Removing the Dead from Within You

Last weekend I had an extra-special opportunity to sit under twinkling lights while chatting with friends up and down a beautifully arranged king’s table. Maybe you do this often, but I don’t. And because I don’t, I was able to enjoy every little detail, down to the comforting playlist that warmed my ears all night. Our friend was the chef who prepared the food, and every bite brought a smile to everyone’s face, but especially mine. Because the event was so fancy, though, I was forced to resist licking my plate.

At the end of the evening my friend handed me a gorgeous centerpiece, which I proudly carried home and placed on the center of my table. Chris and I thanked Gigi for watching the kids and we drifted to sleep dreaming of pear vinaigrette, sage infused brown butter, braised 28 day dry-aged bison short ribs, and of course the apple pie pot de creme that concluded the evening.

I’m still drooling.

Here we are now, five days later, and this morning I knew it was time to pull a few of the dying flowers out of the centerpiece. And as I did, I thought to myself how wonderful it is that a small act of removing the dead perks the rest of the thriving flowers up in a new and refreshing way. The ones still standing have a little more room to breathe, and a little more space to shine — no longer squished by the decaying ones — the ones that were clogging the vase.

I tossed a few into the garbage, replaced the water, and sat the vase back out on my table giving the happy blooms another chance to offer beauty to our home.

And while my morning chores may seem like a waste of time to read, I did wonder how many of us needed to do the same — but not with flowers, of course — with ourselves.

Stick with me.

Last night, right before bed, my husband Chris showed me a video of Botham Jean’s brother, Brandt, giving the most powerful final statement to the former police office who had shot and killed his brother. The brother looked at Amber Guyger in the eyes and said, “I forgive you … And I know if you go to God and ask Him, He will forgive you.”

Brandt stood up and hugged his brother’s murderer. Right there in the courtroom, at her sentencing. How is this possible?

I believe Brandt was removing the dead within him. What causes a living person to be dead inside? Anger, rage, bitterness, resentment, disgust, hate. Brandt, a man I do not know, made it publicly clear that he was choosing grace and life over unforgiveness and death.

Now, hear me. This is Brandt’s story. Not mine. Could I have done it? I don’t know. But I do know, as a Christ follower myself, that Brandt acted like Christ in that moment. He didn’t wish the worst for this woman — in fact he said, “I'm not going to say I hope you rot and die, just like my brother did. ... I personally want the best for you.”

I also don’t know Amber but I do believe that Brandt, if only for a moment, breathed life into the death that was trapped within her.

What is death within us? I’m not talking about illness or the actuality that one day your life will end. I’m speaking to the dying, decaying things within you that grip you and are causing your actual living, breathing life to wilt. Are you aware of anything in you that is causing decay? Can you think of some grudge you are holding. Sin you are keeping. Lie you are telling. Fear you are clutching that is keeping you from attempting something new?

If you’re reading this and you’ve made it this far — I imagine you know what yours is. And you know it’s not helping you — in fact it’s keeping you from moving forward because you’ve allowed it to go on so long that not only has it died within you but its rottenness is spreading to the other good parts of you.

Any chance you can vocalize what it is?

Any chance you can admit it out loud?

Any chance you can find someone to tell?

Maybe you’re having an affair. Maybe you’re sneaking a peek at some trashy stuff online. Maybe you’re hiding in the pantry eating alone in tears because you’re sad at the way life is going. Maybe you have allowed a dream to die too soon. Maybe your hopes of becoming (fill in the blank) have been replaced with lies that you tell yourself. Maybe you tell yourself you can’t get up to go to the gym, take a walk, or meet a friend for coffee because your anxiety or depression is holding you back.

Maybe if you spoke it out loud to someone you would see that’s how you start to remove the dead.

The more you pluck — the more dead you remove from within you — the more you give the bounty of what’s left of your life a chance to shine beauty to those around you.

What are you holding onto that needs to be removed?

About ten years ago, Chris and I got pregnant. It was a few months after we were married. We were excited and scared but thankful. I went to my first appointment for an ultrasound where the baby’s heartbeat was very slow. My doctor told us to wait two weeks and return. In that two weeks, that little baby’s heartbeat stopped and I was told to prepare for a miscarriage. They wanted me to do a DNC immediately. Well. No, I said. I’d like to wait and see what happens naturally. I mentally and emotionally had zero capacity to just remove the baby like it was something clogging my uterus. So, we waited. Nothing. A few days went by. Nothing. I started feeling really sad and heavy. My heart was heavy, my body felt heavy. Days went on. Nothing. The doctor said it was time. We scheduled my DNC and I cried through it. I didn’t want to lose this baby — even though my little baby’s heartbeat had already gone to be with the Lord.

I was carrying around death.

I woke up after my DNC feeling better. I went home and rested. My heart still ached but I felt lighter. My reality still existed but my body was healthier. I was able to start something new again. We remember that baby. But a year later we welcomed our daughter, Olive.

Our sad cleansing of my womb made room for a safe place for Olive to grow and thrive.

Are you holding on to something that is keeping you from thriving?

God says he is always making all things new. And no matter what you are holding on to — that means you, too.

“Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” Isaiah 43:18-19

Is there something you need to do today? Do yourself a favor and try.

Baby Fatigue

Please keep in mind this post is written from my post-4-baby-mind. Not from years in the medical field, nor hours studying books about post-pardum. It actually comes from a place of personal experience in hopes that it may encourage you or at least give you something to read while you nurse your baby or eat lunch at work.

I have delivered four babies. You may have delivered yours with an epidural like me, or without. You may have pushed for hours or for one. Your baby may have come out via cesarean on his due date or four weeks early. This post is for the mom who carried a baby in her womb, delivered it one way or another, picked it up from the hospital because you were given the gift of adoption — and brought the baby home. Which — in my humble opinion — is a miracle in and of itself.

In fact, back in my seminary days I heckled a professor for a long time on the issue of “is having a baby a miracle?” My answer was and will always be one-hundred percent yes. But when I asked this question it was soon after we had miscarried what was once a faint beating heart. I was sad and still carrying around with me the complexity of feeling pregnant but not being pregnant. So, I was a tough nail to crack when the professor said (loose quote) that within the confines of true miracles (something occurring that was never intended to happen), the creation of a human within a woman was not a miracle — it was God’s design.

That was just a tangent. Food for thought. But what I took away from that answer is that a miracle is when the impossible happens. Which is why I still stand by the idea that carrying, delivering and bringing home a healthy baby or two is nothing short of a miracle.

But even the most grandeur of miracles can be a blip on an otherwise expansive, lifelong timeline. The blip of birthing a baby is actually just the start to a huge commitment. We tend to idealize the idea of bringing home a baby and how it will warm the cold spots in our homes and hearts. But then find ourselves disappointed or confused when our physical postpartum response often suggests that the transition is more challenging than we expected.

And I think that is also by design. We tend to forget the challenges of bringing home a baby just long enough to produce a desire to have another one. Then when we are able to have another one, we remember.

I drew this bell curve this morning to help you see what I’m going to be talking about. This is my post-baby-delivery bell curve.

could i have drawn this better? yes. maybe. probably not. (now hiring free graphic designers)

At the top of the bell curve on the left is where you find your happiest self. You just delivered your baby and are holding it in your arms. WELCOME TO THE WORLD, LITTLE BABY! This is a very happy moment where you literally unloaded the most enormous weight your body has ever held. It’s not only a relief to see your baby’s face, it’s a relief to feel a portion of the heaviness removed from your hips. Your spouse and you high-five and for a few moments in time things are good. You start learning how to feed your baby and introduce it to friends and family. These are good days. You bring your baby home, it fits right into the tiny carriage you bought for it, the crib is just right, too. The baby likes his new room, your other child shows a sign of kindness you’ve never seen. Things are going smoothly as the baby sleeps and sleeps and sleeps. Your biggest concern is waking it up to feed him because if not he’d sleep all the day long.

Then after, say a month or two (or three or four or five — fill in with your own numbers), the baby wakes up. SAY WHAT LITTLE BABY, WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?! And you’ve got to rally. This is usually when you and your spouse decide who is taking what shift, who is responsible for diapers changes, who is responsible for feeding. This is when you start worrying about the cries of your newborn waking your other kids or your dog. You are feeling a little less bliss and a little more task-oriented. Baby training starts for some while others just lean in and nurse that baby as much as he or she wants. Either way, you, mom, are starting to feel the weight of the new baby. The honeymoon is over. Time to get to work. This is represented on the bell curve as “Functioning, No Sleep.” Everyone in the house is functioning with heavy eyes and shorter fuses. But there’s a smidge of newness still lingering, so it’s ok.

Then you enter what I like to call — the abominable abyss. It’s ugly. It’s dark. It’s gloomy. The fun has gone bye bye. Kicked from here to Mars. The dropped off meals have ended, family has returned home. You are on your own and living in an inexhaustible state of sleep deprivation. This is when you start wanting to run away with the circus, climb up a tree and never come down. This is when you start calling your husband “Brmph” because you can’t remember his name or have the energy to pronounce the syllables. This is when you turn on Netflix for your older kiddos and pray that they don’t start comparing you to the nasty old ice queen, Elsa. This is the longest season. As listed on my bell curve, his season lasts anywhere from five months (give or take) to five years (give or take a few years - just being honest here). It’s in this season that you may lose your ability to reason, think, process or laugh. It can be a tough season — often producing feelings of loneliness, anxiety and apathy. We feel alone even though we are surrounded by little humans all the time. It’s a hard season and as hard as your may fight to not fall prey to it — until you are sleeping — you may feel a little dark cloud over head.

But then.

Then one day.

Then one day you take a deep breath.

And realize.

You slept through the night.

Not just once, but twice.

Not just one week, but two.

The sleep deprivation is lessening and this is giving you a sense of return.

You are coming back.

You are almost back.

But it’s a new you. With every beautiful baby we are gifted with, we become a new person. As much as we want to believe we are the same person we once were, we just aren’t. Sure, our core remains but we are changed. Who I was when I was with my first baby is not who I am today.

Today I know a few more things than I did eight years ago, and that’s where the far right side of the bell curve comes in. Feeling free again is an act of God. Yes, sleep is one hundred percent a part of that, but accepting the new you and going into the world with the added responsibility of the new life or lives you have to care for, makes for a new version of yourself. Freedom here is found when you can embrace the beautiful road the Lord has given you — not comparing yours to any others. Not wanting to have something that you don’t have. It’s accepting that you have been given a task far greater than ever imagined — and that is to protect, guide and love the child(ren) you’ve been given.

That funny little word called freedom may look different to you once you get there. It may not be exactly what you had expected. It may include getting back to the gym, or the office or refining your craft — but it may just be feeling accomplished after getting everyone to school with almost matching gloves for each kid.

You may see at the top of the bell curve an arched dotted line. This here is what you believe in your heart. It’s what carriers you on your hardest days. It’s what you cling to. It’s the motivation for all that you do that grounds you as you parent — sleep-deprived or not.

For me, it’s always been gratitude. On my worse days, believe me, I wasn’t running around thanking God for the hardest days, but in my heart I was grateful. Each and every little life is a gift. For those of you who haven’t been able to bring babies home from the hospital, I know you know this best. Which is why you hold your babies tighter and why I want to be grateful on my most trying days.

Wherever you are on the bell curve (which I ASSUME is way different than mine!), let me encourage you to not get too stuck in the abyss. Open up your windows, turn on a podcast, invite a friend over and ask her to braid your hair. And keep doing that until you find that little taste of freedom to be the new you God is calling you to be.

Here’s to all the little babies — who came home from the hospital and who left us way too soon. And to all their moms — YOU ARE DOING IT. KEEP MOVING, KEEP TRUSTING, KEEP BELIEVING. And may the peace of Christ be your strength — and an extra cup of coffee never hurts either.

xo

Social Media Hopscotch

Hopscotch. When was the last time you played? I took my kids to the art museum this past summer and when we stepped off the elevator, we stepped onto a grid. One block, then two, then one, then two, then one. My daughter blew through it. On a single leg she hopped then landed on two. Hopped and landed. Depending on if she was looking down at the grid or around at her brothers determined how smoothly she got through the course.

The five year olds of course stumbled through it, unaware of the single or doubles, they breezed through the course the way they saw fit. And who cared anyways, it was just for fun.

I've been reluctant to write this piece because I think it gets too personal fast. Maybe for you, maybe for me. Maybe when you hear Facebook or Instagram you roll your eyes and say who cares. Maybe your self discipline is so perfectly in tact that you can breeze through the course no problem. I mean, who cares anyways, time on social media is just for fun.

Or maybe you have days when you aren't on top of your game. Your eyelids pop open, you reach for your phone and before you even rub your eyes, you are scrolling.

You’re doing the scroll that can hurt you or help you. The scroll that dictates your emotions or your responses. The worst is when the scroll starts to make your otherwise wonderful life look dull or not enough. 

I mean, this is not a new idea - the scroll and the damage it does. Depression and anxiety has been linked to it. Dissatisfaction. Disappointment. Pain. Certainly Facebook wasn’t originally created to do damage. Wasn’t it just to keep your missionary friend in Africa connected to his parents or your long-lost best friend from preschool at the forefront of your mind? Like breezing through a hopscotch grid, this is Facebook in its purest form. You jump, you land, you jump, you land. It can be fun and satisfying.

But some days, you fall off and over and miss the square altogether because you start internalizing someone else’s life as though it’s better than your own.

Like a kid standing at the start of a hopscotch course, tossing a rock to see where it lands, we stand before social media and toss our heart out to see where it lands. How does what we have going on compare to someone else’s? How far into the abyss will we allow ourselves to hop before we realize we’ve fallen of course?

I love social media. I credit much of it for how I survived being stuck at home with twin babies. It was a way to reach out and feel connected to friends in similar positions. But I’m in a different place now, those babies grew up and need a mom who looks at them, not a scalp buried in a screen. Which is why I try to change the course before I even log on by asking myself:

What else can I do before I get online?

When was the last time I called my sister? My mom?

Is there laundry in the dryer that needs folding?

Have I finished the piece that I started writing last week?

Am I thankful for all that I have?

Is there a book about a skill I want to learn?

Unlike a good run through a hopscotch course, you don’t have to leave your destination up to the rock you’ve thrown to dictate where and how far you go on social media. Before you log on, take back ownership of your real, beautiful, blessed life — and only start the scroll when you’re ready to celebrate the beautiful lives of those you find online, too.

Image outside the Philadelphia Art Museum (obviously a hopscotch pic would make more sense.)