Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Nadia Elizabeth

I've told the story about my son's name before. Before I miscarried, I had--only somewhat jokingly--asked the Lord what he was going to name this baby. When I miscarried, I developed a fixation on one of the names we had discussed: Nadia. It's a Russian name that means hope.

The morning after we agreed on the name, as I was reading my Bible I came across Proverbs 13:12. "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life."

What is a miscarriage if not "hope deferred"? And Nadia means hope. I took it as confirmation that the baby was a girl. We never got the opportunity to confirm the gender medically.

More important, though, is the promise that the verse gives. The desire...more children...is not cut off, only delayed, and when it does come, it will be a blessing.

The promise sent me searching for an appropriate middle name. I searched no further than Elizabeth. It was a name Sweetie had mentioned previously. The name means "my God is an oath" or more simply "oath of God." God gave His Word and He is His Word. What greater promise do I need?

While my heart will continue to ache for the child I lost, her name is now another little reminder of how God works in my life. The last time this promise was inspired to me, it was two years before I saw any fulfillment, but it was fulfilled. God may make us wait for a promise, but He never reneges on His Word.

It was a precious comfort to me. Personalized and perfect. I'm not surprised; God has a tendency to do that for His children. Man's ideas and platitudes may fall short, but God has a perfect balm for the wounded. May those impacted by my experience, or those with the same experience, look to the Lord for His perfect comfort.

***
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Sunday, August 30, 2015

Celebrating Life

Sometimes the best of intentions get lost. Like when I went from updating my blog daily to every other day. Then once a week. Then twice a month. And finally not at all.

I won't offer excuses. Life happens to everyone. So does death.

I have come to the conclusion that life should be celebrated even if it's only for a short period of time. That was why when I found out I was expecting our second child, I didn't wait very long to tell people. I was excited, and I wanted to share our wonderful news.

(As a side note, I am a huge procrastinator when it comes to online announcements and it didn't get announce online until I was around 12 weeks.)

I miscarried at 13 weeks.

That was one of the hardest weeks of my life.

I will never get to hold that baby. I never quite understood missing someone you never knew until now. It had never happened to me before. I knew both of my parents, all of my grandparents, and most of my great-grandparents.

I've experienced loss before, but I've never known what it was to grieve a loss that is just potential.

We named the baby Nadia. Personally, I would encourage anyone that has a miscarriage to name the baby. It's hard enough not having the usual funeral and grave.

I'm learning all over again how sweet the people in my life can be. Each offers comfort in their own way, and somehow it translates in a way that my heart understands--from the friend praying earnestly for me because she's been there, to the one that bluntly stated that she did not understand because she's never been there. They both care, and it shows.

I said that life should be celebrated, and for a few short weeks, Nadia's life was celebrated before it was cut off. Before any of us got the chance to meet her. I'm glad that I didn't wait to tell about her. We got that much longer to celebrate a little life.

I appreciate every one that has prayed, called, texted, messaged... God has worked even through this heartbreaking time, and I believe that He is not through using this to work His purpose.

***
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Monday, May 4, 2015

Being Still

A pair of killdeer made a nest in my parents' driveway this spring. After they hatched, I paused  to take a picture from my car, and I noticed something about the baby birds.




















They were perfectly still.

So still, if I hadn't already known how many babies there were, I might have missed one. Maybe it's an odd thing to notice, but I'd been thinking about being still for a while already...

Time for some more honesty. My health has not been good for years, and that's putting it mildly. The last year has been especially rough. Lately I've felt a strong desire to know what is wrong, but that desire seems to be countered by multiple songs and scriptures constantly coming to mind that mention being still.

It got me thinking. Does my worry count as being still? No, it really doesn't.

Does God know what is wrong? Yes.

Is He still in control? Yes

So why should I worry?

Those baby birds were not looking around trying to see what was wrong. They had to have known that something wasn't right, yet they held completely still. That was how they were safe. Had I been a predator, keeping still and letting their parents handle the situation was their best assurance of safety.

If only it were easy for me to keep still and trust my Heavenly Father to handle my situation. It's not easy, but I have felt inspired to let my worry go. I'm not actively seeking diagnosis; I'm simply trying to rest in the promise that God knows, God cares, and He is taking care of everything. (See Psalm 46:10)

Monday, April 27, 2015

What's in a name?

I've hesitated to write about this because I try not to use the names of my family members online. Partially to preserve privacy, and partially because it can be easier for people to know who I'm talking about. But some things I just feel are too special not to share.

I recently came to the conclusion that Sweetie and I did not actually name our son. We just thought we did. Turns out God is the one that named him.

Up until the point that we knew for sure we were having a boy, I had a name picked and Sweetie had been fine with it. Walking away from the ultra-sound, Sweetie's tune completely changed and we were back to square one. Eventually, Sweetie picked the first name. It was not for any particular reason, just a name that he liked. I decided on a middle name after my grandfather that passed about five months before little Boll-weevil was born.

Now I don't even remember why, but I was recently looking up baby name meanings. I knew that Boll-weevil's middle name meant "king." I had thought that his first name meant "healing," but as it turns out, it means "joined." If you take "king" to represent "King of kings," you suddenly have a name that literally means "Joined of God." See Mark 10:9.

This is a baby that I have come to consider to be a miracle child. We did not plan to have a child as soon as we did. Because of my health, I wondered if it were possible for me to even have a child, yet he was born ten months after we married. Our baby's impact on the lives of those around him was another indicator that he was sent from God because he was needed. God sent Dad a grandson that he got to see almost daily for nine months before he died. If we had had a child when we had been planning to, Dad would never have seen his first grandchild.

Children can be like glue in a marriage, and everyone goes through their rough spots. Little Boll-weevil has certainly brought Sweetie and I closer together than almost anything else could have done. Somehow being responsible for this little soul gives us extra incentive to take care of our marriage and each other.

But what makes me start to tear up over the name meaning "Joined of God" is the confirmation that God was the One that put Sweetie and I together. That's another story completely, but it was no less miraculous. Our first-born son that is half of each of us has a name that is a constant reminder that we were put together for a reason. We may not know what we will face in the future, but we have the assurance that we are meant to face it together. We were and still are "Joined of God."

Now let me just find my tissues...

***
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Thursday, April 9, 2015

Monica's Mini Meatloaves

I was making meatballs, and I decided to try adapting the recipe to make it easier to make. I do not enjoy hand-rolling 1" meatballs. So I changed it to mini meatloaves and doubled the recipe while I was at it.

Originally this was a recipe to make 1" meatballs. My cousin Monica made this one time and brought to a pot luck...or something like that. The details are fuzzy. What I distinctly remember is that everyone loved these little suckers, and the recipe was dubbed "Monica's Meatballs."

The original recipe calls for Worcestershire sauce in the meatballs, but I couldn't find it when I was mixing it up. Hence the soy sauce and Moore's. Yay for recipe adaption! Feel free to use what you have on hand.

It should be noted that the sauce recipe listed makes about 4 cups of sauce. Sweetie is a sauce-aholic, so that was just fine for us.

Now go forth and try this recipe out. Seriously. They're almost addicting.

Monica's Mini Meatloaves Recipe
(Makes about 2 dozen)

Ingredients:
5 lbs hamburger
2 cups oatmeal
2 cups chopped onion
4 eggs 
1/2 cup ketchup 
1/2 TBS soy sauce
1/2 TBS Moore's
1 tsp salt
1 tsp ground black pepper

Mix all ingredients. Measure 1/2 cup servings and shape into balls. Bake 350F for 30 minutes. Drain well. Cover in Special Sauce.

Sauce Ingredients:
2 cups ketchup
1/2 cup BBQ sauce 
1 1/2 tsp Worcestershire sauce
1 1/2 cups brown sugar

Combine sauce ingredients. Mix well. Spoon over mini meatloaves.



















***
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Wednesday, April 8, 2015

My Socks Don't Match!

How much time do you spend on laundry? Probably more than you would like. How much time do you spend matching socks? If all of your socks are the same, maybe not much. But if you have many different patterned socks the task can become time consuming.

I've recently decided to stop wasting so much time worrying about things like matching socks. Sure, it may be a little awkward, but life is too short to waste time worrying about something making you feel uncomfortable.



Sometimes three little words can make you uncomfortable: "I love you."

Do you remember the first time you said it to a boyfriend or girlfriend? Do you remember how terrified you were? It's because the words hold a lot more meaning than their mere eight letters would suggest.

Some families say it more often than others. Just like some families are more touchy-feely, or "huggy" than others. The thing is, life is too short to pass up the opportunity to say "I love you," to someone you really care about, whether by word or deed. Even if it's awkward.

Several years ago I felt impressed to go and visit my Aunt Wanda in the hospital. I was living in Little Rock at the time, and Oklahoma City was a simple weekend trip. While I did stay with my grandparents, the purpose of the visit really was my aunt. I enjoyed spending that time with her, even though it was a bit odd to go for the express purpose of seeing her. I was so glad later that I did it. It was the last time I saw her before she died.

The last time I saw my grandfather he was outside talking with some of the family. I felt too awkward to interrupt and say goodbye, so I just waved. We left on our trip back home, and I never saw him again. I wish now that I had overridden my feelings of discomfort and given him one last hug and said "I love you." But I can't change it now.

It makes me so glad that the night that Daddy passed that I got to say "I love you," one last time. I'm glad for the opportunities that I had and didn't pass up during his illness--to sing for him, sit with him, pray for him. I don't have regrets for anything I did, even if it made me uncomfortable at the time.

I try to be more mindful now to say "I love you." I never know when my last opportunity will be, and I don't want to neglect it. Feeling awkward over it is such a waste, and the regret really isn't worth it.

So if you catch me wearing mismatching socks, no, I haven't reached a new level of harried housewife. I'm just choosing to focus my energies on things of slightly more significance in the big scheme of things. Which would you regret more? Missing your last opportunity to say "I love you," or wearing mismatching socks?

***
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Friday, March 6, 2015

The Phone Call Continued...

Almost a month has gone by since I got that strange phone call from myself. Maybe you remember the one? Some prankster was texting me from my own phone number. It was very disconcerting.

The holidays came and went and I had all but put the incident out of my mind. Until today. Today I woke up with no less than 34 text messages from myself. They all said very similar things.

"Wake up."

"We need to talk."

"Take your phone off silent!"

"You still use Do Not Disturb, don't you?"

"Just how long do you sleep?"

"Never mind."

You get the picture. I didn't register at first who blew up my phone's messages. Then I nearly dropped the phone when I noticed my own number at the top of the screen. It seemed my tormenter was back. Figuratively speaking, of course.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Whatever it was could not be too urgent. Responding to my little personal troll could wait until I had my first cup of tea...and maybe some breakfast. I left my phone on the bedside table and stretched before padding out of the bedroom.

Stepping into the kitchen, I was surprised when a mug of tea was shoved into my hand. I squinted at the person before me. I started to scream at the evident intruder, but was distracted by a pair of glasses being shoved into my hands. I put them on, still blinking at the light.

When I finally registered that there were in fact three strange people in my kitchen I threw the steaming hot tea onto the nearest one. The blonde-headed boy looked down at his shirt, then back at me with his mouth gaping. I stared back until the sound of laughter arrested my attention.

Another boy, slightly taller than the blonde and sporting a startling shock of red hair, was doubled over in a debilitating fit of giggles. Blondie and I looked at him with shared incredulity. I glanced at the only other occupant of my tiny kitchen and took a step back.

Apparently I had an evil twin.

I'm assuming evil, anyways. Breaking and entering is against the law, after all. She was also laughing, but was at least managing to hand a towel to Blondie in an attempt to clean up the mess. I started backing out of the room, intending to get my phone and call the police when she lunged forward and grabbed my wrist.

"We need to talk," she said staring at me with such intensity that I found myself nodding dumbly. She dragged me into the living room with Blondie and Red trailing behind us.

There were three suitcases on the floor, and Blondie started rooting through one of them. He pulled out a clean shirt. He started to change when Evil Twin stopped him.

"She's going to have enough shocks for today without you adding nudity to it," she said dryly.

He had the decency to blush before he left the room with his clean shirt. Red meanwhile had plopped himself down on the sofa and was watching us with undisguised amusement. Evil Twin sat down in my favorite chair and gestured for me to sit as well.

I sighed and resigned myself to the strangest day I had ever experienced.

"So what was so important that you had to contact me from the future?"

"..."

"In person, no less," I continued.

Blondie walked back in with his tea-stained shirt in hand. I gestured wildly at him and Red.

"And why did you have to bring these two?" I demanded as the three began exchanging significant looks.

"We're not from the future," Red smirked at me. I looked sceptical.

"Then what are you? This is really extreme for a practical joke," I was skeptical.

Evil Twin held up her hand. "We're not from the future," she stated. "We're from a tangent universe."

"Come again?" My jaw hit the floor.

***

That seems like a good place to stop. This little story seemed to want to continue, but I don't know where it's going or when I might add to it. Until then, I'm just glad to have gotten some writing done instead of just a half-finished post and vague outlines.

You can find the beginning of the story here.

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