I want to.  I know how each of their skin smells.  I won't always be able to hold them and savor their physical closeness like I do now.  So morning time with my kids is one of my favorite things about my life right now.

Things get a little crazy when I am trying to get ice packs in lunches and lunches in back packs and kids in their shoes and coats and oh wait the water bottles and oh we have one minute to get in the car and why am I not wearing any socks?

But then there's this part of my day that fills my heart to overflowing.  Once we back out of the driveway and head toward the boys' school, we enter an adventure that we have created together.  We mentally catalog the color of every leaf right now.  We note the fact that there will be fewer leaves tomorrow.  We are searching everywhere for the rare sighting of "Mario."  He is an older gentlemen who walks in our neighborhood wearing a red track suit and a red cap with an M on it.  We only see him once every few weeks.  But when we spot him, it's the most exciting thing that has happened in weeks.

Then we drive by Lonely Lake.  We have named it this because of how often it is void of animal life, which prompts me to do this low-toned sing-songy thing where I say "Lonely Lake" in a way that sounds like a foghorn.  But then there are days when we see a couple of ducks or a gaggle of geese.  That makes us happy, and we cheer because Lonely Lake isn't lonely!

Next is the spot where we can see Wilson School between the trees and we shout, "Oh Mr. Wilson!"  We drive by Duck Bottom Pond, where we used to always see ducks diving for something (we make up what they are actually diving for).  If we spot a duck on the pond, we yell "Duck bottoms!!" as loudly as possible.

This school year we have the added bonus of watching two houses being built just past Duck Bottom Pond.  Each day we look to see what's new as we track the progress.  But then we get to the stop sign where we can see the factory stacks pumping out smoke.  I ask, "What are they making at the factory today?"  Each child takes a turn answering, which usually fills our drive until we reach the school.

Once the boys are dropped off, Nora and I have a tiny bit of girl time.  We get one bonus driving adventure.  We drive by a ditch that has been filling with water for quite some time.  A month or so ago, we noticed one male duck and one female duck floating on the water.  We have decided that they are teenage ducks secretly in love and they meet at this oversized puddle each morning.  But all last week there was no sign of the duck couple.  We assumed the parents discovered their forbidden romance and grounded the teenage ducks.  We are holding out hope that they will one day be together again.

By the time I drop off Nora at her school at 8:25, I am bursting at the seams with joy from my children.  I can hardly believe that I get to do this Mom thing.

Three days a week, I head immediately to work from Nora's school.  My work is about 15 seconds away from the school.  I enjoy chatting with patients and love getting to know my coworker.  I've been there since September, so I'm finally feeling confident in what I'm doing (about 80% of the time...).  I earn just enough money to help pay off the medical bills from Griffin's accident (yuck).  I get out of the house and feel useful.  I have a reason to do my hair and makeup, and yet I get to wear scrubs to work.  And then I leave at lunch time and still have two hours to run errands, do home tasks, etc.

Basically, what I'm saying is...I get to live my dream.  I am disgustingly in love with my husband.  I have three children who are alive and thriving.  I get to work and be home.

All of this ridiculous happiness is juxtaposed against the last two years of hell.  I love every 3.5 hour shift of work because I spent a year homebound with Nolan.  Instead of driving my son to endless pointless doctor appointments, I am earning money to pay off medical bills.  Instead of trying to sit Nolan upright to do school work at our kitchen table, I'm making up adventures on our drive to school.  Instead of aching for the son we lost in unexpected tragic accident in our back yard, I'm listening to him learn Chinese and practice piano while his hair is crazy and his clothes don't match.

This season makes me happy because of the season we just came out of.  And I know there will be tough seasons ahead.  Which is all the more reason to be annoyingly happy about life right now.

And let's not pretend that things are perfect.  My kids fight with each other and leave the lights on and toothpaste on the counter and whine about going to each other's events and never go to bed when I want them to.  I'm at least 20 pounds overweight, my hair color is wrong, and I have digestive issues every darn day.  Our van needs new tires and decides if it wants to start when I tell it to.  The dishes are never done and our house is never clean for more than four minutes.  And precious Nolan still has his headache 24 hours per day.

But I have the choice of which things to focus on, and right now I can't help but be grateful for the good.  You know why?  Because of God.

God brought us through all of that insanely hard stuff.  God gave me strength when I was all out.  He helped Nolan find a way to do life again even though he is still in pain.  He literally brought Griffin back to life.  He gave Nora the gifts of humor and creativity.  He gave me the desire to have children and then fulfilled that desire.  He created Jared to be this exceptional man, and then He brought Jared and me together.  He blessed us with a home and two cars and food and clothes and the ability to walk and run and play basketball and tumble.  My kids are doing great in school, I'm learning a new job, and Jared is still employed after his company has gone through multiple rounds of layoffs.

So every morning I thank God for a full night of sleep (because I didn't always get this).  I read a quick devotion and truly aim to put into practice what it says.  Today.  I want to know God more today and live more for Him today.  And I thank Him for my kids as we do our morning routine, and I pray for Him to help my friends and people who are going through difficult stuff.  I know that every good thing in my day is a gift from God.  Every hard thing in my day is something God chose to include and He has a plan to use it.

So these are the things I wish I could have said when asked why I'm so happy.  It's probably a bit much to explain in the aisles of Hobby Lobby, but I had to get it out or I would burst!

Jessica

Saturday, September 30, 2017

Halloween Costume Sleeve Fix

My friend Michele found the perfect Halloween costume for her daughter Abby.  Abby is a petite 7-year-old girl, and Michele ordered her costume in size 8-10.  They were so excited when it arrived.  Until Abby tried it on and discovered that the sleeves were too tight.  Really?!  Why is this the story with basically all Halloween costumes?  The sizing is terrible.

This is Abby's costume.  It's a Nom Nom.

One of my favorite things about being able to sew is that I can fix things.  So Abby's costume came to stay with me for a bit.

I had to give it some thought but here's what I came up with for the fix.

I carefully used my seam ripper to remove the stitching from the seam under the sleeve (running from the armpit to the sleeve band).

I cut strips from some scraps of interfacing, and ironed them onto the sleeve fabric on either side of the seam I just opened up.  This step may not have been necessary, but I could see that the costume fabric was very cheap and would rip easily.  So I just wanted to reinforce it.

I pressed each edge under (toward the inside of the sleeve).

I cut a piece of elastic from scraps I had on hand.  I didn't measure.  I just eyeballed it on one sleeve and cut the other piece of elastic to match.

I sewed along each side of the sleeve opening, attaching the elastic as I sewed.  I tried to line up the elastic with the sleeve band.




I did the same thing with her other sleeve.  Her costume has one blue sleeve and one pink sleeve.


I was going to call it done, but then I remembered that I am the proud owner of a wheel of Sharpies.


I colored the elastic on each sleeve.  It's not amazing but will hopefully blend better with the costume.



Done!


Jessica

Saturday, September 16, 2017

In All Things

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.            Romans 8:28

I have always loved Romans 8:28 because it was my grandpa's favorite verse.  He wrote my grandma letters when they were dating and he would always sign his name at the end and write "Romans 8:28" under his name.


As I grew into adulthood, I started to dig into the verse to find out what it looks like in real life.  Sometimes I can see exactly how God is working things together in my life, and sometimes it seems as though He dropped a few stitches while knitting events together in my day-to-day.

The week before this past one was comically bad.  It became the week of stuff breaking.  Our garage door wouldn't stay down.  Our four-year-old fridge stopped working.  I injured my back while doing my hair.  DOING MY HAIR, people.  And finally, my car tried to break down and leave me stranded a half hour from home. 

I had to just start working on each problem.  I tried solutions to get the garage door down.  Eventually it started working again.  We got a small fridge and saved the food we could.  Jared started making calls to see if we could get a refrigerator repair man out and if it could be covered under warranty.  I called the chiropractor Nolan had seen and made an appointment for my first ever adjustment.  In the meantime I took shallow breaths and tried not to move.  My brother came over to look at our van and see if he could help us fix it.  We also made an appointment to take it into the dealership to be looked at.

Life went on.  We continued to work through life with a sore back, small fridge, questionable van, and general life fatigue. 

This past week I had the privilege of seeing some of the broken pieces being put back together for my good.  Not all of them, mind you.  But enough to remind me that God knows what He is doing.

I went to see the chiropractor.  He pointed out how tense my back was.  Um, duh.  That's where I keep my stress.  And there's been a bit of stress lately.  He began to untangle whatever mess had happened when I was doing my hair.  He also suggested that I come up with a better story for how I hurt my back.  I was too tired to think creatively.

When I went back for my follow-up appointment for my back, the chiropractor told me that two of the girls who work for him were quitting due to one having a baby and the other having surgery.  He asked if I'd be interested in working for him part-time.  I haven't had an official job in 11 years, but this opportunity started taking shape as the perfect next job for me.  I prayed about it and talked to Jared, and my excitement grew to a level I haven't experienced in a while.

Yesterday we had an appointment for our van to get worked on as well as an expectation that a refrigerator repair man would be coming to our house some time between 3:00am and 11:30pm.  You know how that goes.  So Jared made arrangements to work from home.

We were able to cancel the van appointment thanks to my brother's help.  But Jared still worked from home so he could meet the fridge guy while I took kids to school.

After I dropped off my kids at their various schools, I went to a friend's house to meet her precious new baby.  Mere minutes after I got my hands on that soft tiny baby, one of the other ladies there saw a truck crash into my van as it sat parked on the street.

I didn't even get upset.  I continued to hold the baby while someone else went out to assess the damage.  I was quickly summoned out to see my crunched van.  The man who hit my car was sincerely apologetic and took full responsibility.  He actually works for a local insurance company.  My van was not driveable so he said he would start the claim and get me a rental car.  He kept apologizing, and much to my own dismay, I just wasn't upset at all.  Accidents happen.  After all the crud we have been through, this just didn't seem like a big deal.


Now you may or may not know this about me, but I hate making phone calls.  It's a part of adulting that I just haven't settled into.  Thankfully, Jared was just a few blocks away from our crunched van thanks to everything else breaking down and his arrangement to work from home for the day.  So he came over to talk to the guy who hit the van and get all the necessary info and call our insurance company.  He took care of the van incident while I went for my last chiropractor appointment, where I also made final arrangements to start working next week.

It was a crazy morning, but I just kept thinking how thankful I was that Jared was home to help me.  I truly could not have survived the day without him.  I had friends who also helped with the morning by taking pictures of the damage, offering help with my kids, and even lending me a vehicle so I could make my chiropractor appointment.

God had set up a series of dominoes the week before, knowing where they needed to fall this week.  The back injury led to my new job.  The broken van led to very enjoyable time with my brother.  The broken fridge led to Jared being there when I needed him.

It's tempting to think things like:
  • Why did my van even have to get hit?
  • What does the broken garage door have to do with anything?
  • Wasn't there an easier way to accomplish what God wanted to do?
I have to consciously steer my mind away from these questions.  I tell myself that God was doing things I don't have to fully understand.  Sometimes I fill in my own explanation, like He let enough stuff break that I would get to the point of simply laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

I'm just thankful He let me see enough connections to reinforce my trust in Him.  I understand enough to go along with what I don't understand.

I discovered something new about Romans 8:28 as I typed it in this blog post.  It doesn't say that God works all things for our good.  It says that God works IN all things for our good.  There is a huge difference.  He doesn't have to tie every single thread together.  His promise is that He is working in all things.  He's doing something in all circumstances.  I don't always see how one cause is linked to an effect, but I can always trust that God is working.  

In relationships.  In broken things.  In chaos and stress.  In schedule changes and next big opportunities.  In excitement and exhaustion.

God is working.  In all things.  For our good.

Jessica

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Belong

I recently pulled some treasures out of storage.

I inherited most of my grandmother's sewing supplies when she passed away because I myself spend a fair amount of time sewing.  But I put Grandma's sewing supplies into our storage unit when we moved, and I haven't really touched them since.

Part of me didn't really want to use Grandma's things because they were too special.  But I've healed enough from losing her to realize that using her sewing supplies is like spreading her love around.

So I went to the storage unit and grabbed a few things I can use.



Some of these antique buttons are exquisite.  They are beautiful.  Some have a neat story because of what they were originally used for (a wedding dress, a handmade coat, etc.). 



Some of the items are more useful than beautiful.  Zippers and snaps that can finish off projects and make things functional.

Each and every item is breathtaking to me.  Not because of how they look or what they can do.  They're priceless because of who they belonged to.

This afternoon I made my sister two pillow covers, and I used Grandma's zippers to close the covers.  I could have chosen the exact same zippers brand new from the store, but just knowing the zippers were Grandma's will make them instantly special to my sister, too.

They are special because of their owner.

The same is true for us.  You and I may look beautiful or work well, but the real reason why we are so valuable is because of who we belong to.

I belong to God.  You belong to God.  We are His. 

I've seen a lot of parents with their kids' names tatooed on their bodies.  Isaiah 49:16 says that God has engraved us on the palms of His hands.  If you believe in God, that Jesus is the Son of God, and that Jesus died for your sins to give you eternal life, then you belong to God.  Your name is engraved on the palm of His hand. 

"My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.  I gave them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand."  John 10:27-28

There's a lot you can do well in this life.  But the true reason you are so valuable is not what you do or how you appear but to whom you belong.

You are treasured because you are His.

Jessica

Monday, September 4, 2017

Shirts for a Broken Arm

Our little friend Garrit recently flipped off his bike, causing him to dislocate his elbow and break a bone in his arm.  He is in a soft cast with pins in his elbow at the moment, and his mom told us that getting him dressed in an extremely difficult task.

Yesterday while I was sitting in church, and idea hit my brain out of nowhere (Divine inspiration!).  I thought I'd share it with you just in case someone else out there has the misfortune of trying to dress someone in a cast.

We dug through the boys' closets and came up with two shirts we could give Garrit.  He doesn't like to wear button-up shirts, so we knew we needed to use t-shirts.

I started by cutting the shirt at the side seam.  Garrit broke his left arm so I cut the left side of the shirt.  I cut all the way up the side and the underside of the sleeve.

I drew the orange line to show where I cut the shirt.

I folded in a little fabric from the cut and pressed it.  I didn't measure, but I'd guess it was somewhere between 1/4-1/2 inch.


*IMPORTANT:  On the front side of the shirt, press the 1/4 inch or so toward the wrong side of the fabric (inside of the shirt).  On the back side of the shirt, press the fabric toward the right side (outside/back side of the shirt).  You'll see why later.

I was planning to use pieces of Velcro, so I wanted the edges to be nice.  Therefore, I sewed a zig-zag stitch over the edge of the fabric I had just pressed.  I later changed my Velcro plan and realized this zig-zag step wasn't really necessary.


I happened to have some black sew-on Velcro on hand.  I had picked it up on clearance at Hobby Lobby who-knows-how-long ago.  Because I have a problem.  But my little problem with buying clearance items at Hobby Lobby benefits Garrit in this case.  My Velcro is one long strip but you can also buy it in squares or circles.  I am lazy so I decided to sew one long strip onto the shirt so I didn't have to start and stop a bunch with little spots of Velcro. 

I placed the rougher side of the Velcro on top of the zig-zag stitching on the back of the shirt, lining up the Velcro strip with the edge of the shirt.  I sewed a straight stitch all the way around the Velcro strip.  I decided to do one long strip of Velcro down the side of the shirt and one short strip along the sleeve edge.


I did the same process to sew on the softer strip of Velcro on the front side of the shirt.  Remember that the Velcro on the front side of the shirt needs to be on the back of the shirt fabric, and the Velcro on the back of the shirt needs to be on the right side of the shirt.  (Wow, that was confusing!)


On the back side of the Velcro, you can see the original zig-zag stitching as well as the stitching around the Velcro.

Now the shirt can be closed by pressing the Velcro strips together.  The front of the shirt overlaps the back of the shirt.  

Also I chose to put the scratchy and soft parts of the Velcro where I did so that if they come askew, the softer part of the Velcro will be facing Garrit's skin.






Now Garrit can put the shirt on over his head and put his good arm in the sleeve.  Then his mom can carefully wrap the shirt around his torso and hurt arm and Velcro it.  He doesn't have to go through the agony of trying to lift his arm and wrestle it through the sleeve.

Plus Garrit LOVES Star Wars so he's just pumped to have a new Star Wars shirt.

I wanted to try one other method for a cast-friendly shirt.  We had a Marvel shirt my boys had outgrown, and it is that soft, worn-in kind of tshirt.  

I cut the side and under the sleeve just as with the other shirt.  I folded over 1/4 inch or so from the cut edge and pressed.  I did not waste time with the zig-zag step.

I bought some snap tape from Hobby Lobby.  It comes in black or white.  Since the shirt is orange and neither really matches, I just chose the white.

I put the zipper foot on my sewing machine and got to work sewing the snap tape onto the shirt.  It's a similar process to sewing on the Velcro except the snaps like to fight with the presser foot for space.  The snap tape is flexible enough to sew one continuous strip up the side of the shirt and the underside edge of the sleeve.

Another tip:  try not to stretch the tshirt as you sew.

Here's the second shirt:









I put the strip with the pokey halves of the snaps on the back of the shirt so the pokey parts are facing away from Garrit.  Just in case.

He's going to try out both shirts and tell me if he prefers the Velcro or the snaps.

Life in a cast is hard, and I'm just hoping these modified shirts help Garrit with one task in his day!

Jessica

Thursday, March 23, 2017

The Cost of a Miracle

As Jared and I sat together in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, he said to me, "If you blog about this, don't overthink it.  Just write what you need to write."  So I'm taking his advice.  This isn't in chronological order or any kind of logical order because logic has left the building, and signs show no indication of when it will return.  A few of you know the details of our ordeal.  To the rest of you, I hope you never know.  Then the details won't haunt you like they haunt me.  You just need to know that on a Friday night, our middle son Griffin had a horrific accident in our very own back yard that led to him being on life support.  We went through hell.  We came out on the other side, and we brought Griffin home with us, but we can't go back to before our lives changed forever.


It was St. Patrick's Day.  The hospital chaplain had a silky green scarf tucked in the collar of his button-up shirt.  The nurses were wearing green tops.  Our worst nightmare had a color.


God did an actual miracle by bringing Griffin back from the brink of death.  You think that elation will be the overriding emotion.  But it isn't.  Because you don't feel your emotions in real time.  Your mind tries to suppress your emotions so you can get through each moment.  But they leak past your defenses and the reality hits you for a moment and it's unbearable.  So all of that emotion gets logged to be processed later in a less critical moment.  By the time the miracle happens and the news is good, your log is full and it's time to start processing the harder stuff first.  That's why I ended up in a crippling panic attack the day after Griffin woke up.

The triggers are everywhere.  The night we came home from the hospital, I was putting away my kids' clean laundry that had been lovingly washed, dried, and folded by my precious friend.  I was so thankful.  The blinds were open just enough that I spotted the blue plastic sled in the back yard.  And I remembered.  The sled was on the muddy side yard hill as I ran, leading the firemen to my lifeless son in the back yard.  I yelled for Nolan to move the sled so no one would trip on it.  My bare feet squished into the mud as I ran.  The bottom hems of my black pajama pants skimmed the mud and I could feel the wet fabric slap my ankles.  I'm never safe from the onslaught of painful memories.

A team of sweet friends went to our house on Sunday to try to erase all evidence of Friday.  They threw away the popcorn Jared had just popped for our family movie night (the very reason we were calling the kids in from playing in the back yard).  They washed dishes and did laundry.  They organized and wiped and vacuumed.  They restored order to our home.  They put up a banner in Griffin's room and filled his bed with yellow smiley face balloons.  One of the dear friends said to me, "Don't look in the back yard.  But if you do, we've put Bible verses on all the windows."  Sure enough, every window facing the back yard had verses to cover over the image and remind us that God had never left us.  When I thought I had seen everything they did, and I had cried all I had left to cry, I went into my bathroom and found one more sign:


These ladies somehow understood that we had much hard work ahead of us.

Their incredible work made such a difference.  But we still found ourselves assaulted by the mental replay at unexpected times.

The day after we came home from the hospital, I was preparing Nora's back pack for school.  Her folder still had papers she had brought home from school.  On top of the stack was a freshly printed picture of Jared and the kids, with Griffin standing tall in the middle.  It had been taken Thursday night at a school function.  I had been volunteering at one of the stations, so I wasn't in the family picture.  It was our last night of "before."  The picture nearly undid me, and I couldn't help but think what it would have done to me if we hadn't brought Griffin home.

Jared says we have Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.  He said if you were in a battle and got shot, even if you survived and you won the battle, you still have to deal with the fact that you got shot.  He added, no offense to those who have actually fought in battles.  Men and women come home from war, and they struggle to cope with what they have seen and experienced.  Normal doesn't quite fit.  This is us.

I discovered that there are lots of types of crying, more than I ever knew before.  We are all familiar with the silent streaming tears.  Squinchy-faced hard suppressed crying that produces an instant headache.   Lump in the throat accompanied by tears that fill the lower lids to the brim but don't spill over.  In the ambulance as I rode up front and listened to the paramedics working on my baby boy, I literally grasped my face with both hands and cried with all my might.  I didn't produce much noise but certainly lots of tears.  At times I uttered indistinguishable noises as I simply shook my head.  The form of crying I found myself most often engaged in was a style completely new to me.  It included heaving that started in my chest and came out my mouth.  Deep forceful breaths that involved my whole body.  But oddly not many tears.  Dehydration was an actual factor, but I also think this new form of crying was reflective of a new level of anguish.  I highly recommend sticking with one of the other forms of crying previously mentioned.

Today I thought of the story in the Bible where Jacob wrestled with an angel all night.  He refused to let the angel go until he blessed him.  The angel touched Jacob's hip and hurt it, but he ultimately blessed Jacob.  Jacob limped away with his blessing.  I wrestled with God in that hospital.  I got what I asked for, but I came away limping.

One thing that has been such a blessing in all this is that Jared and I are processing things roughly the same.  If one of us was fine and the other was struggling, this would be exponentially harder.  Because this isn't how I expected to feel after having my son's life miraculously restored.  But Jared feels all the same things I do, so I must not be too crazy.  Jared went back to work the day after we came home from the hospital (which turned out to be way too soon).  He left me a note that morning that said, "I'm still in so much pain."  Those words connected us.

Last night my dad came over and stayed with the kids so Jared and I could be alone together.  It was our first alone time since "it happened."  We could think of nothing else to talk about, so we dove into saying all the things that won't stop bouncing around our minds, but we don't feel it's appropriate to say them out loud.  I had spent the previous week rearranging the kids into three separate rooms (Griffin and Nora shared before).  In the hospital I thought things like, what will I do when Griffin's bedding and desk arrive?  I had already ordered them.  They were already coming and I couldn't stop them.  But I could already envision my meltdown when some unsuspecting UPS man delivered a nightmare to my house.  And that's just one of the many morbid thoughts that I had no outlet for until Jared and I sat in our van eating salads (the first natural-looking food we had had in days) and exchanging thoughts.

Jared and I discussed the spiritual components of our ordeal.  I told him I was considering titling this blog post "The Time I Told God No."  I rode in the ambulance to the hospital.  Longest ride of my life.  As soon as they wheeled Griffin out of the ambulance at the hospital, they told me I had to leave him.  A chaplain soon came and escorted me to a private room.  I've seen tv shows.  I know what chaplains and private rooms mean.  My inner mantra was "breathe in, breathe out, don't puke."  Over and over.  Trying to form words felt like an impossibly hard task.  The effort required was the oral equivalent of doing an Ironman triathlon in the mud with no arms or legs.

As I sat motionless trying to obey my own mantra, I remembered two facts at the same time.  One, my current book for daily reading had been "Through the Eyes of a Lion" by Levi Lusko.  It's written by a man, who happens to be a pastor, whose daughter passed away very suddenly of an asthma attack.  The book is about how God can use pain.  And two, I had just been to see the movie "The Shack."  It's about a man whose daughter is abducted and killed, and he journeys through the hardest questions in life to make peace with God and with his loss.  I remembered these two facts back-to-back, and I very clearly and succinctly told God, "NO."  I'm no dummy.  I can hold these facts together and see how He was preparing me, and I simply told Him no.  I mom-voiced God.  I'm not proud that this was my response.  At some point during our hell, Jared prayed out loud and his prayer included, "We know that Griffin is yours..."  My insides fought Jared's words.  You can have opinions about my reaction if you want, but please form them after you have seen your own child in a lifeless state.

This actually wasn't the first time we pleaded for Griffin's life.  When I was 20 weeks pregnant with him, our doctor found choroid plexus cysts in Griffin's brain that could indicate a fatal genetic disorder called Trisomy 18.  We had to wait two long weeks to see a specialist who would tell us whether Griffin would live or die.  It was a very dark time as we pleaded and waited.  When we saw the specialist, he saw a healthy baby in my belly.  We told our family the good news and celebrated together.  We told them we had chosen Griffin's name because a baby name website told us that it means "great faith."

Griffin knows this story.  As Jared drove us home from the hospital, Griffin sat smiling in the back seat, the sun highlighting his impossibly soft face.  He said, "I'm a miracle twice."  Yes you are, Baby.

Griffin is a miracle.  He's a walking, talking, computer-hacking, British tea-drinking, piano-playing miracle.  I just never knew before that it could hurt so much to receive a miracle.  I suppose the really painful part is needing a miracle. Once you have been to a dark enough place that you can only be saved by a miracle, the experience will be forever imprinted on you, no matter the outcome.

My dad tried to help me through some of my spiritual questions by reminding me of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane.  He was deeply troubled so that his sweat was as blood.  My dad was telling me that if Jesus was that troubled over what God asked him to walk through, it's ok that I was terrified out of my mind when God asked me to walk through this horrific ordeal.

I started thinking about another Jesus example that could help me.  Most people know it as the shortest verse in the Bible:  "Jesus wept."  Do you know what made Jesus weep?  Lazarus was dead.  All throughout John chapter 11, Jesus knew that Lazarus would die and that Jesus would raise him back to life in order to glorify God.  He knew this plan while Lazarus was still alive, when he was sick, and when he died.  But when Jesus was actually with the grieving family members and saw their sorrow, he was deeply moved and he wept.  And then he performed the miracle.  So if Jesus wept even with complete assurance that Lazarus would live, I think it's alright that my emotions were blown to smithereens and I'm still picking up the pieces.

I know that time is needed to process all of this.  Everything is still so raw.  Tomorrow is Friday.  One week since the accident.  We were getting ready for our traditional Friday night family movie night when it happened.  Friday night family time has been our favorite thing for quite some time.  We look forward to it all week.  We protect it.  We cherish it.  Now I feel sick at the thought of it coming around again tomorrow.  I don't think I'm ready for the smell of Jared's freshly popped popcorn.  We still haven't gone in the back yard or let the kids go back there.  I hate all things related to St. Patrick's Day.  Someday when we are healed, we would like to celebrate Griffin's life on St. Patrick's Day.  But for now I get sick at the sight of all things green and/or shamrocky. 

There's so much I don't know so I choose to remember what I do know.  God never left us.  God preserved Griffin's life as well as his "Griffinness."  God continues to be our Rock and our only source of strength and hope.  He will make something good out of the pain we have been through.  For now we are living through the mess.

I couldn't think of a good way to end this, so I'm gonna take Jared's advice about not overthinking.  These are my thoughts for now.  This is what I have to give and where I am right now.  More to come, on and off the blog.

Jessica

Thursday, February 16, 2017

People

Yesterday I experienced my first ever shopping trip at Costco.  Jared and I have been secretly making fun of Costco and Costco fanatics since a store was built near us a couple years ago.  But we see the practicality of it and took the plunge.

I had an open morning and decided it was a good day to go browse and see what all the hype is about.

It felt so good to be out in the world.  It was chilly but the sun was shining, which always puts me in a great mood.  Leaving our city limits is a fairly rare experience for me, so it's both a cheap thrill and a possible panic attack.

I pulled into the lot and tried my best to guess which spot would be decent.  Are all Costco parking lots as zig-zaggy and maze-like as ours?  I noticed the driver of the car next to me was sitting in her car scratching off some sort of lottery ticket.  Then I noticed that other cars in the lot still housed their drivers.  A quick search on my phone revealed that Costco opens at 10:00 and I had arrived at 9:56.

Then one elderly man got out of his car and walked up to the big metal garage door of an entrance.  He planted his feet in a stance that let everyone know he was the first to go in when that door opened.  Next pandemonium broke out.  If he's lining up at the door, each of the other shoppers was most certainly lining up at the door.  Each driver quickly exited his or her vehicle, carrying boxes and shopping bags.  I was supposed to bring my own boxes and bags?!

They gathered in front of that big silver door.  They didn't form a line.  They were more like a mob of twitchy, anxious people, shifting their weight from hip to hip and silently shuffling an inch or two in front of the next person.  I couldn't help it.  I laughed out loud in my car.  And then I pulled out my book and read a chapter while the Black-Friday-on-a-random-Wednesday crowd fought for space and preference.

Because I don't particularly like crowds of people.  In fact, I struggle with people in general.  I'm an odd creature when it comes to people.  I love individual people.  And I mean I love them.  Fiercely.  Eternally.  But people as a general population...they're not my thing.

There is no place this is more apparent than when I am driving.  I can spend my whole morning smiling at fellow shoppers and chatting with clerks and shining my light for all to see.  Then I get behind the wheel to head home, and suddenly I can't stand anyone.  Every car I follow decides to go well under the speed limit.  Each driver wanting to turn onto my road decides he is the lucky one and only person who is not required to stop at the stop sign between him and me.  I grip my steering wheel and clench my jaw and sing along with my Christian radio through gritted teeth.

I was recently stuck behind a car driven by a woman who was going 7 miles under the speed limit.  I don't do under-the-speed-limit very well.  And SEVEN miles under??  That's a bit much.  But her speed was not her greatest offense.  The bigger issue was that she had MULTIPLE CATS WALKING AROUND HER CAR.  They were stretching in the back window and scratching at the ceiling between the front seats.  And she was PETTING THEM.  The crazy cat lady on wheels was paying more attention to her cats than to her car or her speed or the road and I held my breath in an attempt not to explode.

I'm still working on me.

I'm reading a book called "Carry On, Warrior" by Glennon Doyle Melton.  Her writing cracks me up, chokes me up, and makes me think.  Sometimes I relate to her so well, and other times I respectfully disagree.  But I always think about what I'm reading.

A line I read last week has been stuck in my brain and I have been savoring that thing like a rare candy.  She was discussing confidence and humility, which she says are two sides of the same coin.  Here's the quote I can't stop thinking about:
"I am confident because I believe that I am a child of God.  I am humble because I believe that everyone else is too."
So good, right?

I admit that I haven't figured out the confidence-humility thing.  This simple explanation has really propelled me forward.  It changes the way I see myself and other people.

Lately I've been trying to see people as, well, people.  Not as crabby store clerk, distracted waiter, disheveled mom in front of me in line.  I try to make eye contact and notice each individual and think about what else is behind them.  Somebody had a fight before they came to work.  Somebody will be going to care for an elderly parent after their shift.  Somebody is just doing the best with what she has.

This wasn't an intentional experiment with humanity.  After we came home from Cleveland and attempted to find "new normal," I found myself appreciating minute things.  This meant I noticed more and I offered gratitude more.  I had been the tired customer or the lady in the way or the mom who wasn't doing it all right, when in fact I just needed someone to see me as the weary soul who was one stumble away from falling and one kindness away from beginning to heal.

So I found myself interacting with people differently.  And before I knew it, I caught myself humming during normal daily activities.  Humming.  I don't hum when I'm out where all the people are.  But apparently I do.  Because being able to run out and buy what I need isn't an inconvenience but a privilege that I lost for a year.  All the moms of little ones probably know what I'm talking about. 

Today I went to the pharmacy to get some cold medicine for Griffin.  Two older ladies were in the same aisle, and one was shopping for cold medicine for her husband who is sick.  She kept talking about what a baby he is and how she was looking for something to knock him out, and pretty soon we were all laughing!

I've missed a lot of these moments while I've had my head down just trying to get my thing done and get home.  But I've benefited from the small kindnesses enough to know I want to hand them out. 

I even let another parent cut in front of me in the school car line this morning.

Baby steps.

Jessica