All is not lost

Seasons of pruning are always painful, and it's no secret that this particular season has left my heart especially bruised.

This week there have been a lot of prayers, a lot of honest questions asked, a lot of heart-to-heart talks with Greg, and friends who have come out of the woodwork to offer support. (Seriously, I know I've said this before, but we have the best friends in the world. I'm talking everything from texts, to ice cream, to prayers, to starbucks, to emails... What sort of lottery did I win to end up with such jackpot friends?)

It is a process, I know. There is no easy "fix" for anxiety over your baby or worry about the future. It's no small thing to learn what it means to trust God with the unknown.

I was crying to Greg on Monday night, confessing my worries and fears. Describing to him my desperation with no attempt to find silver linings in my storm. He listened to me, admitted that he shared my worries and then assured me that God was moving in our lives.

I stared at my husband, feeling the intense weight of my burden and wondered how he could sit so effortlessly straight.

"How do you know that?" I asked, desperate for the secret to his peace. I wanted to believe it too, but lacked Greg's confidence.

"God is faithful," he said simply, "He's always come through in the past, so why wouldn't he now."

I just looked at him. Nodding my head. Knowing that what he said was true, but not quite able to hang my heart on it. It seemed too simple an answer for the waves of despair and hopelessness I'd been feeling lately.

"Beth, you know what I think about when I get discouraged?"

He shook his head at me, ever so slightly, as if he was surprised that I didn't already know what he was about to say.

My blank stare must have encouraged him to keep going, because he inched closer to me on the couch, looked straight into my soul and said: "You."

Fresh tears filled my eyes as he went on: "I prayed for years for a wife, and God faithfully delivered the perfect wife for me. He gave me you, Beth. That's what I remind myself of when I'm tempted to doubt God's faithfulness."

I'm sure I've never felt prettier or been snottier as I buried my face in my husband's chest and sobbed.

Thirst in a drought

I'm sitting alone in my living room watching the oscillating fan slowly shake its head back and forth, offering a cool breath each time its face briefly passes me.

The curtains subtly flutter by the open windows, and the stripes of light seeping in through the blinds spill onto the floor in front of me making designs on the carpet.

It's a quiet morning.

Fletcher will be up from his nap any moment.

There is laundry in the dryer that needs to be folded, dishes in the sink that need to be washed, and several sticky spots on the kitchen floor that need to be wiped up -- but I can't bring myself to tackle any of those tasks at this moment. Instead I sit here, palms up, waiting in the quiet, offering up my morning solitude in hopes of hearing something, anything, that will bring me some peace. A whisper as slight as the movement coming from that fan.

It has been a tough season. A dry one. I feel like I am running on fumes, physically and spiritually. I know I need a long deep drink of water that saturates my soul and brings life to my dry limbs, but can only manage a sip of something wet now and then.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." (Jeremiah 29:11)

This was the verse we studied in church yesterday, one of my favorites. The sermon hit very close to home (although, really, when doesn't a sermon hit close to home these days?) and yet I'm left feeling more confused than anything, and God feels so very far away.

I am alone in my living room. With a lump in my throat and tears rimming in my eyes.

There is a sweet baby in the next room who will receive stinging eye drops that dilate his eyes the moment he wakes up, and I get to be the one to administer said drops 3 times a day over the next 3 days. Pinning his arms down and prying his eyelids open while he cries.

Then I get to slap a patch over his "good" eye. A sticky band-aid of a patch that he's had to wear for over a month now. It makes the skin on his face raw and tender with all the sticking and pulling. It's uncomfortable for him when the temperature rises. It's a temptation for him to pull off when he's riding in his car seat, alone in the back seat where I can't get to him, making it difficult for us to go anywhere or do anything. We're both going stir crazy in the walls of this tiny apartment, but now with his super light-sensitive eyes it makes it difficult to even go outside to play for a little while.

I hate it.

And after all this, he might still need surgery. Something I try not to think about. Something I tell myself we will cross when we come to it.

I think we've all been troopers about the whole thing, I really do. But this morning I am feeling the weight of disappointment, and I'm letting myself honestly wallow in it. Not just disappointment over Fletcher's eyes -- a deep disappointment in our current circumstances, which though I know could be worse, I had imagined would be different.

I feel guilty for admitting my worry, as if I'm neglecting the blessings I know we've received because I also long for more. But it's time to get good and honest, and lately the smile I slap on my face is as false and uncomfortable as Fletcher's eye patch.

Where are you in all this, God?

God is faithful. I know it even though I don't feel it right now.

I'm wringing my hands in grief and anxiety and loneliness, but I know that God is still good.

I am tired, and frustrated, and empty.

God, please fill me up.

Being Still

Fletcher is more and more active as he learns how to use his sturdy little legs and pull up with his strong little arms. He isn't walking yet, but does it make sense to describe him as "running" all day long?

It's a fun season. It's exciting for me to watch him challenge his limbs as he seeks to explore every nook and cranny of his environment. Especially all the amazingly cool glimpses of stuff above eye level.

This kid runs me ragged, just like I knew he would once he began crawling, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Because equally as sweet are the (brief) moments when he is still.

It probably won't be too much longer that Fletcher is breast feeding, but the snuggle time we have together in the evening and first thing in the morning while I'm nursing him is like a balm for my heart. It's one of the only times I can breathe him in, marvel at his little fingers and toes (that are getting bigger and bigger!), and feel the full mass of his being peacefully content to be at rest in my arms.

Also, sometimes Fletcher comes across something that captivates his full attention and he stops to study the found object. This especially happens outside. He'll find a leaf, or one of those weird pod things that fall off the palm trees and he just soaks it in as he turns it over in his clumsy little fingers.

One of my favorite pauses that Fletcher takes these days is his version of a hug. He will find a stuffed animal, grab its nose, eyes, etc. while I name all the features -- and then he'll gently lean forward and rest his forehead against the toy. Be still my heart!

It's through watching Fletcher that I realize how important it is to be still myself. I so long to have goals to run toward, projects to check off my list, and accomplishments that make me feel productive. Often, being still feels like wasted time. Of course I know that's not true, but it is so easy to glorify busyness, isn't it?

I'm making more of a conscious effort to be still. More specifically, to be still before God. I don't want to barrel through my moments with my Heavenly Father any more than I want Fletcher breezing through sweet times of stillness with me.

Be still and know that I am God. 

(Psalm 46:10)

All the rage these days

This little man can't get enough of standing up.

He pulls himself up on just about anything: the couch, the baby gate, the bookshelves, the fridge, the door hinges, the dresser drawers... he somehow manages to shimmy himself up by leaning all his weight into a bare wall!

Intrepid explorer

He is just so curious, and so anxious to see what's just above eye level. A lot of Fletcher's frustration these days stems from not being able to climb higher. It's only a matter of time before he's taking steps without the security of his hand touching some sort of support. Already he makes loops around the perimeter of our apartment as he slides his way around all the furniture.

For so many months, my little bean was so content to hang out and observe -- but no more! He's giving me a run for my money and he's only going to get faster.

This kid is ALL BOY.

Butter bread sandwiches

Greg and I have been watching a miniseries on netflix called Ken Burns: The Dust Bowl that has absolutely captivated us.

It offers some perspective that has been encouraging to us. We are by no means living in a Dust Bowl, but the past year has challenged our comforts in ways I haven't experienced before.

I'm serious, if you get the opportunity: WATCH IT!

One of the testimonials that one woman shared was that families trekking to California in their makeshift covered wagons would often stop by her family's farm and ask her mother for food. Even though they didn't have a lot to spare, the woman said that he mother always gave the travelling families something to eat. Often times it was just butter bread sandwiches, but that was something. Her mother just didn't have it in her to turn those families away hungry.

That story struck a chord in Greg and me, because while times are tight, we recognize that we are provided for. We want to live generously and give from what we have, even if all we can offer is some of our "daily bread," practical as that is.

Grey

Summer is here, and though I know it isn't yet as hot as it will get, we've already had plenty of 90+ degree days that tend to make my spirit wilt.

Despite my best efforts to be like one of those dainty southern women who walk around with their own personal breeze in the face of balmy weather, nothing quite brings out my inner crankiness like the heat.

This morning, however, it is beautifully overcast and grey. The thermostat reads 79 degrees and I've flung every window open wide inviting the cool morning to come in and stay a while.

It's only 9:30 am, and the sun will most likely burn off the cloud cover by the afternoon, forcing Fletcher and I to come inside and shut ourselves in "the cold room" (the bedroom that has an AC unit) but I am grateful for this gloomy start to this day. I think God knew how much I needed it.

Check out those chompers!

Meanwhile, once Fletcher wakes up from his morning nap we are going to hit the town! First we are going to go thrift store shopping with Rhonda to help her look for costumes for the show she's directing, then later on today we have a play date with his buddy.

I'm grateful for the lovely beginning to the fun day we have planned. I hope YOUR day is equally as refreshing and recharging!