5 Arrows

Here are a few segments in the saga of our lives these past, well... 

15 weeks, 3 days to be exact.

Where the idea of "arrows" became a symbol of tenderness and love in my world.

Keep reading...

On an unassuming Wednesday in late August, 

I casually took a pregnancy test. 

(See, I'd been feeling pretty tired through the days and wondered if my thyroid levels were off, so I sometimes I take a pregnancy test before I'd go into the doctor to get my blood checked.) In light of just picking up my refill of birth control pills that morning, my mind was 99.9% certain of the results the test would show. 

So when the "+" sign showed up, I just stared. After almost falling off my chair. And said "oh my gosh" out loud for maybe a full minute. 

Then went on to take 5 more tests in the next few days. 'Cause, you never know. 

And tangible was so important when this news was so unbelievable.

The physical support + true care of a precious friend that first day (who sat squished next to me in our upstairs rocking chair) gave me strength to finally get out of the chair that I somehow was stuck in for what seemed like hours. 

Tears, freak out, tears, disbelief, confusion, more tears, fuzziness. 

And staring out my bedroom window at the once-ordinary view of the street. Somehow the view seemed reassuring in the presence of such life-shaking news that had just knocked me upside the head and shifted my life's direction.

Man.

Four children.

That was it, that was in our vision, in our plan.

Even our nicely canvased picture on the wall seemed complete: Nate and I with our four precious babies right after their births.

Four kids were in my family, my mom's family, my dad's family, my sister's family...

Nowhere in our plans was FIVE. 

It was hard to even swallow, that number. FIVE.

Almost as hard as it was a few years ago to say my sister had cancer, was it to say we were going to have five children.

I hate to say, that the thought of how others would react to our news shook me almost more than my own fears and anxieties. 

And that is where God began to meet me and walk as close as close could be. 

No, you don't have to remind me.

That we live on one income.

That I stay home with our young ones.

That our home is not a mansion.

That children cost a lot.

That they take your energy and run with it. 

All that work. 

All those sacrifices.

No. I got that. No reminders needed. 

Please don't, in fact. 

Those realities have been pretty darn present, 24/7. 

And the reality of heading back to my OB's office for ANOTHER pregnancy made me want to run the opposite direction. We had said our goodbyes and closed that door. I seriously dreaded walking down the hall to my doctor's office door.

Our kids were all growing, and we were moving forward to adventures as a family of six.
Our youngest, our girl, was The Baby of the family.

Baby items: gone.

Maternity clothes: gone.

Randomly learning that hotels only allow 6 people in one room: put me over the edge.

A family of seven is new territory.

We were entering that same ol' again with pregnancy again. A newborn. Another child, PERSON to merge into our already busy family.

And we were also entering a new group, at least in my mind. Of a "really large" family size. 

And I didn't have a joyful excitement about any of it. 

When a door closes to a part of your life... that time has come and gone.

You do not expect that door to be opened again for you.

Life was a messy muddle.

And pregnancy sickness was just starting to push its way in my days.

I longed to feel like myself again. Familiar, even to myself.

But anxiety and dread and chaotic thoughts wouldn't leave my side.

But, this is not the whole story.

Thank. God.

After battling through unending mental arguments with myself... moments of relief.

Tender thoughts would return, beautiful glimpses of hope and allowing fresh air where I could finally BREATHE again.

Like the day I walked through an Altar'D State with my big sister and niece, and the signs of verses and quotes kept bringing tears to my eyes. Like, huge emotional roller coaster-but a good one. (Thank you, store, for allowing me to sneak pictures of all your gentle reminders of God being near.)

And verses a pastor would read at church that I had just happened to have read earlier in the week (Isaiah 46).

And a book segment a friend messaged me ("Kisses from Katie" by Katie J. Davis)

"As long as God keeps giving me these precious children of His, I will continue to love them with the best of my ability."

And quotes that brought yet more teary eyes. But oh-so needed.

A song introduced to me from a wonderful friend:

"He Will Hold Me Fast" (Norton Hall Band)

https://youtu.be/0345Ls4IJf4

In fact, only times I really felt I could breathe with ease were when I was being fed, showered with encouragement, with words from the Bible/music/trusted ones to help me remember my faith, my beliefs in what this life is really about. (Thank you, dear friends and family for your kindnesses.)

Once I'd leave that bubble, my anxieties and concerns over this world's perception of me would return. So I kept returning to those sources that would give me life and not confusion.

And then, in late September, my newest nephew was born. 

That precious new life started so rocky, with him spending days in the NICU to allow his sweet body to recover and strengthen. 

And when I was standing near that baby boy, my momma resolve began to grow. The intense care of his parents, the love shown toward that miracle of life... 

My heart began to open wider to that new life growing inside of me, as surprising and unanticipated as he/she was. 

And then those beautiful ultrasound glimpses of the littlest Balder. 

Seeing that quiet but rapid blink of a heartbeat...

Wow.

Not something I ever expected to experience in myself again. But, wow. 

Then there was a morning in October, when I decided to put one of those black and white ultrasound photos into a frame, next to our current family picture. It seemed such a big step for me. Part feeling guilty it was such a step, and part feeling anticipation to simply see the reality of that new life being added next to our family. 

And in those next moments, a song came on over Pandora that took my breath away and brought happiest of tears to my eyes. A Beatles song. Really? "Here Comes the Sun." 
I couldn't help but scoop up my littlest girl and swing her around the room in dance to the music, smiling and melting a bit inside. 
https://youtu.be/V0kHokSsokI

That was a big day, of accepting. The reality of pregnancy was still a hard one, sickness + shock, but the news of a FIFTH child making our family into SEVEN had somehow sunk in. 

So, like Nate said in a conversation in the middle of the night when we had just learned our pregnancy news, "This is a calling for us. OUR CALLING." To have these children given to us, to raise and sacrifice for and give until we've given all. It's hard and it's not the calling for everyone. But, it's a big part of OUR calling. 

And God has chosen us and reopened our quiver of arrows to add one more to the mix.

"Children are a heritage from the Lord,
offspring a reward from Him.
Like arrows in the hands of a warrior
are children born in one's youth.
Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them."
Psalm 127:3-5

As a dear friend describes this child, he/she is our "ENCORE BABY." Just when you think it's done, there comes an unexpected surprise encore to keep the show going. The adventure going...

And God will provide for our needs. Somehow.
And God will give us enough energy and love to share with yet another child in our family. Somehow.

"Because I am abundantly loved by Him, 
I have an abundance of love to give."
(Lysa TerKeurst)

"We weren't made to be robotic followers of this world's formulas.
We were made to be transformed into the unique person God appointed to fulfill the assignments set before us.
...All throughout the day, she can can be heard whispering heartfelt pleas to her Jesus,
saying 'Show me the way, show me the way, show me the way.' 
She courageously embraces His gentle voice behind her, 
saying 'This is the way. Walk in it.'"
(Lysa TerKeurst)

(My favorite quote, currently)

So, here's to our encore baby.
Your encouraging smiles and hugs and kindness even in the grocery store aisles means more than you'll know, to keep me going forward.
And please, pray for us in all our future weeks and needs and decisions we face. 

Life is beautiful. 
But hard.
But beautiful. 

Blessings, 
Elizabeth

My mountain

There is an old bush in front of our home.

An enormous bush. 

It sits stubbornly in its spot, where it will remain 'til the end of time.

It's not just the height. It's that this bush is a dark sphere. Like an entire planet, right next to our dining room window.

Round, huge, monstrous.

The issue? 

Is that about once a year, this bush reveals to the neighborhood its need of a haircut at the very tip-top. Its wide sides are trimmed often, but its top is like a bad (terrible!) hairstyle that needs those split ends chopped off.

Only, even a ladder doesn't easily allow one to reach the center of this bad boy. 

The task becomes daunting.

I have the desire to pretty up this green monster- and I've found that trying to ignore it never seems to dissolve those awful split ends!

I appreciate when things look lovely. 

  But I've grown to be quietly obsessed with this monumental challenge.

I am tall. 

  But not that tall, to get it done on a whim.

I am not afraid of heights. 

  But I have a fear of falling backward. (Thank you, horrible repelling incident decades ago!)

On this hot July afternoon, it was time. 

This ragged bush needed to be reckoned with. No more noticing-and-forgetting to get the job done. No more mental complaining. Just time to tackle the beast. That mountain.

And as I grit my teeth and began to cut, it suddenly became emotional to me.

I could feel a burning in my eyes.

Suddenly,

the struggles that had been pressing in on my life took the shape of this awful green mass of branches.

This past month of July:

• Family decisions- uncertainties of the future.
• Choices of others- for better or worse.
• A lack of control over circumstances- adjusting as life kept coming at us.

And then my rehashing of last year's month of July:

• Holding in early news of our pregnancy- carrying joy and such emotion (and such sickness).
• BAM- News of my big sister's breast cancer. Initial worries and then sobs during the phone call that revealed the diagnosis.
• Another BAM- News of my father-in-law's leukemia. Sliding down onto our kitchen floor in disbelief.

It was a time of shock and processing and coping.

When life would never seem the same again.

So. 

This bush this afternoon... it transformed into something much bigger than it was. 

Much bigger than any neighbors or cars driving by could see.

It turned into my own personal battle to work through.

Seriously? Yep.

I tackled that thing like never before. 

Focused. 

Eyes narrowed, brows furrowed.

Arms reaching up with those long, worn garden shears in hand.

Tip-toed in my old $1 Walmart crocs, hands stretched as high as possible.

Grabbing for branches. 

Fierce in my chopping.

Sometimes even missing those bunches of evergreens, but never, never stopping.

Sweat was dripping down my face and neck, and prickly green bits were sticking to me. 

Dirt was clinging to my skin. 

And it all made me even more determined.

Scratch marks appeared on my arms, and it felt right. Like battle scars I was earning as I didn't give up. Chop.

In the physical work of chopping, my mind was racing through the strains and struggles and emotions of the past 12+months.

Tears would come, and then increased resolve.

Prayers, and then some inner pep talk conversations.

Tight lips of concentration, and then a tiny proud smile.

When I reached as high as I could to no success, 

I decided to push forward into the bush. That was, um, new. (Smart? Not sure.) But once I started, it felt good.

Like I was living a metaphor. Physically seeing a lesson being taught to my heart.

Pressing into the problem, pushing through the looming circumstances right up in my face. 

And so I stood, arms up with the shears from inside that mountain of a bush. Reaching like mad -with a wry smile- whenever the blades found success.

The bright sun of the early afternoon was blinding. I was a crazed branch-chopper who only wanted to fight harder. I couldn't see squat, but just dove forward and kept chopping at whatever I could connect with. 

Unable to see through the brash sun and sweating with needles jabbing all around me.

But the outer discomfort made sense with the inner battle going on.

It was so right. I didn't want to be anyplace else but in that jungle of a bush.

Thinking, feeling, facing head on.

As we (and our circle) have gone through some challenging circumstances these past few weeks, a family friend asked this question:
"What can we learn from this?"

And that thought has stayed near.
It's not just a processing of events and concerns we got through.
It's moving beyond that. "What can we learn from this?"

And so, in the middle of tackling this mountain of branches, my mind whirled with that question, over and over.

I couldn't give up.

I could have stopped chopping, 
and no one may have noticed what I had accomplished
and no one may have noticed where I had to just let the beyond-reach branches remain, imperfect and all.

But I was compelled.
To finish that task, to not be defeated.

Eventually and very grudgingly,
I had to retrieve the fancy ladder from the garage.
And then had to find the delicate balance of where to prop and rest that heavy silver thing so together "we" could reach the center of that giant green ball of a bush.

And when I got to the top of that shiny ladder, the task was (BAM) suddenly manageable. 
What was impossible and never-ending from below, 
What I strived for, over and over -with some success- to do on my own,
was completely different from above.


I had just wanted to accomplish the task without any help- just me.
But that had worked only a bit, and then failed me.

The new vantage point. 
Using a tool beyond myself. 
= Helped me finish that battle.

(What had gotten me through the shocks and trying times of the past year, current days included?)

It wasn't all easy with that ladder. It took determined effort yet.
It still took stretching and reaching and courage to push farther than safe.
But it worked.
That mountain of mine was reckoned with. At least for today.

A different vantage point? Deciding to use that tool to assist you the rest of the way?
What would that be for you?

To some of you, this seems ridiculous. 

A bush? Tears? Really?

But I know we each have our own daunting "thing" that looms in front of us, mocking and refusing to be ignored.

What would yours be? 
And what can you learn from it?

Somehow, chopping away at those prickly branches brought me through a journey of emotions and thoughts that had been tucked away for months...

• Sister's chemo, loss of hair, weariness and sickness. The whole shebang.
• Father-in-law treated in a hospital bed, weeks on end. Not sure what was next.
• Other circumstances out of our grasp that have angered and saddened and discouraged.
• Life sometimes seeming overwhelming in the day by day.

But these moments of sweat-drenched hacking at pine needles grew to reveal the okayness of feeling weak and pained. 
And that personally choosing to step into the challenge and the pushing through of the yuck and ugliness from the scratches on my skin and dirt combined with sweat and pine needles sticking to my hair was worth it... because conquering that mountain meant something to me.

Proud. A good proud.

Blessings,
Elizabeth


(The funny, haha, thing? 
As I was just about to wrap up my chopping afternoon, a cherry picker type truck drives on by. Without a care in the world, just driving on down the road, somehow laughing at the ordeal I had put myself through that past hour. Groaning, straining, strategizing. Where this cherry picker could have nailed this trim job in 2 minutes flat. Smooth sailing. Geez.

...But the job got taken care of- with a whole lot of heart.)

What is helping

As someone who has struggled with postpartum emotions and anxieties, these pictures represent some big things this past week.

Between processing the change and loss of leaving pregnancy behind and welcoming an actual LIFE into my world… Non-wrapped gifts are presenting themselves each day.

The moments of strong ups-and-downs still try to push themselves into the forefront, but right now, the gifts of these past days are staying in the lead.

• During our hospital stay, one evening was especially hard for me. Anxiety suddenly begun rushing in on me. It was almost hard to breathe and seemed impossible to shake it off. Nate went to run an errand, and I planned on spending the next hour having a good cry. But 5 minutes later, Nate walked back in the room, followed by a longtime friend. She had decided to stop by our room just to drop off a gift, even though we had decided to limit visitors that day. But she followed her instinct and came to see me. My big tears at seeing her surprised them both, but was as though God had picked her up and dropped her right in front of me at the moment I absolutely needed someone there. The next few hours were filled with deep, heart honest conversation between two girlfriends who have walked through some big stuff of life together. The sweetest medicine for my anxious heart. Like an angel had visited. God showed me His care in such a clear way.

• Before we left the hospital to head for the familiarity and noise of home, Nate laid down on the inclined bed, holding Anna close. This duplicated a scene from the past, where we had been in a hospital bed with our newborn middle boy on leaving-day. So, on this day, instead of leaving the hospital right away after being discharged, my cue was clear, to lay down with them. The three of us. So still, so calm. Like a bubble around us, protecting us from the rest of the world. Completely safe, quiet, worry free. For those long moments. The best gift.

And since returning home… 

The gifts continue.

• The purity and tenderness of a particular baby girl with deep blue eyes, round cheeks, and a soft swirl of dark hair who has entered our family and home. And older brothers who have taken her in, each in their own way. Wrapping this baby in blankets that have been given to us out of love and care.
• Laundry friends, who have taken totes of clothes to their own homes to help tackle the stress when our dryer stopped working. With a newborn. A family of 6. Mountains of clothes that had nowhere to go, until friends offered their time and kindness to meet such a need.
• Meal friends, who have dropped by our front door with homemade meals for my family. Daily blessings.
• A friend who has come over to stay with the youngest ones so I could venture out with the older ones. Who took one on a playdate so there could be a quiet morning.
• Sunny afternoons, when the guys get dirt covered in the backyard playing baseball. Ice cream, root beer floats with their daddy.
• An old dryer being removed and a new one being installed. After weeks of struggle, the whirring sound of working machines sounds so, so good.
• Friends who stop by to meet the newest member of our family, and to just talk. And let me take their picture. What is better than someone you care about loving on your child? Memories. 
• Tears in my eyes this afternoon at a good doctor report, that our youngest one will be the only one of our children not to need extra care for jaundice concerns. There have always been tears for me with this certain baby issue, but this is the one time they were tears of such relief and thankfulness.
• And the looking-forward-to of friends coming to visit. And my mom coming next week. And those who haven't met our sweet one yet. Loved ones.

And so, this day, what struck me, that being on the constant lookout for gifts is what is helping my spirit. 

My emotions may nose dive time and again, and not everything is smooth. 
But celebrating the gifts as they come, one hour after another? 

It is helping. 

(Thank you, each of you, friends and family and nurses and doctors, who have lavished care on my family. You are beautiful gifts.)

That January 31st

At some point, 
we may all have one of those turning points...

Not a pretty turning point, 
but one that comes from a deepest crisis in our life.

Crisis:
1. a stage in a sequence of events at which the trend of all future events, 
especially for better or for worse, is determined; turning point.
2. a condition of instability or danger, leading to a decisive change.
3. a dramatic emotional or circumstantial upheaval in a person's life.
(http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/crisis)

For us, our Big One was 10 years ago today.
(Funny how some dates will stick forever in your memory.)

On January 30, 2006:
We had been married almost 2 years and were walking along pretty confidently down a certain path, with major life goals and changes coming together.

On January 31, 2006:
BAM.
BAM.
In the space of one unexpected morning phone call, I found myself crumpled on the floor of
our hallway, head in my hands. 

Life had crashed. Big time.

Suddenly all was an unknown.

All was uncertain. 

All my control was GONE. 

The rug had been completely pulled out. We were sitting on nothing but air.

So scary.

That day and the next overflowed with rawness.

Adrenaline to exhaustion. 
Exhaustion to heartbreak. 

Heartbreak to anger.
Anger to peace.

Peace to emptiness.
Emptiness to adrenaline.
Adrenaline to exhaustion.

And back and forth.

Constantly.

What do you do, 

but make yourself pick up one foot and then another. 

And repeat. 

You turn to those you absolutely trust to walk with you, 

to buffer you from falling,

to hold up your arms when you can't.

You guard yourself from those you just don't have the capacity to open up to in such an intense time.

You live one short moment at a time.

You (Psalm 23) "walk through the valley" knowing Someone is with you.

And you make choices.

BIG ones. 

Will I turn away?

Will I turn toward?

The initial days crawl by.

The world seems so different.

Life is normal for everyone else. 

But not you.

Not at all.

What is next?

When will life feel familiar and safe again?

The weeks go by.

Life continues: Survival and a New View.

Not easy. 

Like each step is through the thickest mud.
Through sadness. Anger. 
Wondering "if only..." 
Asking "what is next?"
"Will we recover?"

More weeks go by.

And then months.

And then the years.

Life continues, 

but down such an absolutely different path than ever imagined.

Not all bad though.

Just so different.

The grieving of the loss of the former path, the old familiar.

But, it is not all bad.

And sometime along the way, the "not all bad" shifts into an undiscovered kind of beauty.

What was once coping has gradually turned into a new normal...
and that new path has a completely different, personal, bittersweet beauty.

Bittersweet from going through the valleys and the struggles... 
But also a changed perspective.

And a loosening of those lost expectations.

Agonies and despair and uncertainty that have grown ever-so-tenderly into a deep, deep appreciation for what is lovely and positive and REAL.

Hope grows out of losses and hardest days. And what is more pure and rich than that?

The little is never little again.
(Not looking for the huge moments to see that beauty, but instead seeing it in the tiniest, simplest bits of life.)

"The soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears." 
(Native American proverb)

And if seeing life and its ups and downs in that way doesn't bring some healing and gratitude...

• For a once-broken heart turning more tender.
• For no longer dwelling on what cannot be controlled.
• For the 'big stuff' not seeming as all-defining.
• For the once-unnoticed blessings being SEEN. 
• For absolute realization that Hope has always been there.
• For seeing the loss and grief and helplessness of someone nearby going through her own crises. (And yearning to walk alongside her.) 
• For that pure, indescribable gift in the recognition and appreciation of the good.
• For an inner radiance that could only grow from such painful days. (The light after trudging through such darkness.)

What is the only thing we have any smidge of control over?

Whether or not we can pick up that one foot and put it in front of the other. And continue.

Ever so slowly at first, but turning into a new boldness and gentleness. 

A different awareness.

You keep close to you what you need to hold close to you.

You trust that inner circle when you need to lean on someone else.

You see in the eyes of others whether they have had their own crisis moment.

You never forget the rough path of your journey, and you savor the sweetness when the path isn't so rocky anymore.

"Victories don't come by accident."

("War Room")

We have recently been reminiscing and reliving these past 10 years... 

The memories are still so strong and vivid.

BUT the milestones to look back on of how our path has been readjusted and recreated show us at least some meaning for we've been through. 

The painful memories don't disappear, but they are gently buried and remembered from a familiar distance.

Not ever wanting to go back through the hard steps again, 

but GRADUALLY seeing the crisis-to-survival-to-new-life with a gratitude for how we have been changed. For the richer. 

(Wrinkle lines and dark circles under our eyes and all.)

We would not be the same people AT ALL if not for that huge valley 10 years ago.

We would not be the same Team together if not for that shared trial and journey.

And I would not trade that for ANYthing.

No power of hell, 

No scheme of man,

Can ever pluck me from His hand.

("In Christ Alone")

And not a tear is wasted

In time, you'll understand:

I'm painting beauty with the ashes

Your life is in My hands.

("Just Be Held")

God has been in control.

God is in control.

God will stay in control.

Have hope.

Elizabeth