October 5, 2020, I took a pregnancy test.  I can’t even remember what prompted me to do so.  Maybe my boobs hurt, or I felt more bloated than usual.  I couldn’t honestly tell you my initial feelings when I saw the word “Pregnant” come across the screen.  Maybe it was excitement coupled with fear?  That seems like it should be accurate.  Excitement for Liam to have a brother or sister.  Excitement to add to our family.  Excitement to have another mini-us to snuggle.  Fear because our first pregnancy ended in miscarriage.  Fear because it could happen again.  No matter what the emotions were, it was real.  
 
I told Pat that same night.  I remember handing Liam the positive test and whispering for him to go give it to his daddy.  Pat was confused initially, then hesitant, and then happy.  We hugged and tried to envision Liam as a big brother.  We joked that it would be good for him to have to share the spotlight a little…he needed a little humbling.
 
A tiny little bump, and the telltale increase in cup size, soon appeared.  It was my third pregnancy after all.  We did family pictures in mid-October and I proudly took a few pictures holding my small but growing, bump.  October 24, we told my family.  Liam wore a “Big Brother” shirt with a dinosaur on it.  He had no idea why everyone cheered when he came out wearing it, but he lapped up every drop of attention as a true only child does.  
 
November 2, at what was supposed to be 8 weeks, all of the joy and hesitant optimism came screeching to a halt.  Our 8-week ultrasound did not turn out how we expected.  Instead of measuring right on track, our little nugget was measuring 6w3d with a lower than average heart rate.  The doctor assured me that we probably guessed my ovulation wrong, or my period start day was different than I remembered.  I knew she was wrong.  I track my period obsessively, wanting to ensure I am never caught unaware and unprepared.  She told us that at our next appointment, the baby would most likely be growing appropriately.  I didn’t feel as optimistic.
 
I scheduled a second ultrasound at a boutique here in Memphis.  I wanted to see if they saw what my doctor saw.  Sure enough, the baby was still measuring 6w3d, even though it had been two days.  Even worse?  The heart rate had slowed down even more.  I knew the signs.  I knew what was now inevitable.  I called my OBGYN and told her I needed her to do another ultrasound. I needed reassurance.  She scheduled me for November 9.  
 
The ultrasound confirmed my fears.  There had been no more growth and the baby’s heart rate had slowed below 100.  It was not good news.  The nurse practitioner came in and went through the options with me.  I could continue to wait and see if my body had recognized the miscarriage, but she said it could take up to a month.  By this point, I had gone nearly 3 weeks without my body realizing what was happening.  Option two was a D&C to remove “the fetus” and allow for a quick recovery…as if losing a baby was something from which you could easily recover.  The third option was Cytotec, also known as the abortion pill.  She said it would be painful and involve a lot of cramping, but it did not involve the risks found with choosing a D&C.
 
I chose the Cytotec but found myself unable to take the pills once I arrived at home.  What if the baby was growing again?  What if he or she had experienced a miracle and taking the pills would be murder?  I called the office again and asked for one final ultrasound to confirm.  Friday the 13^th, the loss was confirmed.  I decided to take the pills the following morning.
 
Initially, I thought the cramping I’d heard and read so much about was nothing.  Maybe I had a really high pain tolerance.  I had a few big gushes of bleeding and then nothing.  No more blood, no more cramping.  But then it hit me.  I have never felt pain as excruciating as this.  I spent the better part of an hour curled in the fetal position sobbing and squeezing Pat’s hand as hard as I could.  I wanted to pass out, to get through the worst of it unconscious and pain-free.  No such luck.  The agonizing pain subsided for half an hour before coming back for more.  I cried and shivered (uncontrollable body shaking is a side effect of Cytotec…fun, right?) until it passed again.  By night time, the pain had subsided to a slightly sharp, yet dull, ache.  I thought surely it had to be over.
Tuesday, November 17 I went in to confirm it had all passed.  The ultrasound tech attempted an apologetic smile as she told me the large majority of the “fetal tissue” was still inside of me.  Again, the nurse practitioner presented me with options.   I could take the Cytotec again and hope for a better outcome, or I could proceed with a D&C.  I elected to have a D&C.  I wanted it to be over and I didn’t think I could handle that much pain again.  The procedure was scheduled for the next day.
 
Upon arrival at the doctor, I popped the Xanax they instructed me to take.  Apparently, it would calm my nerves and help me through the procedure.  But no drug, nothing can stop the thoughts that flood through your brain when you are actively losing a baby.  Pat sat by my head and held my hand as they inserted the device into my uterus and “removed the products of conception”.  They were very careful to never call it a baby.  They sent me home with some antibiotics and instructions to take it easy for the next few days.  They cautioned I would have some bleeding for 1-2 weeks, but after that everything would return to normal.  Yeah…right. 
 
I bled for two months straight.  I went into the office twice with my concerns.  I was still bleeding.  It didn’t look right.  It didn’t smell right.  My hair was thinning, my body felt off, and my skin was dull.  Something was wrong.  Both times, they shrugged my concerns off, stating it was just a bacterial infection.  They sent me home with antibiotics and left it at that.  Saturday or Sunday, January 16 or 17, I started passing large clots.  I’m talking quarter to half dollar size.  I called the on-call line and was told it was normal.  The end.  
 
Later, I  began to bleed profusely.  I soaked through two pads in two hours.  I felt my limbs tingle, felt the blood draining from my face.  I knew this wasn’t normal.  I shouldn’t be bleeding so heavily that blood dripped onto the floor when I tried to go to the bathroom.  I called the on-call hotline and was told it was just a heavy period.  That kind of bleeding is normal for your first couple of periods after a miscarriage and D&C.  I wasn’t satisfied.  I pushed them and they called in medication to slow the bleeding and scheduled me for an appointment that Tuesday.  
 
Tuesday, January 19, they performed an ultrasound and found a mass.  They scheduled a second D&C for Wednesday, January 27 to remove it and see what it was.  Guess what…they’d missed some fetal tissue at the first D&C.  A part of my baby was inside of me, decaying.  If they had listened…if they had scheduled an ultrasound to check after the first D&C…if they had taken my concerns seriously, I could have avoided all of it.  I wouldn’t have bled for two months straight.  I would have avoided so much fear and anxiety.  I could have moved on. 
 
Instead, I miscarried for months.  My body had been desperately trying to rid itself of the foreign, dead tissue. The bleeding, the body changes…it all was my body trying to heal.  I knew something was not right.  I knew my body and I knew what normal periods looked like.  I knew.  Yet no one listened.  I had to fight, had to raise my voice and be forceful to get them to listen…to even conduct an ultrasound to put my mind at ease.  Aren’t doctors supposed to be for us, not against us?  
 
My doctor never even apologized. I vaguely remember her saying something along the lines of “it happens”.  She then proceeded to tell me she had scheduled me for an appointment with a prominent fertility doctor in the area.  Usually, patients aren’t referred over until three miscarriages, but she wanted to go ahead and send me over.  How magnanimous of her…
 
I guess I am writing this for a couple of reasons.  One, my therapist told me to.  Apparently (and I know she’s right), I shove my feelings down.  Conceal, don’t feel as Elsa says.  I seek to maintain an image of having it all together, of being put together and perfect.  Emotions don’t serve that purpose well, so why bother working through them?  Evidently, this sort of mindset can lead to all sorts of problems down the road.  Anger? Check.  Trouble maintaining relationships? Check.  Depression and anxiety?  Big old check.  Guess what? Shoving feelings down and ignoring your reality does more harm than good.  It’s a heck of a lot easier to deal with your pain initially, rather than later when it’s been compounded by more pain.
 
Second, I could feel this all banging on the metaphorical walls inside me, begging to be let out.  No more shoving it down because it may make others uncomfortable or may make me look weak.  Whether or not I let others see this, who knows.  But it had to get out.  I had to put pen to paper…or fingers to keyboard.  Writing, and even talking to someone, is cathartic.  It is helpful to tell your story and to get it all out.  We aren’t meant to live in isolation, hiding away the parts of ourselves that have shaped who we are.  We are meant to live in community, bearing one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2).  
 
Third, I am begging anyone who reads this to ADVOCATE FOR YOUR HEALTH.  You know your body better than anyone else…even your doctor.  If you think your doctor isn’t listening or maybe wrong, speak up!  If you want the extra test, ask for it!  No one else is going to fight for your health like you will.  You have to be willing to make others uncomfortable, maybe even angry, if you want to ensure your voice is heard.  What’s the worst thing that can happen?  You’re wrong and everything is 100% fine?  That’s good news!  At least you gave yourself peace of mind. 
 
My hope is that reading this helps even just one person feel less alone.  I hope you recognize the power in telling your story—even the ugly, painful, uncomfortable parts.  There is freedom in it.

Breaking the Silence of the Miscarriage Story

Why is it that something so loudly devastating is such a silent topic?  Why is it that something 1 in 4 women experience is so rarely discussed out loud?  For some unfathomable reason, women don’t speak openly about miscarriage.  Why?

We share news of loved ones passing away--grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles.  But when we experience the most intimate loss possible, we are silent.  In her book Held: 31 Biblical Reflections on God’s Comfort and Care in the Sorrow of Miscarriage, Abbey Wedgeworth wrote, “I’ve never been this close to death.  It’s literally inside of me.  Where life should be.  Apart from dying ourselves, I’m not sure it’s possible to experience death more personally than to have it occur within us.”  I cannot wrap my mind around the silence that women take upon themselves when they miscarry. 

November 9, 2020, at nine weeks pregnant, we went to the doctor for a second ultrasound.  The previous week, the baby measured smaller than we felt was normal.  So, being the high anxiety person I am, I requested a follow-up the following week.  At that appointment, my suspicions were confirmed.  Our baby had stopped growing at 6 weeks and 3 days.  The heartbeat we had seen one week prior was now gone.  I was having a missed miscarriage.  My body hadn’t realized what was happening and was continuing to grow and develop as if my baby was still living.  It wouldn’t be safe to wait and see if my body would work things out naturally. Our options were Cytotec (a pill) or a D&C.  I elected to take the pill. The pill ended up failing, so we had to do a D&C on November 18.

A miscarriage is uniquely isolating.  There is a “hidden nature of what is lost.  The life you mourn never existed outside of you.”  This can make it hard to open up to others.  Wedgeworth says, “from the outside, no visible change seems to have taken place, and to anyone else, it’s as if [this baby] never existed.  No one else felt its presence.  Am I alone in missing him or her?”.  With both of my miscarriages, I needed to know I wasn’t alone.  I needed to know that, even though I was the only one to feel my babies’ presence, others felt the impact of our loss.

But...

The beauty in the darkness is that we can rest knowing that our pain and heartache isn’t hidden from God.  God knew the moment my babies ceased to live.  Nothing is hidden from Him.  He sees the sorrow, the pain, the “untellable” details.  And He also sees the future.  He knows what beauty will come from the brokenness and the ashes.  

When our first miscarriage occured, He knew that Liam would one day become a part of our lives.  He knew that we would know the joy of having a healthy pregnancy and bringing a child into the world.  The day we were told our third baby had ceased to grow and no longer had a heartbeat, my world did not implode.  Yes, my heart broke, I felt immense grief, and my hopes were dashed, but I also was able to find peace.  I remembered the goodness of the Lord after our first miscarriage.  I remembered his faithfulness to redeem our pain.  I remembered the comfort I found in His words and in His presence.  I know that this is not the end.  

“Even there your hand will lead me, and your right hand will hold me.”

Psalm 139:10

Mom

Mom. While such a commonplace title, the true implications of assuming this role are often overlooked. Choosing to bring a tiny human into the world and to become his or her mom is life altering, world changing, and confidence shaking. The second you hear that first tiny cry, everything changes and life as you know it will never be the same. You will never be the same. 

I’ve always been the type of person that hates to be bad at something. I won’t try something new until I am certain I will be able to succeed, whatever it may be. You could call it perfectionism, or arrogance. Either label fits. I’m extremely competitive, which further lends to my unwillingness to be “bad” at anything.

Becoming a mom completely changed me. I wasn’t able to study, practice, and become the best mom possible before Liam came charging into our world. There is no one-size-fits-all manual that informs future moms how to do it all flawlessly and perfectly.  When people say leaving the hospital with your newborn baby is terrifying, they’re right in some ways. You’re handed a tiny human being and they trust you enough to take him or her home with no previous experience and keep this baby alive. All on your own.  

Assuming the role of mom humbled and changed me in ways I never knew possible. This new title exposed weaknesses, negative tendencies, and a selfishness I never knew existed within me. And I think that’s the way God intended parenthood to be in its truest rawest form. God uses our insecurity and complete inability to do it on our own to show us how richly he blesses us as parents when we lean on Him. 

Until I became a parent, I didn’t realize how much potential I had for love, or how much potential I had for patience.  I didn’t realize the lesson it would be on God’s love for us. Becoming a parent truly opened my eyes to how deeply God loves us. It opened my eyes to how heartbreaking the cross is and how wondrous a thing God did for us through Jesus. 

Being a mom to Liam has curved my sharp edges, softened my heart towards others, and reshaped my entire future for the better. What a blessing this title has been!

Liam’s Birth Story

If you have ever spent any amount of time with me, you know that I am obsessed with plans and schedules. I live for planning everything—from trips, to weekends, to daily routines—I love to plan. So, needless to say, the prospect of giving birth was already scary enough for me. I couldn’t really plan that out.  You can’t tell your body, “Ok, let’s have a four hour labor, push twice, and be done with this.”  You can’t decide how much pain you will be in or how the birth process will go. Heck, you can’t even decide what day it will happen.

It became very evident on Labor Day, Liam’s due date, that things definitely were out of my hands. Liam was not planning to make his arrival any time soon. I wasn’t dilating and it didn’t seem to the doctor like he would come willingly. So, an induction was scheduled for September 7. We were told to call at 3:30 and see if a bed was ready. If so, we would go in and get started. But. A room was not ready. We were told to call again at 7:30. We called. Two rooms were available!  We rushed to the hospital and checked in. And then we waited. We waited until 10:00 PM. Apparently some emergent labor mothers arrived right before us and took the open rooms. But, by 10:30 we were in our room, paperwork completed, and monitors all hooked up.

I was supposed to start Pitocin at 11:00PM. But, at 11:00 Liam and my body had other plans. All I did was roll over to lie on my right side. Nothing big, right?  Well, as soon as I did, Pat and I noticed that Liam’s heart rate dropped significantly. We are talking a drop from 140s/150s down to the 50s and 60s. Just as Pat and I opened our mouths to ask each other what was going on, three nurses rushed into the room. One yanked an oxygen mask onto my face while the others pulled back the covers and asked me to continually roll onto my right side and then to my left. After a few minutes, Liam’s heartrate finally began to climb back to normal. The nurses informed us they were not sure what caused it, but it could be him lying on the cord or the cord wrapping around his neck. Regardless of the cause, I would not be allowed to start the Pitocin until he was stable for a couple of hours and I also would not be allowed to get out of the bed or move at all.

1:15 AM arrived and Liam had been stable for a good while. So, they started me on the Pitocin. But, I was stillw not allowed to get out of bed. Torture. But, at 2:40 I was given the all clear to move about. So I got up to use the restroom. Once I got back to the bed, Pat hooked me back up to the fetal monitors. But, they didn’t seem to be working. Liam’s heart rate was in the 60s and then it was gone. I reached to call the nurse to see what we did wrong. But before I could, the door burst open and five nurses rushed in. They reclined the bed all the way back, put an oxygen mask back on me, and asked me to continually switch the side I was lying on. Still, I didn’t hear Liam’s heart rate pick back up. After two minutes of this, they had me get on my knees on all fours. They started moving my belly around, trying to jostle Liam. No heart rate.

At this point, I looked over and made eye contact with Pat. He kept telling me “it’s ok. It is going to be ok. Liam’s ok,” but I could see the panic in his eyes.

After four minutes, a doctor rushed in. One of the nurses filled him in as the other nurses kept looking for a heartbeat. FINALLY, after five minutes, I heard a heartbeat.  Relief flooded through my body as they had me lie on my side. I was told I would no longer be allowed to get up or move and that at this point, it appeared I would be having a c-section in the morning. Sure enough, my OB arrived at 3:30AM and said as much. He also informed us that if Liam’s heartrate dropped too low again, I would be rushed back for an emergency c-section immediately.

We made it through the rest of the night with no issues, and at 7:40 AM my doctor and an anesthesiologist came in to tell us what to expect. We were scheduled for 8:30. However, just before 8, I heard Liam’s heartrate slowing again.  The nurses burst into the room and began yelling orders and unhooking me from machines and the IV drip. By 8:00, they were wheeling me out of the room and on to the operation room. As they rushed me down the hall, I asked if Pat could come with us. He was told no and to wait in the family waiting room. I promptly burst into hysterics.

Upon arriving to the operating room, the nurses attempted to get a heartbeat again. It took nearly five minutes to finally get one. Within minutes, I had received a spinal block, was hooked up to monitors, and they were about to begin the surgery. Noticing my hysterics, my OB came over and hugged me as I cried, reassuring me that it’s the nurses job to panic, but that Liam was ok and it would all be ok. Within ten minutes of wheeling me into the room, the doctor had cut me open. Several minutes in, I asked “is someone going to get my husband?” To which the doctor yelled, “did no one go get the husband yet!?” Thankfully, Pat made it in to the room mere minutes before they pulled Liam out. The moment we heard him cry, Pat and I both cried with relief. Our son was alive, he was breathing, and he was safe.

Pat was an amazing dad in those moments. He stayed with Liam the entire time after and made sure he was ok. Once the nurses cleaned him up, Pat brought Liam over to me so I could finally meet him. Never in my life have I been so overwhelmed with joy and relief as in that moment. Pat went with Liam to the recovery room while the doctor finished closing me up. When I joined them fifteen minutes later, Pat was cuddling Liam and giving him his first bottle. Finally, we were all together, a happy, healthy, safe family of three. The doctor told us that Liam ended up having the cord wrapped around his torso. Whenever I moved, he moved, and the cord constricted him, cutting off his air supply most likely. Unfortunately, there’s no way to know if that was happening prior to my admission to the hospital. But, what we do know is that it is by the grace of God that Liam is alive, healthy, and with us. What a mighty God!

Miscarriage. My Story.

I want to start this post off by saying that GOD IS GOOD.  He can bring ruin from ashes and redemption from pain.  But following God does not mean we will live lives free from pain and anguish.  God allows us to go through those times in order to teach us, grow us, and restore us to Him.  He is good.  He is faithful...

Grief isn't an ocean. It's a wave. It keeps pummeling you every time you think you've broken free. Every time you finally are able to catch your breath. Every time you think "Finally I am past it. Finally I can keep my head above water and move forward from this place,"  It crashes over you again, pulling you under and shoving you back into the depths.

We had it all planned out from the moment we got our first positive pregnancy test. We planned how we would announce it, what the announcement picture would look like, how we would tell our families. Everything. I knew the plans I had for the next year as we prepared for our future child.  But God knew the plans He had for us.  He knew our child wouldn't make it. He knew it was time to call our precious baby home to Him. He knew my body and the baby were incompatible and it would be better for my child to come home to Him than for both of us to be at risk.

And while He knows the plans He has for us, He also knows our pain. He knows how I grieve and how I cry out for our loss. He knows that my heart screams out silently every day. He knows I want to crawl inside myself and hide away. He knows the guilt, shame, fear, and anger I feel. And He takes it all on. He bears my burdens with me. He doesn't force me to heal and "move on". He doesn't tell me "maybe you shouldn't talk about it if it makes you so sad". He listens, He comforts, He accepts my anger.

And I was, and sometimes still am, so so angry. I prayed over my child from the moment I had the positive pregnancy test. I prayed for protection for my baby. I promised God I would spend my life raising my child to love Him and serve Him. I promised to be a good steward of the gift God was giving me. I begged and pleaded for a safe pregnancy. And yet I lost our child.

On August 31, 2017 my world was shaken and I felt a loss unlike anything I have ever experienced before. In one day, the ultrasound went from showing something to nothing. That's how quickly my body rejected the pregnancy like it was nothing...like it wasn’t the most precious thing in my life. With each part of the miscarriage process my grief started anew, with a new wave crashing over me and crushing me down into the depths of despair.  Each time I found myself not thinking about our precious child, the grieving process started all over again. 

I often feel guilty for forgetting even for a second and feel ashamed for living my life happily again.  I feel the loss acutely. I feel anger that it happened to me. I feel confused as to how this could have happened. I feel terrified to try to conceive again. I feel loathing towards my body for betraying me and taking this from me. I feel numbness and shock as I try to wrap my mind around everything. I feel pain and a sort of anger with myself with every post I see of friends announcing a new pregnancy, or friends with happy, healthy pregnancies or with precious, whole, safe newborns. I feel frustrated that no one who hasn’t been through it understands my grief or cares to listen without saying "it'll be ok".

Miscarriage is not something that everyone can understand.  You do not truly understand the pain and emotional turmoil until it happens to you.  When my sister went through her miscarriage last year, I remember texting her and saying I was sorry and that God had a plan.  I did not know how much pain she was in and how much a heart can grieve over the loss of a human being that has never been held or touched.  I did not know the deep, jagged wounds miscarriage carves into a human heart.  I did not understand that no words can ease the pain.  There is no "right thing to say".

It won't be ok. It never will be. And that is ok.  God heals all wounds. Yes, wounds leave scars. And I will forever have deep, jagged, painful emotional scars that will be with me for the rest of my life. The waves of grief will become fewer and farther in between, yes, but they will still come.  But even so, God is good. 

God is good. His grace is abundant.  He is the giver of life.  He is the God of miracles.  He walks beside me and I know He will not not abandon me, no matter how rough the road of life may become.  Through this process, He is teaching me that He alone can fill this hole in my heart.  I need to be patient in the process and stop continually working towards "the next thing".  It is through seasons of pain and grief that He does the biggest and most impactful work.  

God alone can mend this hole in my heart.  Not Patrick.  Not my family.  Not work.  Nothing.  I must choose to let go and let God do His will in my life.  Letting go of my expectations, my timeline, and my hopes and dreams is the only way I can find peace, patience, and understanding.  Grief cannot overtake me so much that I miss out on the blessings God has in store for me and Patrick.  God brings beauty and life out of the ashes and dust of painful times.  We only have to trust.

Location Matters

Matthew 7:24-27
24 “Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock. 25 And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. 26 And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. 27 And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell, and great was the fall of it.”

Bad things happen to everyone.  Period.  Bad things happen to bad people, and bad things happen to good people.  It's a fact of life.  Try as we might, we can never avoid the difficult times life has to offer.  It does not matter how much you do to try and avoid those things, because they will still find you.  Instead of devoting countless hours and efforts towards pointless evasive maneuvers, we should focus on preparing ourselves for when those times arrive.   And arrive they will.

Time and time again, we try to build our lives around temporary things because it is easier.  We devote our time and pledge our allegiance to things that lack the substance to weather the storms of life.  We waste our time, energy, money, and emotions making idols out of nothing.  We make idols out of money, careers, relationships, alcohol, children, social media "likes", etc.  The list goes on.  In college, I made physical fitness and thinness my idols.  I obsessed over workouts, calories, and what I allowed to impact my body.  I neglected time with God over time spent running long distances, purging foods, and counting calories.  I made anorexia my god.

Can you guess what happened when a huge "storm" took a direct path through my life and laid waste to everything?  My idol did nothing.  The winds and the storms had come out in full force, and my idol provided me with nothing substantial to rely on or to derive comfort from.  I was left alone to deal with my pain and my emotional injuries.  The thing I was standing on and staking my life on was not solid ground.

I was like the man in Matthew 7:24-27.  I built my "house" on sand.  The things of the world cannot sustain and give peace.  Money can be gone in an instant.  Jobs can be taken away unexpectedly.  A  husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/best friend can leave with no reason.  Alcohol is a temporary high.  Children will disappoint at times.  Social media...don't get me started on that.  The only constant in life we are ever promised is God.  God is the solid foundation on which we should build our house/life because He can weather any storm.

In yesterday's sermon at Grace City Church (I would love for you to come with me any Sunday), the preacher made this point about Matthew 7:24-27:  "Our location after the storm is determined by where we were standing in the midst of it."  The location we build our houses will determine if our home is still standing (solid ground) or in ruins (sand) after the storm.  Preparing your heart for the storms of life doesn't have to be fruitless. But it doesn't mean things will be easy.

Let's be real.  Christianity is easy and fun until we face difficult times.  That is when things get real.  As a Christian, you will not survive if you operate under the assumption that everything will always be easy and great.  That's naive.  The Bible is full of verses about enduring suffering as a believer.

Romans 5:3-5 "We rejoice in our sufferings because we know suffering produces endurance."
James 1:2-4 "Count it all joy when you face trials in life."
Romans 8:18 "I consider my sufferings as nothing compared to the glory God will reveal in us."
John 16:33 "In this world you will face many trials."

Need I go on?

Let me tell you, when I learned that I could not avoid bad things, I finally felt free for the first time.  All throughout my childhood, and even up until two weeks ago, I felt like I could prevent bad things from happening.  If I called to check on my family enough, they would be fine.  If I double checked that the house was safe and secure, it wouldn't burn down or no one would break in.  If I watched my health and was careful, nothing bad could happen to me.

But you know what?  Bad things happened. My mom had a tumor.  My dad had precancerous cells.  My grandfathers both passed away.  Crime still happens in our neighborhood.  Things happened to me physically that I could not control.  And I will admit...for most of these things, I gave in to fear and despair instead of turning to the solid rock I could have built my house on.  I claimed to be a Christ-follower, and yet my house had no power inside.  I looked and acted like a Christian, but I did not have God's peace and His presence permeating all of me.

Ever since Pat and I got married nearly two years ago, we have made it a point to attend church every Sunday that we are able.  We have joined City Groups where we can grow, learn, and be discipled by others.  We have gotten involved at church and joined teams where we can give back.  We have committed to making decisions to be lights for Christ to others.  We have been building our houses on the solid rock of Christ.

A couple of weeks ago, we went through the first life-changing trial we have had since we built our lives around God.  In previous years, something like this would have been a huge set back.  I would have wallowed, lashed out at everyone around me, stopped going to church, and withdrawn from everyone and everything.  This time, I was prepared.  Yes, I was devastated and spent a good week crying.  But I still turned to God.  I still cried out to Him.  I still leaned on Him and found comfort and solace in Him.  More than anything, I needed to be in my church home.

Building your life on the solid foundation of God is the best decision anyone can make.  You won't be guaranteed a pain and suffering free life.  You will, however, be guaranteed a hiding place to turn to when you need unconditional love, peace, and comfort.

Once Upon a Time: The Story of Pat and Camille

Once upon a time, there was a boy and a girl who were not even aware of each other’s existence.  The boy was living his own life, wondering if he would ever find someone who he felt was 100% who he wanted to be with for the rest of his life.  The girl was living life on her own, not sure she ever wanted to remarry again, not sure there was such a thing as the person who would make her truly happy in every way.  Until they met each other…Sounds like the recipe for a fairy tale, right?  Well…in some way, yes, it was, and in other ways, we had our struggles at the beginning.  Considering our one-year DATING anniversary is in less than one week (October 16!), I thought it would be fun to write our story.

You see, when Pat and I first met, both of us were in relationships.  He had been dating the same girl for a year and a half, and had come to the point where he realized that she wasn’t who he wanted to be with for the rest of his life.  In fact, he wondered if he would ever find someone he actually wanted to marry.  Meanwhile, I was in what I guess you could call a relationship.  The guy turned out to be a not-so-prince-charming type of guy who lied and mislead more than anything.  But, neither of us was in a hurry to move on into another relationship.  But there was one person who called “bull” on that and was determined to open our eyes to the possibility of each other. 

See, I worked out with this girl, Elise, who also happened to be one of my dearest friends.  She also happened to work for the same company as Pat.  One day back in June of 2015, she and I were working out and suddenly she started waving.  She turned to me and said, “Oh, there’s Patrick.  He works for Davita too!”  He walked up, they exchanged words, we briefly introduced ourselves, and that was it.  End of meeting.  A few weeks later, Elise decided we should invite him to join our workout group.  So, we did and he started working out with us.  Given that we both were in relationships, we didn’t exchange many words outside of the topics of gym and Davita, which was fine with me, because 1) I have social anxiety and new people sometimes make me awkward, and 2) neither of us were available.

Then, one day, something changed.  Patrick was single—he had broken up with his girlfriend…and I had already come to the realization I was unhappy in my own relationship.  I began to see him in a new light…a more romantic one I guess you could say.   We were able to talk, carry on a conversation, and joke around. Elise and her husband invited me over for dinner, and I encouraged her to invite him over (but told her not to tell him I told her to invite him—so childish, I know).  I found myself wanting to spend more and more time with him.  After a couple more weeks, Patrick began pursuing me…hard.  He was very, very persistent.  He was convinced we needed to give dating a try.   In my head, I agreed; but I am horrible at hurting people’s feelings and found it hard to end it with the other guy.  Pat knew I was unhappy, and he knew I wanted to end it but hadn’t found a way to just yet. 

In his pursuit of me, Pat wasn’t pushy, he wasn’t disrespectful, and he didn’t put any pressure on me.  Each day he just engaged me in conversation, asked me about my life, took a real interest in me as a person.  He offered me advice on my family, he helped me come up with ideas for ways I could incorporate fun into my teaching, he gave me advice on how to potty train my dog.  He waited.  For nearly two months, he waited.  He tried dating other people, but in the back of his mind, he said he always knew they weren’t right and he needed to keep waiting for me.

I remember one night, I was lying in bed, about to read my Bible and pray over my feelings.  The other guy was texting me, demanding I ignore my quiet time and talk to him about what was going on between us.  Patrick, however, told me to turn off my phone the moment he found out what I was doing.  He encouraged me to seek after God and His will.  He valued my relationship with God, which I had never experienced before with a guy.  In that moment, it was like a weight was lifted and I finally had the courage to end things with the other guy.  The next day, Patrick and I met up to discuss where things stood and what we wanted out of all of this.  I told him my reservations, and he told me his.  But, we ultimately decided to give it a go.  

Needless to say, things worked out--even though that night, my dog had a #2 accident in his apartment, I panicked, threw it away in his trash, and didn’t tell him…which stunk up his apartment for the next two days until he found out what happened…oops.  Ha.  Silliness aside, with Pat it was easy.  I could talk to him about anything.  I could share the deepest, darkest parts of me that not even my family knew about.  I could have intellectual, adult conversations about things that mattered to me.   I could also act a complete fool around him.  (Thank God there are no hidden cameras in our home, because we have been known to run around, making strange sound effects, playing hide-and-seek.  And there may have been a time I hid in the dog’s kennel to scare him.  Just saying.)  Most important of all, though…he loves Jesus and he encourages me to grow in my walk.  He desires to grow in his.  There are so many other little things in our story leading up until the day we got married…one and a half months after we started dating.  But that is definitely another blog post to come.  The point is, we met, he waited, he prayed over us, he waited some more, and God finally brought us together.

And they lived happily ever after.