I will celebrate me.

 

Today, I turned 37.  

This past year, as many know, has been quite a year.  I’ve had “quite a year” multiple years in the recent past, where I find myself, on my birthday, reflecting on the year and on birthdays past.  There’s been some real long journeys, many trials, plenty of struggles, and even more perseverance.

This past year has seemed much longer than most years before it, with six long months being spent battling covid-19 and some of it’s lasting effects on my body. If yo know me well or have seen me in “real life” over the last six months, there’s a good chance you’ve noticed.  I try to take it on with a smile, but some days are just tough.  This past week, especially has been a tough one. As much as I would like to try to explain why that is, the truth is that I just don’t really know.  I believe realizing the loneliness that I find myself living through is a portion of it.  Knowing that people out there love me, but cannot be around me, is a difficult thing, especially on a birthday.  Time drags on, for certain, when you spend weeks and months in isolation.   Having my children around during isolation and quarantine (for endless weeks this year) is a blessing, but also, if I’m being honest, can wear on a person when you’re all four stuck within the same walls day after day.

As I have been reflecting on this past year of my life and what it has transpired to be, I remembered, back in February, at a women’s conference at my church, that during personal prayer, dear friends spoke over me that perhaps, this year is a year to be still.  I might slow down and see what God is speaking to me, pray over and wait to hear what plans He has for my life.    I had no idea that only two months later, I would be in for one of the longest “still” journeys I’ve had in my life.

I’ve spent hours in prayer, in worship, in tears, in conversations with God, in online Bible studies, online church, trying to be in touch with his whispers and songs to me.  Looking back, I can see the quarantine has been a blessing when it comes to being still.

It’s been a lonely year, too.  I have voiced before multiple ways it’s been hard on the body, the spirit, the mind, and how strange the world feels to me during this pandemic.  

As life would have it, not only was I infected with covid-19 in March, but I because ill again at the end of September, testing positive for the virus yet again.  Because the wear on my immune system was fairly intense the first time, again, it took weeks for the fever to subside, and guidelines for quarantine have us home again.  I join Norah in having a quarantine birthday this year, meaning there aren’t parties (not that I have birthday parties, but she enjoys them each year, or need fanfare and celebratory events) or hugs from family and friends.  Thankfully, the weather was great this morning, and we were able to quarantine out in nature a while.  Norah woke me up with a “Happy Birthday” yell in my face and presented me with a book filled with art she created for me as a birthday gift from her heart.  

As I continued to reflect on my year, it hit me hard last night, that despite the isolation of my birthday this year, one thing is for certain- this is a birthday worth celebrating.  I was very sick at the beginning of the year, and there was potential to be quite sick again on my birthday today.  God carried me and my children through both of those storms, and I am here, today, to turn 37.

Another dear friend text me earlier today, when I was opening up about this past week and how it was hard on me in various ways.  She said “ask Papa God what He thinks of you.”

So, as we walked along the trail, struggling a little for breath, pressure building in my chest, I asked Him.

He reminded me that I am an Overcomer.  He treasures me, because I am worthy, I am important, and I will do amazing things with my life, even if I don’t always see it.  I have more days ahead to live out His love.

That’s something else to celebrate.  I told the same friend last week, “I get through stuff.”  It’s what I do.  And God always has been faithful to help me find the peace, the joy, the light, even in dark parts of the journey.  This past year was no different, and this next year will be the same.

So, today, I am taking a few quiet moments to rejoice in my own birthday, to celebrate another year well lived, and to embrace the quiet joy I find in my spirit amidst the valley we are making our way through.  I will celebrate me, because I am worthy of celebration.

Beauty from Ashes

“He will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair.  In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks that the Lord has planted for his own glory.”  Isaiah 61:3 NLT

 If you know me personally, you are likely to know that on March 31, 2020, I tested positive for COVID-19.  I have yet to write a detailed post on that, although it’s been on my mind to chronicle my journey medically because the stories are still helping others to fight that battle.  It was a long journey.  I was sick with a fever and persistent symptoms for over six weeks.  I had COVID-19 turn into pneumonia, and shortly after returning to work for a handful of days, I came down with bronchitis which knocked me down and out for another two weeks.  I battled almost all of the symptoms, and while I was fortunate enough to be able to fight the illness off at home, there were a few nights I was not sure I would survive it, many nights I could hardly sleep, multiple nights I was quite scared because I could hardly breathe to walk a few steps, and many, many nights after I would wake up in a panic unable to breathe, or feeling like while I was sleeping I was also suffocating with a lack of oxygen.  I had terrible, migraine like headaches for weeks on end, body pain like I had never experienced before, and so many more issues.  I was contacted a week or so into the illness to ask if when I recovered I would be willing to donate plasma with COVID-19 antibodies (convalescent plasma) and I said definitely.  But they said I needed to be recovered first. I tried multiple vitamins, supplements, antibiotics, and rescue inhaler just to keep on going.  My kids were terrified many nights that I was going to die.  They thanked God that I didn’t almost every night for multiple weeks.

After the six weeks of fever, I realized I still had shortness of breath, cough, headaches, body aches, exhaustion, fatigue, joint pain, muscle pain, nerve pain, and it felt like I was going to have a heart attack more often than I care to remember.  I was considered recovered, but also not considered really recovered. Every time they would call I would still be coughing.  That was the main thing in their mind.  I had to stop coughing and I had to be done with the shortness of breath.

In the middle of July, I had another follow up appointment.  All of my bloodwork came back within normal ranges, with kidney function levels at the very cut-off for the low end of normal range.  But, I still had fevers.  I still had nerve pain.  I still had chest pain and shortness of breath.  My heart was constantly racing when I was awake.

My EKG that day was fine so I wore a Holter monitor for 24 hours to see if it would catch the tachycardia and palpitations I felt.

It did, but I wasn’t considered “bad enough” to need further testing.  I was placed on a beta blocker for the tachycardia (my heart rate exceeded 150 for normal daily activities) and an anti-convulsant for the nerve pain.  I was still coughing, exhausted, in pain, with random spikes in fevers, and always, always tired.

In the middle of August, my cough seemed to mostly disappear.  It’s now the beginning of September and my cough is very rare.  I actually only notice it when I over exert myself, or when I miss my dose of beta blocker.  When I miss my beta blocker dosage, the tachycardia and palpitations come back.  I still have nerve pain, every single day, usually now located only in my hips and legs.  It’s tolerable because I’m used to it.  It’s definitely less on the medication, but it hasn’t disappeared.

I am still exhausted so easily.  My muscles are still rebuilding and hurt and ache.  I still get headaches pretty frequently, and I have some days with really intense brain fog where I feel like a fool.   I rarely wake up in a panic that I am unable to breathe, but I always sleep holding a pillow because I can’t handle the pressure of my arms crossing in my sleep.  I have random days were there are minutes of blurry vision I for no reason.  I already said it, but I’m always tired.  Last week I napped every day and still felt exhausted.  My blood levels are still normal and so there’s no documented “reason” for any of it, other than lingering effects of a long battle with Covid-19.

I still have healing left to do, but I am so thankful that I am where I am after what feels like an eternity.

However, last week, after months of battling, because my cough was finally considered to be gone, I was able to go into the hospital and donate convalescent plasma.  I was nervous that day because I haven’t been inside a medical facility without a fever in months.  My heart rate was always way too high, and so was my blood pressure, and I was not sure if I would pass the vitals check that day.  Thanks to the beta blocker, I was able.

It was going well, but about halfway through, the needle pierced through both sides of my vein. There was an instant bubble and blood leaking, and I had to stop early.  I was able to fill a few bags almost halfway, which is better than nothing at all.   I am still recovering with quite an unsightly bruise with some swelling and pain, but I will gladly do it again if and when I’m able.

I had said from the beginning of my battle, I just hoped something good would come from my journey.  I wanted to bring hope.  And now that I am closer to healed than months before, I am hopefully able to take my fight with the taunt of death and give someone the hope for life.

Finally, beauty from the ashes.

Those Awesome Obnoxious Pants

It's time.  It's been time for quite some time, I know, but I had ignored it for way too long.

What's it time for? 

Those awesome, obnoxious (dare I say slightly derranged, possibly somewhat ugly) pants.

Yes.  I have invested in three pairs of cheap workout pants.  They are the kind of pants that many have worn for a long time, that I always would roll my eyes at (mentally) and wonder what on earth is wrong with people who wear them.

Now, I own them.  Now, I'm wearing them.  I'm wearing them at this very moment.  And, I'm rolling my eyes (mentally) at myself, wondering what on earth is wrong with me.  They're so boisterous.  I am not a boisterous individual by nature.  I prefer to not be noticed most of the time.  And here I am, in bright, loud, workout pants.    

Why this change?

I have been wondering that for a while now, which is why I haven't actually talked much about it.

I've been going through a lot over the past years when she has been transforming.  My transformations have been different.  I went through the betrayal, abandonment, homelessness, emotional manipulation (and so many more things) associating with the ending of my marriage.  I worked hard just to stay awake most of the days, to feed my kids, to work, to smile, to laugh, to cuddle, to hug, to pray, to hope, to cook, to clean, to breathe.  I struggled through countless emotional days and weepy nights.  I was on a rollercoaster like I had never known existed.  I transformed, I know.  I don't always see which ways I've transformed.  It's rare I can detail the changes to anyone.  

Some transformations have been by choice.  Some have been necessity and God's sifting in my life to purify, change me, and mold me into the woman he's called me to be for the plan He has for me, whatever it is.  

This change... this one is deliberate, an unexpected choice. 

On Mother's Day, I had the blessing of being able to spend a long stretch of kid-free hours with my Bean (for those new around here, that would be my cousin Tarah, who has been one of my best friends since college).  For the past couple of years, she's taken an active role in bettering herself on many levels, but one of them has been with physical health and fitness.  One she's shed pounds and inches and gained so much confidence, energy, and enthusiasm.   

I can't say that there was a single conversation we had, or a single activity we did, or any moment that I just hit this switch, but after that weekend, I decided it was my turn.

Mother's Day weekend, I decided it was time to tackle one of the most seemingly cumbersome transformations there are- physical.  I decided it was time to pay more attention to my body, my meals, my exercise, my sleep.  Instead of staying up two extra hours every night so that I could have quiet, alone time without my kids, I go to bed earlier.  I read food packages, though I occasionally still eat something not as good for you.  I have nearly all-together stopped drinking soda.  I've been trying to not push myself so hard, especially with the rib that still hurts.  

The most shocking thing though- the pants.  

It's not necessarily the pants themselves (well, okay it kind of is), but what they represent.  They were a treat to myself after I willingly joined a group of women on MommaStrong.com (for $2 a month, which wasn't a daunting investment so I couldn't think of any great excuses since I gave up soda after all, and NO this isn't a sponsored post) and completed 12 consecutive days of 12-18 minutes worth of workouts called Core Camp.  I sweat my face off and I even enjoyed it.  I wasn't daunted by the pain in my rib cage, because when it hurt too much, I modified.  She (Courtney, founder of MommaStrong) said I could and should modify things.  Instead of feeling guilty for doing that, I felt empowered. I felt smart.  

Somewhere along the 12 days, while I powered my way clumsily through workouts in front of my kids who questioned what in the world I was doing and why, I realized I was looking forward to the workouts.  I was looking forward to reclaiming this piece of myself. I was looking forward to taking control of yet another part of my life that felt overwhelming and cumbersome, daunting and embarrassing.

If you know me, I've never been one who talks about working out.  I love to go on walks, and back before I went to college and had a bicycle, I loved to ride bike.  That's about it.  I lift my babies and babies at work.  That's sort of a workout.  I clean.  That is slightly sort of a workout.  But otherwise... nope.  I had no desire to get sweaty and gross because I was too weak and fat and whatever else and it just seemed pointless.  There was so much  negative talk within myself and I didn't even realize it until I realized it was slowly being silenced.

I can think of fifty excuses (guesstimating) why I couldn't, shouldn't, didn't want to work out.  No space. No time. No energy. No money. No privacy.  No strength.  No, no, no, no, no.

Then I said yes.  I just gave in and said yes.

I'm proud of myself.  Sure, I'm still overweight, I'm still out of shape, I'm still weak. My rib still bothers me and some days it hurts to take deep breaths.  I'm still tired.  I'm still busy and I certainly don't have the privacy.   I still can't do a push up or a pull up, and my running distance is small.

But I'm doing it, or I'm trying to.  And in doing it, I'm silencing the lies that I've told myself, I'm silencing the enemy and I'm breaking off his strongholds.  I'm diligently working (sometimes minute by minute) to shut down the devil and keep him from bringing me down in this area of my life as I have had to in so many others.  I'm doing it. I'm trying to.

I'm working on it. I'm working out.

My oldest recently asked me why I work out and why I exercise. I told him something along the lines of "I do it because it's good for me. It makes me stronger, healthier, and a better mom and a better person.  And I'm the only mommy they have, so I better take good care of myself, for me, and for them.

With that let me tell you- if I can do it, you can do it.  I have so many things working against me, so many reasons why it would be easier not to, so many reasons to just be complacent.  They're legitimate, for the most part.  I know we all have them. 

But yeah... The pants.. they're super comfortable.  They're still kind of ugly.  But they're kind of awesome.

Just Mom on Father's Day

Here it is.  Father's Day.

Today, I've already been wished a Happy Father's Day and a Happy Second Mom's Day, more than once,

In some ways, it's been a very typical Sunday. I woke up this morning singing "Good Good Father" in my head, at 5:45 when Norah decided we should get up and get ready for 8:30 church, bathed the two-year-old princess, fed the kids, watched Norah tattoo herself so she can look like me, gone to church, came home, and fed the kids lunch,.

But in other ways, today feels like agony.  I sat through church and heard, as I have many times before, the various ways that children can be screwed up by not having a dad in their lives.   From home life, to church life, to school life, to social life... there's numerous, detailed effects that have been studied and documented linking the lack of a father in children's lives to problems later on.  I get it.  I have heard it all before.  And each time, I always break down in tears.

That's not the only thing that I got from the message at church, mind you.  But it's always a lingering reminder that just a mom just isn't good enough by worldly standards.

I'm mom. It's just me.  I'm not dad.

Yes, I have the responsibility of both parents.  I provide the income and stability that way, and the emotional and educational development.  I love with a momma's heart and discipline with a father's hand.  I do both sides for the most part and I do them the majority of moment I am with them  every day.

But, I'm not their dad.  I'm not a father.

God calls on me to show them a mother's love and to show them His love through the heart of a mother.  He calls on father's to show them the father's love and discipline, and I do that too.  But I am not their dad.  I am not a father.

They have one.  He's somewhere out there.  He's not showing them the Father's love, though, or a father's love.  He's not fulfilling that role God called of him, so I have to make up the best I can.

But I am not their dad. I am not a father.  I never will be. I can't be.

For much of the last year, I've been trying to pull double duty. I've been told I'm an awesome mom and an equally awesome dad.

But I'm not.  I'm just a mom.  I'm just filling in father type roles when I can and am capable.

I don't have to be a dad.  I don't have to be a father.  As much as I want them to have one, it's not going to be me.  It doesn't have to be me.

I'm finally becoming more okay with that.

Someone messaged me a week or two ago, telling me something very similar.  Her exact words were, "Sometimes it feels like you are trying to be two people. In some respects, you have to be both mom and dad, but you are physically one person, and you need to allow yourself to live within that limitation. Some days, you just need to put one foot in front of the other, and call it a successful day. You don't have to make up for their father's absence, and some days, as long as your children's basic needs are met, you have had a successful day."

Since I first read her message, I have been dwelling on it. I've been letting it sink in and been trying to wrap myself around the truth that is in the sentences.

I've been trying so hard to make up for the loss of their dad. I've been trying so hard to be both a mother and a father.  But it's not what I'm called to do.  I'm called to be their mother, and to raise them in a home filled with Christ-like love and examples.  I'm called to surround them with others who live in the same way, and let the influences of those people also shape my children and show them the love of fathers and of the Father.  I just have to be the best mom I can be.

So yes, it's Father's Day, and it's my second Mom's Day of the year, and I will, in some respect, celebrate that I am pulling double duty in many respects, and that it's just them and me, and that we are living in a love-filled, happy household. We will smile, laugh, cuddle, and play.  We will relish the joy that flows among the four of us as we continue to move forward and shape our lives together.  I will cry for myself and my children and my former husband.  I know it. I already have cried more than once.  But, despite the aching hearts and the longing tears, we will continue to pray for their real dad, that his wandering days end and that God can transform him miraculously, so that someday, his heart will be turned back toward his children.  We will acknowledge that dad is still lost in this world and we may or may not see him again some day, but we will also acknowledge that mom is here, she loves them boundlessly, and that there are other fatherly men in their lives who show them a Father's love through the heart of a father.

The Last Page is Turned

In the summer of 2001, the story of our romance began. It began in the basement of a new friend's parents' house after my best friend and I returned from a college visit in another state. It began with a smile.

We were swept away hastily and the pages began filling and turning. The chapters are filled with such joy, humor, adventures, trials, and tribulations. The story really covers quite the gamut of the human experience.

We had a song- "A Page is Turned" by Bebo Norman. The lyrics were poignant and incredibly applicable to our love story, but the artist was also significant, as we discovered him together, our first official summer together, in the hot summer sun at front row of an outdoor acoustic stage. Acoustic guitars and music were a huge theme in our saga.

Today, the last page has turned. The weight of that page was like a lead anvil. It hit, hard.

A part of me wants to take these pages, these stories, shred them up and toss them into a strong breeze, scattering them all across a barren field on a gravel country road like the many we traveled in our days together. Part of me wants to close the covers and lock them up like one of the many high school and college diaries I wrote my hopes and dreams for our love in, shove them under the bed and leave them there until I die. Part of me wants to read them over and over in my little reading spot with a cup of coffee and my babies playing on the floor beside me, savoring every word, getting lost like it was never a true story, just a good book. Part of me wants to pretend it never happened. Part of me wishes we could start over. Part of me longs for what the next pages of my life will bring.

Instead, I find myself sitting here, holding my breath, choking back tears and trembling, stuck in a moment. My eyes burn and my head pounds after cycling between holding back tears and letting them flow all day long. I find myself going from moment to moment in joy and in heartbreak, relief and sorrow. I knew this was coming, and have been waiting for this final page for months. It doesn't make it any easier.

I guess it's time for an empty page.

So Far

A year ago, I left work, and moved into the (then brand new) homeless shelter in town, followed by moving to another homeless shelter where I rented one of their transitional housing apartments.

It was petrifying.

A year ago, I was still hiding my marriage crumbling, my husband's abandonment and other things from the world.

It was exhausting.

A year ago, I was still weighing my decisions on how they would affect my husband and his feelings about the kids and I, and I was still soliciting his opinion even though he rarely was helpful.

It was frustrating.

A year ago, I was still being manipulated, controlled, lied to, and emotionally abused.

It was brain washing me.

A year ago, I was the only one of us fighting for our marriage and our family. 

It was overwhelming.

A year ago, I was still covering up for him, cleaning up his messes, and enabling his poor choices for fear that he would dessert us and in hope that he would finally change.

It was embarassing.

Now, I sit on the couch and I look how far I've come. The children and I have had our own home for over 5 months. I no longer rely on his unreliable assistance for paying rent or bills (or anything at the moment, but that's another story). We have our own address and can have visitors whenever we want (so please come visit). My marriage is publicly on the road to and end, and I no longer feel alone. The weight has been lightened after letting people in. I no longer wait around for input from someone who does not have his children's best interest in mind. I make the decisions, with the help of God or a few trusted friends.

I have asked God to break the chain from the abandonment, lies, control, and abuse. I am free. I can see clearly.

And now, I am fighting for my children and I. I have put us first. I have put my babies first. I still wish I could have had a restored marriage, but I cling to God and his plan for me through this. I pray for my (future) former husband in that he is personally restored. 

And now, I have let down the wall, and let the world see what really happened, for hope that he would be accountable, fearing that it would haunt me publicly, however, or that he would make me out to be crazy. Instead, I see his real character shine through, and I know I am not to blame or to be embarrassed. It is him, not me.

Look how far I've come. 

Thank you, Jesus.