tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30419187465599859302024-02-20T22:00:54.789-08:00The Family Morris "called to build the kingdom first through the romance and adventure of our home..."I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-5875564879068945202013-11-11T11:07:00.002-08:002013-11-11T12:12:33.116-08:00Post 35 | The Two Faces of Legalism<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's a pricy penny. And there are two sides to this coin. Legalism. "Behaviorism," I've heard it called. Pharisee-ism. Self Righteousness. In <a href="http://wearethefamilymorris.blogspot.com/2013/11/post-34-cross-is-not-gospel.html" target="_blank">my last post</a> I talked about my firm, growing and delighted belief that the cross is not <b>the </b>gospel, or the most important part of or "the heart of" the gospel. My belief that the events of the cross aren't the center, with the "other" events of Jesus toggled around it, like the rays of a child's hand-drawn sunshine. The gospel events are the pieces of a puzzle, or dominoes -- one goes missing and the whole operation halts and cannot be finished. I shared that I believe <b>the gospel is what God, three-in-one, did for us <i>and</i> gave to us, because He loved us and it made Him happy and glorified to do such things</b>. <br />
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<i>(Recap if you missed it: </i><br />
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<i>What did He do? Chose, loved, made, sustained, came, lived (sinlessly), died as a Lamb, experienced hell, defeated it, resurrected, left the grave for good, walked on earth again, ascended to heaven, sat on the throne, and made us heirs of every single good gift. </i><br />
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<i>What are the good gifts He gave us? Family, Salvation, License, Nobility, Righteousness, Freedom, Hope, Paradise, Feasting, Companionship, Blessing, Honor, Power, Home, Victory and every other good thing. Every single one.) </i><br />
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Legalism contorts <b>both</b> of those things (what He did and what He gives). It uses His very Holy Language, Scripture itself, and twists, mangles and stabs. It is offended by diversity, license and individuality. It thrives in like-mindedness, repetition and rules. <br />
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<i>“There are people... bent on making you a slave of their conscience. They are legalists, and their tools are guilt, fear, intimidation, and self-righteousness. They proclaim God’s unconditional love for you, but insist on certain conditions... <b>I’m not talking about people who insist you obey certain laws or moral rules in order to be saved</b>. Such people aren’t legalists. They are lost! They are easily identified and rebuffed. I’m talking about Christian legalists whose goal is to enforce conformity among other Christians in accordance with their personal preferences. These are life-style legalists. They threaten to rob you of joy and to squeeze the intimacy out of your relationship with Jesus." <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=M3wW7EIDEVgC&pg=PA310&lpg=PA310&dq=sam+storms+Such+people+aren%E2%80%99t+legalists.+They+are+lost!+They+are+easily+identified+and+rebuffed.&source=bl&ots=PoZ2u4yBh4&sig=kKPlOJVvVqtroBshK2w0CzCY30U&hl=en&sa=X&ei=tBWBUoeDEtSz4AON-IDgAg&ved=0CDEQ6AEwAQ" target="_blank">Sam Storms</a> (borrowed be EGM)</i><br />
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There is a legalism that tries to re-sculpt what God has finished. It tries to convince you that you need <i>this</i> on top of Jesus' complete, A-Z, work. Many a cult and religion have taken off by using the Bible and Jesus Himself, and then adding to it. Many not-cult churches are guilty of doing the same thing. Sometimes it's as "simple" as saying <i>"You must be believe in Jesus</i> and <i>be baptised in order to be saved." </i><br />
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This form of legalism -- the kind that claims you can add to the security or finality or actuality of your salvation -- is, well, to be frank, very easy to identify. Anything -- <i>anything</i> -- other than <i>"by grace I have been saved through believing, through faith!"</i> is salvation-legalism. <i>"I did not do this myself -- I contributed nothing, as this is the gift of God to me."</i> Excellent. Easy.<br />
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<i>"Yet, I have noticed that many of us Christians are certain that God's observing face must be twisted in a displeased scowl. Most seem sure that God experiences a roller-coaster ride of <u>emotions</u> regarding us – dictated by this morning’s state of behavior, spiritual focus, or attitude. <b>We seem to assume that God saves by grace alone and then enjoys us according to a fluxuating, gold star, logarithm-graphed, merit badge system…alone. </b>I knew I should have paid better attention to cosines and tangents in high school and if only I could remember that one other spiritual discipline we were taught last year." <a href="http://www.enjoyinggrace.org/meet-us/two-reasons-for-starters" target="_blank">Enjoying Grace Ministries</a></i><br />
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This other form of legalism is a crafty serpent. It sounds like Colossians 3 with a <i>"don't you dare!"</i> and supernatural-ultimatum tone. It looks like hands held high (much like the shirt collars), busyness and involvedness in church affairs, and a Bible filled with underlines. It looks <i>good</i>. Really good. Self-depricating, scripture on the tip of the tongue, and a fierceness in guarding God and 'His commands', while remaining doting, 'humble', and friendly. Pharisees. <br />
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They convince you that you are to work hard at pleasing God. <i>"If you have been raised with Christ, you </i>better<i> seek the things above."</i> They talk about 1 John 1:9 as if it were written to believers, not the lost. For some reason you feel like you're never <i>quite </i>walking out your salvation without enough fear, enough trembling, and enough accomplishing -- psh, you feel like it's your responsibility to "walk out well," its in your hands. Conversations in church groups and accountability sessions -- more often than not -- circle around your and their struggles: the conflict in marriage, the unbelief in hearts, the (always sexual) lust given into, the pride we possess that deceives us more than we can know, the single person's fight with emotional purity. <br />
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When you share with them the honest, vulnerable, painful stories of your life, they ask you things like <i>"Do you think you are being bitter?"</i> or<i> "Do you think you deserve something more?" </i>Sports were "gospel-centered" by doing things like praying before, after or during games, never missing Sunday morning church because of sports, by opening up practice with a devotional -- I even know of kids who were sent out of practice to spend 10 or 15 minutes 'with the Lord' because they hadn't done it earlier in the day. The way to make 'regular things' turn into 'a Christ-honoring thing' was to do 'the spiritual things' (pray, encourage, use scripture, confess sin, etc). 'Godliness' (according to human standards) was often highlighted publicly and often for doing publicly-'spiritual'-things (for example: the youth worship band being applauded for their godly lives and their motives for playing in the band -- <i>"their desire is to glorify God!" </i>-- when I know for a fact that some of the kids are 'struggling' or abandoning their walk with their Lord, and some were playing in the band because they loved their instrument and... that was about it. I also know some of those kids were Pharisees. PS. I don't care about which kids were up there... I care that their personal lives, motives and hearts were often falsely announced and then clapped-at. Why can't we just clap-at their talent and thank them for their time? Regardless of "why" they play? Their skill reflects their God even if they don't realize it. I actually have more to say about "this" so I should let it be for now. It should be a separate post.)<br />
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<i>"Rarely would these folk ever admit to any of this. They don’t perceive or portray themselves as legalists. If they are reading this they are probably convinced I’m talking about someone else. They’d never introduce themselves:</i> 'Hi! I’m a legalist and my goal is to steal your joy and keep you in bondage to my religious prejudices. Would you like to go to lunch after church today and let me tell you all the things you’re doing wrong?'<br />
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<i>I suspect that some of you are either legalists or, more likely, the victims of legalism. You live in fear of doing something that another Christian considers unholy or vital, even though the Bible is silent on the subject. You are terrified of incurring their disapproval, disdain, and ultimate rejection. Worse still, <b>you fear God’s rejection or displeasure</b> for violating these things. You have been duped into believing that the slightest misstep or mistake causes God’s disapproval and disgust." <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=M3wW7EIDEVgC&pg=PA310&lpg=PA310&dq=sam+storms+Such+people+aren%E2%80%99t+legalists.+They+are+lost!+They+are+easily+identified+and+rebuffed.&source=bl&ots=PoZ2u4yBh4&sig=kKPlOJVvVqtroBshK2w0CzCY30U&hl=en&sa=X&ei=tBWBUoeDEtSz4AON-IDgAg&ved=0CDEQ6AEwAQ" target="_blank">Sam Storms</a></i><br />
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The first time I read this article I had tunnel vision and sat on my bed wide-eyed. I was such a blinded, knowledgable legalist that I even frequently <i>used </i>the word 'legalism' and accused other people of it! Flashes of my life struck like lightning in my head, and I sat there in stunned acknowledgement: <i>"Oh. My. Gosh. That's me. I'm a thief of joy, and I'm terrified of God being disappointed in me. The times when I was most convinced I was 'taking a stand for God' or 'being a good friend by not shying away from tough love' were the times I robbed joy the most. I must make people so uncomfortable."</i> While I <i>never </i>(EVER) told <i>any</i>one that the way to be saved was to "add to the gospel," I did live like people could do things to add or detract from God's pleasure with them, therefore, I was a legalist. <i>"IF you LOVE Him, you WILL obey Him." </i>I announced. <i> </i>It was a demand, not a new way of life, a promise. <i> "Guess what, guys! If you love Me, if you believe in Me, part of the perk is that you're going to obey me! More and more, until heaven where you'll be flawless."</i><br />
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I didn't realize that my salvation was final <i>and</i> God's delight in me was final. I had lived two decades primarily thinking of 'the gospel' as 'my salvation' and <i>"I'm not a legalist because you can only be saved in Christ alone, by grace alone, through faith alone!"</i> <b>but</b> I didn't <i>feel </i>like God <i>really </i>absolutely enjoyed me all.the.time. All the time. That I <i>never </i>disgusted Him. That when He thought of my name, when He watched and walked beside me in my life He wasn't thinking "<i>Gosh, when will she EVER learn? She's a hard-hearted one, this Kristen. It's a good thing I'm strong so that I can change even HER."</i><br />
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<i>"I will not keep silent... you shall be called by a new name</i></div>
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<i>that the mouth of the Lord will give. </i></div>
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<i>You shall be a crown of beauty in the hand of the Lord, </i></div>
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<i>and a royal diadem in the hand of your God. </i></div>
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<i>You shall no more be termed Forsaken, </i></div>
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<b><i>but you shall be called -- your name will be! -- My Delight Is in Her! </i></b></div>
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<i>Your land will be Married for the Lord delights in you, </i></div>
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<i>as the bridegroom rejoices over the bride, </i></div>
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<i><b>so shall your God rejoice over you</b>."</i></div>
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Since the gospel is two-pronged, legalism is too: what God did for you, and how you can add to it! What God gave to you, and how you can change that.<br />
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<i>"When you are around other Christians, whether in church or a home group or just hanging out, do you feel free? Does your spirit feel relaxed or oppressed? Do you sense their acceptance or condemnation? Do you feel judged, inadequate, inferior, guilty, immature? Jesus wants to set you free from such bondage!" (Sam Storms) </i>Do you feel like you have to explain, in dramatic detail, why you can't make it to small-group or other church events? Do you still feel really, really, really bad about not going? When you walk into church after worship has already started, do you feel like your friends in the seats around you are disappointed you are late or are thrilled to see you? (Also, does it cross your mind that if you show up late looking good and made-up that people will think you are really vain and self-absorbed... and if you show up late and disheveled people will think you are <i>really </i>a disaster?<i>)</i><br />
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What I am writing and sharing here is much more about my own story and what I believe with all my heart the world needs to know -- the riches we have in God -- than me feeling angry towards or trying to bash the people and leaders (and parents!) who surrounded me growing up. This is about my husband who grew up a thousand miles away and who had never heard of my church/family of churches, but lived <i>his </i>life in legalism. This is about <i>any</i>one who could be a legalist and not know it (most don't). This is about Scripture saying "<i>They shall wash their hands and their feet, so that they may not die. It shall be a statute forever to them and their offspring throughout generations.” (Exodus 30:21) </i>and the men who cared deeply about Scripture, who spent their lives desiring it be passed to their offspring and the rest of generations, being offended when this Jesus waltzed into the scene saying things like ".<i>..to eat with unwashed hands does not defile anyone.” (Matthew 15) </i>He directly contradicted Scripture and therefore God, so it seemed. The Word of God matters! they must have thought! How dare He! they must have worried! God's Word is True! they must have countered. But they missed the point. <br />
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This is for anyone who may have missed the point. Who have devoted themselves to God, Scripture, Church and missed it. Like me. Like my husband. You may have been raised in the circles we were raised in and never missed it. But we did. And we <b>know</b> others have. And if you have perhaps missed it -- if you have perhaps obeyed, and memorized, and know the language, and serve, and sing, and have a lot to say about your faith because you take your faith very seriously, stayed a virgin, have a bright shining face but make possibly make your fellow saints feel uncomfortable, please listen. This is where Jesus was harsh. This is where He was violent. The diligent, obedient, compliant, determined, admirable, dedicated Older Sons can be left outside of the Father's House. Obedience is fabulously important -- please don't hear what I'm not saying. Obedience, diligence, etc is <i>good</i>. It's <i>necessary</i>. It is. But there is a reason the horrifyingly disrespectful, greedy, douchebag, sleezeball son was rejoicing at the feast, welcomed into the house. There is a reason the boy-who-would-fulfill-every-checklist, the son who <i>obeyed </i>was left out of the celebrating. He missed the point. He had the appearance of wisdom and goodness. <br />
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This isn't directed at someone or some specific group: it's for the church kids and adults anywhere and everywhere who are doing it right. Be. Careful. If you may be an Older Son, listen closely:<br />
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<i>“You tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on people's shoulders... You do your deeds to be seen by others... you love the place of honor and greetings in the marketplaces ...</i><br />
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<i>... For you shut the kingdom of heaven in people's faces... You blind guides, straining out a gnat and swallowing a camel! Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! </i><br />
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<i>You clean the outside of the cup but inside they are full of self-indulgence... outwardly you appear beautiful, but within are full of all uncleanness... </i><i>So you also outwardly appear righteous to others, but within you are full of hypocrisy. </i><br />
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<i>You serpents. </i><br />
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<i>You group of venomous snakes."</i><br />
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<i>"If with Christ you died to the elemental spirits of the world, why, as if you were still alive in the world, do you submit to regulations— 'Do not handle, Do not taste, Do not touch' referring to things that all perish as they are used — according to human precepts and teachings? <b>These have indeed an appearance of wisdom</b> in promoting self-made religion and asceticism and severity to the body, but they are of no value in stopping the indulgence of the flesh." Colossians 2</i><br />
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Be free. Be free to be real. Come as you are, and be who you are. Pursue every good thing you can get your hands on. Enjoy it. Live life like you want kids to respond to their Christmas gifts: with anticipation, wild, noisy happiness, and natural excitement. He's everywhere. He's in running line drills, He's in strumming your guitar to Dave Matthews Band, He's in the sound of a toddler's voice, He's in a new haircut that just kind of makes you feel pretty, He's in the color of eggplant, He's in the pages of a Book and in the pages of wordy Ernest Hemingway. He's in nature and in Times Square and in bath-tubs and in graveyards and in coffee shops and in bed at noon (because you slept in). He's in the days of sweatpants and the days of sweaty workouts and the days of tears and the days of cheers. He's not disappointed with you. He adores you. He is in charge of "who you are" and He calls it "good" and He is making it "perfect." Everything about Him is good, and everything about Him is yours. If washing your hands makes you happy, wash away Germ-Freak and if you don't mind jumping right into a meal without, stuff your face Fatty. You are free. Do not submit to self-made, severe religion. Be free! Head inside for a feast!<br />
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---> EDITED TO ADD <---<br />
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I am not looking for just affirmation and "positive" response (don't get me wrong... I want that too!). In a way that's not "giving you permission" but that's hoping for conversation: it's okay to disagree with me. I'm not trying to draw the line in my sand and push <i>you </i>away and keep <i>you </i>in, I'm opening up the front door and putting my self, life and thoughts out here hoping you'll come in, even if your story or beliefs are different. I don't *have* to write -- I believe this, and I <i>talk</i> about it as much as I can as it fits the occasion. I want to discuss, I want to help, I want to share -- and I want you to as well. And if you think it's futile slash annoying to discuss on comments... e-mail me (kristen leigh photography at gmail dot com), ask for my number and call me, set up a time to chat in person. I'm not afraid of people disagreeing. I'm afraid of what would have happened to me if I hadn't been told the things posted above, if I hadn't become completely free, indeed. Especially if you've grown up in the same places Caleb and I have -- we know those two "worlds" well, and we love so many people in them. Even people who we might disagree with on every point. If you're willing to join in a discussion and chew over big, real topics - welcome! Really! </div>
I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-18877851066103038552013-11-05T09:12:00.003-08:002013-11-05T10:43:58.329-08:00Post 34 | The Cross Is Not The Gospel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was chatting with my mom about whatever it is we chat about. At the East Village and Goshen crossing we had somehow sparked up a conversation about church or last Sunday or caregroup or something or other. We inevitably go there at <i>some </i>point during a long, good conversation. I was tracking with her and we were agreeing with each other (in fact, I think the conversation may have been about worship) and then she said something that concerned me. Real, uncomfortable concern.<br />
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<i>"Not to mention that I can't remember the last time I heard the name JESUS! spoken. It's the gospel the gospel the gospel. And the cross and the gospel. By the way, the cross isn't the gospel. It's part of it, but you're not supposed to 'stay at the foot of the cross.' Why don't we hear the real gospel? Why don't we hear about Jesus."</i></div>
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Oh my gosh, I almost felt bad for her (I was an obedient, stuck-up ol' puss). The poor woman hadn't been listening close enough. Didn't she know? I mean, the popular song said it perfectly:</div>
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<i>Holy God in Love became, </i></div>
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<i>Perfect Man to Bear my blame,</i></div>
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<i>On the cross He took my sin,</i></div>
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<i><b>By His death</b>, I live again</i></div>
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It took the destruction of my assumed and imagined life and a couple of years for me to realize that she was right. When I was quizzed on "the most important question" of becoming a member in my church: <i>What is the gospel? </i>it took a long time for me to understand how awful my answer was, even though it was wholeheartedly accepted: <i>"The five finger gospel! Jesus. Died. For. My. Sins!"</i> It took a long time for me to unwrap and then enjoy the <i>real </i>gospel. To not live a 'cross-centered life.' To not think "cross" equals "gospel."<br />
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Even the recent <a href="http://www.metrolyrics.com/jesus-son-of-god-lyrics-chris-tomlin.html" target="_blank">Chris Tomlin song</a> repeats a bridge cry of <i>"The cross was enough! The cross was enough! The cross was enough!" </i>I actually like the song, but if I had heard it a few years ago I would have messed it up. The cross was enough to <i>kill Jesus, send him to Hell and, because of who Jesus was, satisfy God's wrath</i>, but the cross was <b>not</b> enough to save us. The gospel was enough to save us, however. Jesus was enough.</div>
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This may be obvious to every other person, but in my life it was all mashed together. What I was hearing and believing then applying was a "Jesus died for sinners" gospel and it made me incredibly guilty, nervous about my sin, harsh towards other folk's sin, and uncompassionate. My half or part gospel (which is arguably false gospel) would have me, for example, scan for key words when someone was crying and rambling in front of me about something happening in her life. I was looking for that sin-root to grab a hold of. I was looking for the "source" of this problem. I wasn't being God-like, Jesus-like, Gospel-like at all. I had no idea how to "be God" to someone. How to just give, be understanding, enjoy our differences (freedoms). I a bad concept regarding what is "written in blood" and what is "written in pencil, with a good eraser." Turns out a lot less is written in blood than I thought. Turns out He is a God of feasting <i>far more </i>than fasting. A God of indulgence <i>far more </i>than deprivation. Turns out He thinks of us as dear <i>far more </i>than damned. Turns out the cross was piece but not adequate to do the whole job.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><b>"</b>If you confess with your mouth, 'Jesus is Lord,' </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>and <b>believe in your heart that God raised Him</b> from the dead,<b> </b></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>you will be saved."</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"Since He raised Him from the dead, never to return to decay...</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i><b>I will grant you the faithful covenant blessings</b> made to David."</i></span></div>
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I had crucifixation-centered life. It was <i>easy </i>for me to call myself a sinner, and difficult to call my self heavenly royalty. It was <i>easy </i>for me to have concerns/observations/thoughts for my friends, and hard for me to chill out, empathize and listen. The cross-part of the gospel is a dramatic, chilling, necessary, horrifying part of the story. It's in many ways unbelievable. But I'll never forget reading this for the first time:</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12px; line-height: 21px;"><i>The Most High God, the Goodly-wise, the Maker of Heaven and Earth loved us before the earth was made. For all eternity He lived in extravagant Joy with His Son, bound together in the love of His Spirit. He needed nothing – not even us. But He wanted us. He <b>wanted a bride </b>for His Son – a bride shaped in His image, glorious in beauty, and birthed through His irrepressible grace.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12px; line-height: 21px;"><i>He wanted to be known for His grace more than anything else, so there was <b>an Incarnation</b> and <b>a Substitution</b> and <b>a Sacrifice</b> and <b>a Resurrection</b> and <b>an Ascension</b> and <b>a breathtaking Celebration</b>; and now all who are known by Him (and therefore love His Son) are <b>His own children and heirs and treasured saints</b> – blameless and faultless before His face. We are priest-kings in His expanding Kingdom and no eye has ever seen or ear has ever heard or dreamer has ever imagined what He has prepared for us – from this moment forward. Without delay.</i></span></div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Because all this (and even more) is the Gospel.</span></i></b></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">{<a href="http://www.enjoyinggrace.org/meet-us/two-reasons-for-starters" target="_blank">Enjoying Grace Ministries</a>}</span></i></div>
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A grave-cented gospel would be dangerous. A virgin-birth centered gospel would be dangerous. A cross-centered gospel is too.</div>
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Love centered? Grace centered? Heck, celebration centered? Now we're talking. The gospel is what God, three-in-one, did for us and gave to us. What did He do for us? He loved us, then made us, came to live with us, died a punishment death, endured Hell, triumphed above it, lived again, walked on earth again, flew to heaven, and started the party. What did He give to us? Family, Salvation, License, Nobility, Righteousness, Freedom, Hope, Paradise, Feasting, Companionship, Blessing and every other good thing. Every single one. </div>
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That's the gospel.</div>
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If Jesus had <i>only </i>come and died, we could not be saved. If death had beaten <i>Him</i> we could have no hope. If He couldn't enter Heaven as our representatives, we couldn't have access. If the cross was the climax and center of the story, we'd be doomed. We don't live by His death, we live by his life -- or at least his life, his life, his death, his life.</div>
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The five-finger <i>crucifixion</i>? Jesus died for my sins.</div>
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The five-finger gospel? Every good thing from Love. </div>
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The cross and it's events should not be minimized, ignored or misunderstood. They are a (phenomenal) part of the story, just not THE story. Mom was right. On our pilgrimage we should encounter the foot of the cross (after many other events!), and we should crumple in relief as our burden's are plucked off our back, as our rusty shackles are unscrewed, and then we should get up with our perfume and walk to that empty grave, where we can crumple with relief again knowing that Our King couldn't be swallowed. And then we raise our eyes and follow our Hero like a balloon into the Holy Places where gates are encrusted with jewels, and the <i>streets</i> -- the asphalt of heaven -- is made of gold. ("What will the gold of heaven be?"). And now we have to rely on our imaginations and a few descriptions, but the celebration of the Prodigal-children-turned-priests commenced, and it's raining down on us here on earth, too. It's final. It's complete. And it's ours. NOW.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: serif; font-weight: bold;"><i>Jesus, and all in Him, is mine;<br style="font-weight: bold;" />Alive in Him, my living Head,<br style="font-weight: bold;" />And clothed in righteousness divine,<br style="font-weight: bold;" />Bold I approach th’eternal throne,<br style="font-weight: bold;" />And claim my crown, through Christ my own.</i></span></div>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-20120061743258712682013-10-19T00:58:00.001-07:002013-10-19T01:19:09.312-07:00Post 33 | Happy Birthday, Mama Bear<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Happy Birthday, Mama Bear! </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrzIfnqWOoJxDbKT1j9uJtQluG-ktNOda3_s65_ImP0d5OorsHnmBw_XuIAUhFYn2WsmnJfy0jNhsPDB4MDqE8cM5V9uhtYbyDY745ixQXu5qCN9uZdnKJ_u5LkeCNGmdDG2E-KirIeeY/s1600/mom5of11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrzIfnqWOoJxDbKT1j9uJtQluG-ktNOda3_s65_ImP0d5OorsHnmBw_XuIAUhFYn2WsmnJfy0jNhsPDB4MDqE8cM5V9uhtYbyDY745ixQXu5qCN9uZdnKJ_u5LkeCNGmdDG2E-KirIeeY/s400/mom5of11.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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For the love, don't "live like you were dying." Live like you are living. <br />
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Live like "shlupping the kids around in a minivan - 'I feel like a chauffeur!'" is a joy. Because you have children who are alive, and you are alive to drive them, and you live in a place where there are paved roads. Like my mom does. Live impressed with beauty around you. Like my mom does. I've told this story before, but God let it stay in my head. I think about it almost everyday, and have for years: mom and I were grocery shopping -- not even, we were running into the Giant really quick to get a few ingredients for dinner. I was bagging onions, she was bagging tomatoes and then the eggplant caught her eye. She stopped and stared at it. I thought she was trying to decide whether we needed it for our meal or not.<br />
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"Just <i>look </i>at this color. Come here. <i>Look</i> at this. I don't even like the color purple, but isn't this so beautiful? Why did God decide to make all these red, orange and green vegetables and then pick one to be deep, navy purple? He's so creative."</blockquote>
We left eggplant-less, but I always notice the particularly royal color of an eggplant. Live like your mom or best-friend is available to go grocery shopping with you. Live like you can call her up or send her a text whenever you want.<br />
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Live like your lungs can take deep breaths, and your legs can walk up and down stairs easily, and like your body can enjoy a hearty, tasty meal and that you can look forward to food. Live like beauty is all around you, and that who a person is is what makes them beautiful -- stop hating the wrinkles and soft patches and boniness and chubbiness and acne and bags under your eyes. Goodness, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen is bald (for the third time), barely ever wears make-up, is thinner and bonier than she should be, doesn't have toned muscles, has one arm swollen to twice the size of her other arm, wears glasses and crow's feet. God, she's <i>beautiful</i>. She has cancer in her liver, bones, lungs and brain and she absolutely loves to braid her youngest daughter's hair before bed. She never misses soccer games. Like. She can't come downstairs for dinner. And she does.not.miss.soccer.games. She does not shoo children out of her room or life because she's too busy. "<i>Let the little children come to me, and do not hold them back."</i><br />
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And just so you know, she did these things before she was sick. She's the most "here" person I've ever known. During our last long drive from Oklahoma to Maryland I called mama. I missed her and wanted to talk. We talked for over 100 miles. She listened a lot, because I blabber a lot. She's brilliant and tried and incredible and I should listen to her more. She was so tired, I know it. But she wouldn't hang up on me. She never does. She lets me talk and she's there with me.<br />
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I know being a part of humanity is hard. I know we each have our battles. I know many battles are more intense and scary and lonely and miserable than ours -- by <i>long</i>shots. But as we're on this distorted escalator that is moving forward to a terrifying final stop, and as we're banging on the walls hoping to find a trap door or emergency hatch to escape through (because it <i>happens</i>. People who are 'guaranteed' to be gone in nine months are here three years later, fit as fiddles. A man in Guthrie had such an aggressive, deadly form of brain tumor that he was given three months to "check off his bucket list." And I talked to him two weeks ago... He's been here for 124 more months 100% tumer-less! Our God is a Healer, a Powerful Miracle Worker, a Rescuer. There just may be that miracle door up ahead. Please, Jesus. Let there be!) we're staring life's hardest questions and possibilities square in the eyes. Days and times and two months and two years and two decades and two minutes.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8i21qlfY1kgvTFUB10CAGkG1XGDtT3Fcd78kgYDscv4fqpDpevnv44FYL9EgzgajofhZRE3H689b5nl-hWz7xeCYf1o0X0g32VuoMl74sPSigdstFO58WxIwMH9xKRtWQTDHC_87T1c8/s1600/mom9of11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8i21qlfY1kgvTFUB10CAGkG1XGDtT3Fcd78kgYDscv4fqpDpevnv44FYL9EgzgajofhZRE3H689b5nl-hWz7xeCYf1o0X0g32VuoMl74sPSigdstFO58WxIwMH9xKRtWQTDHC_87T1c8/s400/mom9of11.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
To quote <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mkV-KcV8Xfg" target="_blank">Joel's mama</a>: <i>"And it's so hard, and I've never more overwhelmed in my life. And it's so worth it. And it's so wonderful. And it's not going to be like this forever. It's not the worst thing in the world to be needed." </i><br />
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My mother, the made-with-common-sense, neo-natal, pediatric, army nurse, the science major, the one who has to "just do something creative!" every once in a while, who just <i>loves </i>good church worship, who gave us all our stubborn spirits and refusal to quit character quality, who can interact with a 4-month-old like a flippin' Baby Wizard, who can calm the frantic, serious, noisy rants of a teenage son, who listens carefully to the stories of almost-pre-teen girls, is alive. And we've needed her all of her life. We've sucked and pulled and drained and taken and exhausted and worn this lovely woman right out. And she has, quite simply, lived like it was wonderful. This isn't cheesy. This isn't cliche. This isn't a nicely designed quote on Pinterest. This isn't a sentimental blog post about how my mom was sick once but now she's better. My mom is sick <i>now</i> and this is real and it's heart-breaking. I think about my children never knowing the woman who made and raised me. How could I possibly describe her to them? How could they miss out on someone so beautiful and strong? How on earth could they live a life without going to Disney with her? And hearing her yell at the refs on their behalf? <br />
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Mom, it's no small joy that I get to see you every day. That my son adores you. That my testimony of growing up in a "big, homeschooled, conservative Christian family" is <i>so </i>different than <i>so </i>many. You know us as individuals. You didn't place the responsibility of being a mother onto us -- you've carried that burden and that joy. Watching you be a mom and woman and person has made me want to try to give people what you've given me. You make me want to be to my children what you've been to me. I respect you, and thoroughly enjoy you, and wish I could make all your cancer go away.<br />
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I pray we are able to share many more life holidays and milestones together. I hope you're in the birthing room for many more Morris babies. I hope we're going out to dinner for many more birthdays. I hope we're sitting in your bed (waaaaay too late into the day) talking about whatever while "The Chew" is on for years to come. I hope you feel better. I hope I get to spend the rest of life on earth with you loving you the way you've loved me. Thank you for your sincerity. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for being honest and not trying to appear to be something you aren't. Thank you for your determination. Thank you for being able to simultaneously be accurate and truthful about who your children are while being so happy and eager to love us as we are. Thank you for noticing beautiful things and drawing attention to them. Thank you for being a beautiful thing yourself. Thank you for seeing my curiosity, and Caleb's child-like-ness, and Timmy's goofiness, and Katie's big ideas, and Kevin's sensitivity, and Michael's quirkiness, and Shannon's ferocity, and Lauren's communication skills as our strengths. Thank you for making my childhood a dream, for pushing me to find my way as an adult, for giving me the wedding that was straight up magical, and for plowing the way for a future that is hope-filled and good. Thank you for <i>being </i>what God is like even more than <i>saying </i>what God is like: for treating me like I am loved and precious and honored in your eyes. For carrying me. For delighting in my joys and in me, even at my worst. For being brave enough to say hard things to me. For desiring me to be happy, even at the cost of yourself. For making home the best place. For always being available (I don't say 'always' lightly. It make take four-times as long, and we may get interrupted constantly, but you are <i>always </i>available.) Thank you for showing me Jesus-like love and admiration.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8yWRRuysE01Bq0sWU-13tXixTjZfN7SEHRzn_rPwOAWiSFTdnBLi4cCD5JTnrBbU1Vjo0N2Uvv-tHUVGt4oDvM91zq4f5vNN6xcFwg1a9QZkT1hGqgTz1o9v_gwyUh_G7jmdHLZc_ajg/s1600/Screen+shot+2013-10-19+at+4.04.06+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8yWRRuysE01Bq0sWU-13tXixTjZfN7SEHRzn_rPwOAWiSFTdnBLi4cCD5JTnrBbU1Vjo0N2Uvv-tHUVGt4oDvM91zq4f5vNN6xcFwg1a9QZkT1hGqgTz1o9v_gwyUh_G7jmdHLZc_ajg/s400/Screen+shot+2013-10-19+at+4.04.06+AM.png" width="286" /></a></div>
I want to be like you. Don't deflect that. I mean it. You're extraordinary. And I'm one of the lucky seven in the entire world who get to call you "mom."<br />
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Happiest of birthdays to you, mama. Let's celebrate hard and plan to celebrate even harder next year. Maybe I should make eggplant parmesan ;)<br />
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All my love,<br />
Kristen, the privileged first-born of Suzanne Lee Snyder.</div>
I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-34899304390112731812013-08-19T11:02:00.001-07:002013-08-19T11:13:51.260-07:00Post 32 | One Year Anniversary <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>To my Human, my Knower, my Knowee, my Warm, Happy Place and my "With You."</i></div>
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<i>Happy One Year of Being a Family.</i></div>
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<i>Thank you for all that you have been for and to me.</i></div>
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<i>You are adored and treasured.</i></div>
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<b>1 /// Thank you for being a <i>human</i> with me<i>. </i></b></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal;"><i>"all the jazz you've heard is true<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />love is patient and love can burn<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />and it won't ask to be excused<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />and it won't ask if it can please return<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /><br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />some will tell ya that it's a myth<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />try to say it don't exist<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />well, shake her hand to help her place<br style="border-bottom-style: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-style: none; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-style: none; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial; font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />it's finally standing in our midst."</i></span></i><br />
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Toe sock-fuzz, stubbly armpit hair, crotches that smell like cheese, gunk in teeth, greasy hair, ruffled eyebrows, puking, hang nails, gaining weight, chin hairs, stretch marks, burps&farts, blisters, snores, cracked lips, ear wax, blood stained underwear. You don't get married and stop having (terribly) bad breath mornings (and neither does he.) You still have bad hair days, and everything-is-dirty-gawd-we-need-to-do-laundry days, and bloated days. Sometimes you wake up just feeling off. Sometimes you're tired, or hungry, or overheated. (Don't underestimate the power of a good meal/nap/air-conditioned-building to make things happy again.) Sometimes you have an overwhelming and mind-bending desire to have sex and roll around making-out, and sometimes you'd rather re-watch episodes from Season 1 of The Office or hack away at your inbox or take shower (by the way, unless you have an expensive fancy double-headed shower, someone is left standing in the cold! I never thought about that before I got married. Showering together turns out to be a more practical-conversation thing than a throw-yourself-against-the-wall-thing. Plus, let's be honest, pregnant girls need help shaving - among other things.) It's not actually all that comfortable to fall asleep in each other's arms - elbows and shoulder blades and clavicles and rib cages and necks and the tingly-numb-falling-asleep-thing. I prefer touching toes and holding hands for the actual falling asleep part. Or even facing opposite directions - with the back-bum touch because hot pillow breath exists I love being <i>so human </i>with my Caleb. It's less-edited and less-shallow than "pretty" life - it's beautiful life. There is absolutely no part of my self or my body that I am ashamed to be with you or share with you. </div>
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<b>2 /// Thank you for <i>knowing</i> me...</b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i>"To know and be known..." "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">I am scared of me. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">But I want to be known and loved anyway. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">Can you do this?...</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">I am giving myself to you, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">and tomorrow I will do it again. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">I will risk myself on you. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">And together, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">we will learn to love." Donald Miller</span></i></span><br />
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He knows my <i>exact </i>order at Chipotle. That may have been the best part of our anniversary day for me - I opened up the foil top and saw not one ingredient missing, or one extra. It was exactly how I would have ordered it. I would have eaten anything - extra toppings or not. But he knew. I don't think any other man in the world could walk into Chipotle and order <i>my </i>order. Breast-feeding and baby-holding and pregnancy-recovering has been killing my back, so before anniversary dinner he surprised me with a deep tissue back massage at a <i>swanky </i>spa. Usually I would have opted for getting my nails or hair done. But right now? New Mama Me? Back rubs back rubs back rubs. And he knew. At dinner he gave me gift card to get five more "whenever you want!" We ate dinner at a place that isn't fancy, and isn't really even romantic, but I've been wanting to try it for over a year now. No man would pick it for a "special anniversary dinner" in a line-up of MD/DC/VA restaurants. But Caleb picked it because he knew. When we were dating I knew I liked him, but his personality was so different than "what I thought I wanted." He was different. And I was nervous. But one of the things I so vividly remember falling for was his special attention to <i>me</i>. In the sweet, planned things, like anniversaries, yes. But mostly in the daily things. <br />
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You know my eyes and what they're saying, you know my laughs and how to make me laugh, you know what I'm <i>saying </i>and then what I <i>mean </i>(at least you work really hard to.) You know that I love to "argue" and debate and hash-things-out and that it's not because I'm mad or divisive or trying to win, but because that's how I figure things out and connect to people. You know that I'm messy and unorganized and don't punish me for that. You know I love to read outloud and then talk about it. You know I love eating and finding "new" good food and cooking - and you let that be a big deal for us, even though you'd be happy with a less diverse menu. You know that I like making money and making creative things and being challenged, so I do photography and coach basketball and out-of-the-blue start an IG baby clothes shop. I love you - I do - and I'm in love with you - I am - but you're so much better at "giving yourself up for me." At considering me. At doing for me and asking and expecting nothing in return. You love me better than I love you. It's been the privilege of my life being loved and known by you.<br />
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<b>3 /// ... and thank you for letting me <i>know you</i>.</b><br />
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You've let me in, and given me your trust. And I treasure that with my life. You've cried vulnerable tears for me that I know no one else has ever seen. You laugh your biggest, best laughs when we're tucked under the covers like children at a sleepover. Just with me. You're still quiet, but not because you're stupid or empty or blank. I know you hate when people say <i>"You don't have much to say, huh?"</i> because I know you're letting them talk, and you're listening. I know you're content and don't care to be the center of attention. I know you're much less quiet than you used to be, and I know your mind is a jungle of a place. When we were dating I used to pray that you would <i>really </i>laugh with me - not joking ha-ha silly goose laugh, but let-loose, put your guard down, get tears in your eyes, and lose yourself in the humor. Now I feel like it happens daily. I know how you like your head-scratched, and your meat peppered, and your underwear soft. I feel like I "get" you, and even with all the fascinated learning I've done, you keep me on my toes and surprise me. (Like, yesterday you went into the gas station to get "a treat" and came out with caramel?! I loved it. You've never bought caramel. You always get somesort of chocolate candy bar or <i>maybe </i>a gummy-sour snack. But you were in the mood for caramel. Cool?) Thank you for telling me lots of stories about the first 23 years of your life, the years I wasn't there for. Thank you for being the first person I go to when I have something to say, and thank you for coming to <i>me </i>first when you have something to say. Thank you for making me feel special by being the one-and-only. I love knowing you.<br />
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<b>4 /// Thank you for teaching me through your life that the blog posts and books are wrong: marriage <i>is </i>about our happiness.</b><br />
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<i style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">"every single broken heart will lead you to the truth<br />you think you know what you’re looking for<br />til' what you’re looking for finds you</span></i></div>
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<i style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b>in a cold world, it’s a warm place</b>where you know you’re supposed to be<br />a million moments full of sweet relief<br />when the right one comes along."</span></i></div>
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I forget the first-time we had the conversation, but it's become one of those that keeps cycling around for us. "If marriage is supposed to represent the relationship between Christ and His church, the King and His Bride, then it should be a place of joy, safety, delight, feasting, freedom, and, yes, happiness." Being a Christian doesn't mean that you'll never cry stinging tears of sadness, but it means when you do, you have somewhere to go... you have hope to assure and brighten your soul... you have <i>Christ</i>. As Christ makes His Church holy and molds them into creatures of glory, He's making them <i>happy. </i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"...</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #232323; line-height: 23px;"><i>the goal of marriage is not happiness. And although happiness is often a very real byproduct of a healthy relationship, marriage has a far more significant purpose in sight." <a href="http://www.relevantmagazine.com/life/relationships/3-things-i-wish-i-knew-we-got-married" target="_blank">RELEVANT MAGAZINE</a></i></span></span><br />
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It's just <b>not </b>true. There is no more significant purpose that we can have than to be wholly holy and happy in our Groom. The purpose of our union with Him is perfection and satisfaction and real joy forever (because that glorifies Him.) It's wrong to say marriage is about holiness, but not happiness. There is no such thing. If you are being made more holy, you are truly being made more happy. And I don't say this lightly, or forgetting the dangerous, abusive, heart-breaking, disease-stained, divorce-headed, bad, unhappy marriages. I know them personally, and I know the grief is so strong it can make you shake. Marriage isn't about getting your way every time. It's not about owning a servant to do what you want, when you want. It's not about life being easy, and every single day being boatloads of "Fun fun fun!" But the goal of the marriage should be to make each other happy, so far as is in your ability, doing what is best for the other person, and thereby being filled with joy to watch the other filled with joy. It should be about together becoming happier and happier in God, as He makes you happier and happier together. Holiness isn't rigid and cold. It's welcoming, warm and delightful. Commitment and promise are meant to weather the most grievous of storms - faithfulness through unhappiness is extremely respectable. Please don't hear me say that you <i>will </i>always be happy and exhilarated the whole time you are married. But please believe that a purpose God made in earthly marriage, reflecting the heavenly union, is indeed your actual and tangible happiness.<br />
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Caleb, thank you for wanting and expecting our marriage to be a place of very real joy. Thank you for being a safe place for me in the darkness and storms. Thank you for wanting to make me happy - in the way you butter my bagels, talk to to me, talk about me to others, rub me, provide for me, get'it'on with me, compliment me, and be *with* me. I so want to make you happy. I love watching you get better at the things you're good at, and also get better at things you're not-as-good at. I love helping you, and hoping with you, and being yours. It does make me happy. I'm happy doing unhappy things with you because I believe in the purpose behind them, even if I don't feel the emotion in the very moment. I'm happy that even when I am unhappy, I know the goal and prize is still hope and happiness. We'll keep fighting for this family to be happy and joy-filled, because we are married to Christ, Joy Everlasting.<br />
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<b>5 /// Thank you for making our life together one where we are really <i>together</i>.</b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i>"you and i, we're not tied to the ground. </i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i>oh, and when the kids are old enough </i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i>we're gonna teach them to fly. </i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i>you and me together, we could do anything, baby </i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><i>you and me together yes, yes."</i></span><br />
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He makes it clear by the way he lives, talks, and acts that he prefers being with me the most. He'll go out of his way to be <i>with </i>me. If that means sitting in a car for a couple hours with our baby so I don't have to drive to photoshoots alone, he's there. If that means sitting (sleeping?) on a friend's couch while I package up baby clothes, he's there. It means making arrangements to drive in the same car when it'd be more convenient to take two. It means that we've seen each other every single day (that we've been in town together) since he moved to Maryland in May 2011, and we've slept together every night of our marriage (even though that sometimes meant he laid at my nauseous, miserable feet on couch cushions so I wouldn't be alone on those long, sick nights.) (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">This is where I can't help but shout-out to the military and other families who have no choice but to be apart. I'm VERY grateful.) </span>It means guys night is fun, but wife-nights are better. I don't think he's ever even implied that he'd rather be alone than be with me. Of course there are nights where I'm on my phone looking through instagram, and he's on the laptop going through e-mails, and we're not saying much of anything. But those are sweet times, too. I think it's the consistency - looking back over a year and remembering how much of that year was spent side by side. The last year has been painful and scary in some of the most serious ways, but Caleb has been "one with me" through our shared life. (He swore and his eyes filled with tears when I told him my mom's cancer had come back.) Marriage has been anything but lonely and I couldn't possible explain what peace and hope that has given me. Because I know it's just the representation of my God, just the analogy before the <i>real </i>wedding feast. Thank you, my sweet Caleb. For everything.</div>
I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-4442788926510585622013-07-14T00:47:00.002-07:002013-07-14T00:59:59.586-07:00Rowdy + One Month of Life With Him // Post 31<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"a whole new world,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">a dazzling place i never knew"</span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">aladdin </span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAFUDcXr_-Aekl3LALrvuKInjAMSwgJR3r3-JaWWtXCUrX7HwPjy1KPbARrWtHxxKgCQA8hkunI9u6BfOs4GKp_87t9HLxHFuTlqrICTDRz4Hc_a4NpWnoCxQdiX1k0JbpPaMnUnKLn5o/s1600/photo-51.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAFUDcXr_-Aekl3LALrvuKInjAMSwgJR3r3-JaWWtXCUrX7HwPjy1KPbARrWtHxxKgCQA8hkunI9u6BfOs4GKp_87t9HLxHFuTlqrICTDRz4Hc_a4NpWnoCxQdiX1k0JbpPaMnUnKLn5o/s640/photo-51.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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We ushered July 14, one month after June 14, in with stuffy noses and head colds. The household is passing it around, and it 'finally' caught little Rowdy. And here is motherhood: sitting on the floor of a steamy, greenhouse, hot-water-running-out-of-the-shower bathroom, looking through instagram and clipping your toenails, while your face melts off and hair frizzes, so that your kid can sleep comfortably upright in his swing (which is crammed with you in the bathroom) and hopefully get his nose drained and unplugged... and not wanting to be anywhere else in the entire world. Being genuinely as happy as you've ever been. Not to mention when he wakes up and looks around and freaks out a little, until he hears you say <i>"You're alright buddy, I'm right here. Sssshh."</i> and feels you pat his belly causing him to relax and peacefully fall back asleep. "<i>Shining, shimmering, spleeen-did."</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgur-pNtRHms64tnD8__zdYDwcHJvS_zLwnpbAcSboQBQNDscZo2vm5cUcxbGHGK40k-wAxEWq01RS75OfqkGm05KFvOWSkS74Y3bj25VktC77ukqJa8XuIODWu5RKAaJ9Ycg0FRK6HNZc/s1600/photo-45.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgur-pNtRHms64tnD8__zdYDwcHJvS_zLwnpbAcSboQBQNDscZo2vm5cUcxbGHGK40k-wAxEWq01RS75OfqkGm05KFvOWSkS74Y3bj25VktC77ukqJa8XuIODWu5RKAaJ9Ycg0FRK6HNZc/s640/photo-45.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
<i><b>Favorite Nicknames</b></i><br />
99 (since he is 99th percentile for height)<br />
RowdyRays (or RowdyRaze? Or RowdyRaise? Or RowdyReyes?)<br />
Snuggleberry<br />
PumpkinTot<br />
Ska-munch<br />
RowdyRoo<br />
Squatter<br />
Rascally Rabbit<br />
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<i><b>Favorite Memories </b></i><br />
// The way he rubs his fist back and forth near my collar bone while he's eating<br />
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// He'd had an abnormally rough night when we took him to Charlottesville with GrandmaBear + Aunt Bear to pick up Aunt Shannon from soccer camp. He finally fell asleep for <i>good </i>but we had to wake him up to check-out of the hotel and carry on with our trip. Usually he grunts and fidgets when he wakes up (and, oh, I love those grunts and fidgets) but that morning he just looked right at me and smiled. A sweet, rested, genuinely happy smile. I got chills looking at his beautiful grinning face.<br />
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// Daddy wrote Rowdy a "Triumphal Entry" song that he would play "for him" while I was pregnant. Now Rowdy will sit on dad's lap and watch his hands and fingers move back and forth and listen to the music. I love when I don't know that's what they're doing together, but then all of a sudden hear the faint sound of piano coming from the basement.<br />
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// I adore when he farts in bed. My little oven heart heats up when I hear my smooth breathing, rosy-cheeked, clean, wrapped, pajama-ed son "toot. toot. pfffft. toottoottoot" in his sleep.<br />
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// In his room, over his changing table, are 20 empty frames hung in a grid. Daddy did his part and immaculately hung them. Mama needs to do her part and fill the frames with Rowdy's grandfathers and uncles. Nonetheless, Rowdy thinks the frames are <i>the best</i>. He coos more for the frames than he does me. And his legs kick and kick and kick and KICK, like an eager puppy wagging his tail. It's so cute to watch him get all riled up with excitement!<br />
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// He loves warm baths and sca-reams when the water is too cold ;) Apparently that is VERY offensive. He'd sit in the bath all day if I let him.<br />
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// Rowdy is <i>really </i>strong. He's been holding his head up since hours after his birth. And he can hold his back up and "stand" on his legs, if we provide him the balance. It makes me so proud!<br />
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// Flexibility was always an important part of our family's 'structure' and Caleb and I wanted Rowdy to share that trait as well. In his first month of life he's been to two weddings, Harper's Ferry, Gettysburg, Charlottesville, 4th of July fireworks, a Nat's game, the Hagerstown Outlets, Costco, Target, Trader Joe's and a variety of restaurants (Chipotle, Longhorn, Bizou, Redwood, Beans in the Belfry). He's a grand little traveler so far! <br />
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// Taking daddy's place in bed when he leaves for work. I go to sleep at night looking forward to morning so Rowdy can snuggle in with me :)<br />
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// His ear fur. It's darling and elfish and weird and my favorite.<br />
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// The smacking sounds when he sucks his fingers<br />
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// The way Rowdy "looks at" the pictures while we read. Oof it is dear.<br />
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// The way he throws his arms over his head "tooooucccchhhdooowwwwn!" style when he's waking up from a deep sleep. Which is often. He's an incredible sleeper. At least this month he is! Keep it up, 99.<br />
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// Watching Caleb play and talk in his "baby voice" to and pace in circles with and enjoy our son.<br />
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<i><b>Favorite Pictures That Didn't Make Social Media</b></i><br />
One day we're just a guy sleeping with a baby blanket (so it will smell like us) and a bulbous'n'waddly girl...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jvZjiTDWMYLOdIvDRUB73C_9ZrKYOMYBaHgddz79FHriQ7h-IYyYeUOoNJc-qfmVvTFAvMgGWqO6dJIZ7l5ACxr3f8kuWDsor1DOuBJTkfQwMSWTK_NnjME26NPYfkR_mmG5V4Syrv4/s1600/photo-22.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jvZjiTDWMYLOdIvDRUB73C_9ZrKYOMYBaHgddz79FHriQ7h-IYyYeUOoNJc-qfmVvTFAvMgGWqO6dJIZ7l5ACxr3f8kuWDsor1DOuBJTkfQwMSWTK_NnjME26NPYfkR_mmG5V4Syrv4/s640/photo-22.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgprR_Ck4A2RcjzM-HBoNOEbDk4VyNWoJSjMujsUJakyLR9K09YqzLya_w_jAyUiL6nVa3wWcO_luOh0cAEfuNnrrduOtWT0HVvEJ0w-sW_5byzGs850gfCRK_-VCKmcknGXTQw6RWr00g/s1600/photo-33.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgprR_Ck4A2RcjzM-HBoNOEbDk4VyNWoJSjMujsUJakyLR9K09YqzLya_w_jAyUiL6nVa3wWcO_luOh0cAEfuNnrrduOtWT0HVvEJ0w-sW_5byzGs850gfCRK_-VCKmcknGXTQw6RWr00g/s640/photo-33.JPG" width="454" /></a><br />
... the next? We're a family of three.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfz70GK0wf0iOcfEHORUpNtQaa4BdQKUPKydvaJH-xMqGCERspdm5kpHMY4mgFlD8VmKUiEmP_X_vhEufPVYvFnikqKk7L2K-UH3WeCFEwuvICR8uX9HmJ36Vty3bNKyous7U0x0kTDkQ/s1600/photo-29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfz70GK0wf0iOcfEHORUpNtQaa4BdQKUPKydvaJH-xMqGCERspdm5kpHMY4mgFlD8VmKUiEmP_X_vhEufPVYvFnikqKk7L2K-UH3WeCFEwuvICR8uX9HmJ36Vty3bNKyous7U0x0kTDkQ/s640/photo-29.JPG" width="510" /></a><br />
Best morning of my life.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIPWcQi1AEA4XaIR6_mmmnUyTyepUqVrCudQcVEXE2kgdYkXqd0sn-nDk4bToUL_XZTpmOOIWnOm2iFc7uH28fYlnwjWCMF7qNA44mJSg13FkpYrUZxbc3dsmoZdHTAX_pWYkna8SubI0/s1600/photo-34.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIPWcQi1AEA4XaIR6_mmmnUyTyepUqVrCudQcVEXE2kgdYkXqd0sn-nDk4bToUL_XZTpmOOIWnOm2iFc7uH28fYlnwjWCMF7qNA44mJSg13FkpYrUZxbc3dsmoZdHTAX_pWYkna8SubI0/s640/photo-34.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Going home outfit! Huge deal! Thanks Aunt Lylalalee-ya Jane!</div>
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The Welcoming Committee... and they have changed more diapers than I have! They're very loving aunts.</div>
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We came home from the hospital on Father's Day and we had a delicious meal made by Grandma Bear and Aunt Katie.</div>
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First night in our house! <i>(Thanks Ica + sister for hooking us up with the great bassinet! And thank you, Jess, for the best blankets <b>ever</b>!)</i></div>
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Aaaaand first morning in our house! <i>(Love you, Chef Husband Man. So much. All the time.)</i></div>
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First doctor's appointment... at the same pediatrician office that I went to as a baby. <i>Nothing </i>has changed. Those exact stickers on the door have been there for 20-something years.</div>
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First bath! The beginning of a wonderful discovery... baths put Rowdy in glory.</div>
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They sleep so much those first few days... it's like meeting a new person when they start to be awake more often. I love staring into those rich blues.</div>
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First family-outing-date-night!<br />
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<img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65ZGV-Ar7zs-MZHjJli808LxxxCu-AYSqpTj79g7QIj5qCyEXKXv5KG1pHNVnG2iA4g_0lxsRY-UE557KIIFA4we9as4jotC0RAP__P3Hg0apR7XF1_xIuCOPQFhd__oXPz2YO_8FEAE/s640/photo-30.JPG" width="640" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;">First family walk in the neighborhood!</span></div>
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I shot two weddings in the first 15 days of Rowdy's life... and Caleb + Dan played at one of them! Love working with him :)</div>
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Chipotle choices and Trader Joe's choices: important first life lessons. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCN3OZNp-RShtlAGaX3ReV9W9x9H-xndBl1q1i-pww9TnGyD3s6atlE1BPIQM4GEWFS5BlMHIAkX6_glzdcsEOlTifCWwnRdATh9zb1gxSwchKVXEnmuf-7H3RjJ3JlzpXL0COWY5uUMc/s1600/photo-13.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCN3OZNp-RShtlAGaX3ReV9W9x9H-xndBl1q1i-pww9TnGyD3s6atlE1BPIQM4GEWFS5BlMHIAkX6_glzdcsEOlTifCWwnRdATh9zb1gxSwchKVXEnmuf-7H3RjJ3JlzpXL0COWY5uUMc/s640/photo-13.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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The Oklahoma Crew came to play! We loved having them and Rowdy thrived being passed around between so many doting aunts and uncles. I can't wait for him to get to know each and every one of them! And Grama and Grandpa Morris made me tear up by the way they loved on our son. I wish we all lived closer to each other!</div>
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(I love this picture from Gettysburg becaaause I have no idea who the guy in the brown shirt is. hahaha.)</div>
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First blow-out...! </div>
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And loooots of bed time. It's so hard to leave our nest.<br />
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GrandmaBear has a special way with Rowdy. I love watching them together.</div>
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It's been a month full of love, love, love. Happy One Month, Snuggler! We adore you!I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-48262257616502420972013-07-03T10:03:00.001-07:002013-07-03T10:03:33.707-07:00My Weird, Natural, Prodromal, 'Induced,' Pitocin, Drug-Free, Long, Beautiful Birth Story | Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>THE BIRTH STORY | PART TWO</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><i>"i'm wonderstruck... all i know is i was enchanted to meet you."</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The Pitocin Saga</span></i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">The pitocin began dripping around 11:30/11:45 pm. Slow and steady. I felt like I was awaiting a jury verdict. <i>"What will my punishment be? How bad is this going to get...?" </i>An hour later, and not much to report - just sporadic and unevenly painful contractions - the dosage was upped ever so slightly. Another hour and a half later, we were finally getting somewhere. Very frequent, very regular, very painful. The hormone seemed to be doing what it was supposed to be doing! And I was hoping my body would just kick in and keep on strutting, and not fade out. Around this time Becca and Janet arrived again, and Lydia (who had took all the pictures in the last post) had to leave. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">And I still mentally drop to my knees in thanksgiving when I think about these two showing up at this point. I was clearly well on my way now. This was for real for real. Everything was intensifying, and it had been lasting for hours. My form of labor, by the way, was back labor. Back labor... feels like you have elephants on the inside of you, pushing your back and hip bones apart, while a Viking duo smashes your outside with a sledgehammer. Caleb, who is basically concrete and hard as can be, would push <i>aaalllll </i>his weight onto me back and I'd still be clamoring <i>"Harder! Harder!"</i> His poor arms and body were sore and exhausted after doing that for hours - it'd truly be like doing a bench press workout for over half a day. Janet and Becca rescued him, told him to rest a bit more, and took over the counter-pressure-work. (Jan was basically riding on me, piggy back style. She pushed as hard as she possibly could!)</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Though the pain was phenomenal, I was amazed every single contraction how bearable and manageable it was to relax, breathe and "work with" the contraction. The instant reaction our body has to pain is to tense up (think burning your finger on the stove, or stubbing your toe... you don't go limp and loose! You arch and grab and your arms and face become tense and you say <i>"ow ow ow ow ow ooooowwww!"</i> or something ;) and your body goes tight.) But forcing yourself to breathe slowly, and almost "unroll" each body part - from face, to shoulders, to elbows, to hands, to waist, to butt/hips, to thighs, to legs, to toes was fascinatingly pain-reducing. I'd never lie and say that it didn't hurt or that it was easy. It was hard, painful work, but it <i>truly </i>was bearable. I could picture the uterus muscle moving in and out, working BorisBoy down more and more. I could refresh and enjoy (?) the breaks and drink and snack and be completely pain-free until the next contraction. We tried an assortment of positions but the one that helped the most was for me to lean my arms and face onto the counter where the sink was, and to squat and sway while someone pushed my back. The swaying. Oh the swaying. Praise Jesus for swaying. It helped <i>so </i>much.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">At 4:00 pm I'm told I smiled for the last time until after I held my son ;) And 15 minutes later I got a great leg and arm massage - coconut oil for the win! Anything to try to help me relax relax relax. At 5:00 pm we decided to check my dilation and see how things were progressing. It'd been seven or eight hours since I had been last checked, and I was pleading before the heavenly throne that I wouldn't get a report of <i>"You're about a 6!" </i> Thankfully, I was at 8cm. I think part of me was hoping the midwife would - in amazement! - tell me I was at 10cm and would be ready to push soon. Silly mama. Tricks are for kids. 8cm was close - and so much further than I had been! - but I knew a lot still had to happen. Like that dreaded T word: transition. And the P word: pushing. Other than the dilation update, my midwife announced that she didn't feel the bag of water anymore, and she thought it had broken. Which was weird, because between the last cervical check and this one I had no gushing or leaking or water-breaking-signs-of-any-kind. My water bag was a big punk prankster.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">But hey! That was more good news! Another thing checked off the list (again?)! At 5:15pm I had a special, um, meeting in the Oval Office. Janet and Becca were very excited. Bradley students seem to especially love that "clear out." Bradley talks about it a lot ;) And boy oh boy was I clear and empty - my body made some serious room for a baby.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">After that classy affair, I started being <i>really </i>bothered by my IV. It hurt so much. Enough that I noticed the pain even during the peak of a contraction. I then realized that my hand had swollen up BADLY. It was about twice the size (maybe more) of my normal hand and it felt like it was ripping open. (I HATE NEEDLES.) The nurse and midwife realized that the needle had come out of my vein and yet remained under my skin, so all the pitocin and antibiotic was going into my skin tissue, not blood stream. No one knows how long it had been like that, so no one knows how much pitocin I <i>actually </i>got. Probably at least some? It'd been in since 11:30 and it was now 5:30... but how much? No clue. Soooo, that fateful accident meant that: I got to take the IV out! No more needles in muah! The sledge-hammer-elephant-awful-awful contractions were coming again and again and again. They had been for hours. No turning back now, folks. And if I had been asked what my pain level was on a scale of 1-10, I would have said 10. So quickly. So honestly. Ten ten ten. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">But then. About 20 minutes later, the uterus aggression upped the anti. Oh goodness it was bad. I was burping up a storm. The swaying and relaxing and breathing really wasn't doing what it had done before. I told Caleb it felt bowling bowls were being thrown down inside me. No one could push my back hard enough. The breaks in-between contractions were shorter and shorter. A raging Spanish bull was fighting with a fierce Asian tiger, and they were clawing and pounding inside me. I actually remember thinking that I would happily trade places with the Spartan boy who hid the fox under his shirt and didn't flinch while the fox ate his flesh. It sounded much more appealing and much less painful than what I was feeling. At 6:00pm I announced the big milestone announcement: <i>"I can't do it anymore." </i>I had been taught that this nasty phase of labor called 'transition' usually lasts about 30-60 minutes. Some lucky women experience it far quicker, or maybe even not at all. And few women experience it for longer than an hour. I knew the '<a href="http://www.birthingnaturally.net/birth/progress/transition.html" target="_blank">transition signs</a>' and one of those is feeling like you <i>really </i>can't do it anymore. I wanted to just go ahead and start pushing. Really, I wanted to go ahead and hold my baby and be done with this entire thing. "<i>What an idiot I was to think this was a good idea. This is TERRIBLE. I just want my baby and I just want to take a nap and I want to go get in MY bed and I'm tired and I don't like this one little bit." </i>I was more than teetering on edge of the Emotional Grand Canyon. I was Nik-Wallenda-ing it over a tightrope. Becca later told me <i>"At the 6:30-7:00pm mark you hit the wall: SO exhausted. I think we all had tears for you. We gave you and Caleb some time to console each other and process while Mom and Dad and I hid in the hallway. The contractions were <b>very</b> intense."</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">At this point, the contractions were worse then ever, but they <i>were </i>beginning to space out a bit: another 'sign of transition.' A handful of times I fell asleep during those couple minute breaks (and not because the breaks were so peaceful, more because I was entirely <i>exhausted</i>.) When I woke up from one fire and brimstone contraction, I just started to cry and cry. Caleb kept trying to reassure and affirm and support me. I couldn't relax. I couldn't try a new position. I couldn't think straight. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't do anything but cry. The midwife (another new one) came in at 7:30pm and checked my dilation. I calmed down when she was checking, prayingandhopingandwishingandprayingandthinkingandhopingandwanting her to say I was at 10. PA-LEEEZ. FOR THE LOVE. And it was 9. Two and half hours since my last check, and about two hours into transition, and we were at 9cm. I cried and cried some more. I worried because I knew that it wasn't abnormal for women to 'stall out' at 9cm. I worried because I truly didn't believe I could handle another two and a half hours to get to 10cm <i>and then push</i>. I felt so stuck.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;">And then. "Epidural" was spoken. Out loud. In the room. For the first time in 30-something hours. The nurse eagerly and obviously supported the idea. She not-so-subtly wanted me to go ahead and get the epidural. The spine-numbing and contraction-pain-canceling option was 'on the table.' And this is the part of the story where I am <i>so </i>grateful for three things: education, my husband and my 'team.'</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Education: The potential side effects of an epidural are intense (anywhere from a life-threatening infection, to a dural puncture [a leak in spine, that can drain the fluid around the brain], and nerve damage to fever, decreased blood pressure, etc) not to mention the promised side effects: namely numbness and inability to walk/move out of bed <i>at all</i>. I also know that the epidural process isn't instant. I sat there, in my teary, overcome, physically and mentally pained and DONE state, and was able to still remember that they need to call the anesthesiologist, he has to prep and do paperwork, perform the procedure, and then let the juice begin to work. The whole process could easily take 30-60 minutes. I also knew that <i>usually </i>epidurals slow down the intensity and the effectiveness of contractions, and can often slow down labor. And then <i>usually </i>pitocin is up-ed to make the contractions stronger. This cocktail <i>often </i>puts a baby in a precarious and crazy position, one that frequently causes their heart to have a bad rate. A bad baby heart-rate can quickly turn into an emergency c-section situation. I knew that. I knew I didn't want that. I knew I had worked too hard for too long to just abandon our goals now. I knew I'd rather work hard for an hour and actual make something happen than 'wait around' to be numbed up. And to be honest, I didn't want to have come so far... 32 hours of hospital stay!... to try an epidural <i>now. "If I'm going to do this, I should have done it a long time ago. What was the point of going through ALL that if I'm going to numb myself at the very bitter end?"</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">My husband: The moment the nurse gave us a second to talk about what we wanted to do, he took my face and looked right into my eyes and said <i>"Kristen. You are<b> so</b> close. This is almost done. You are 9cm and could probably be pushing the baby out by the time the epidural started working. You're so brave. You're so strong. And you don't need it. I know you don't. You can absolutely do this." </i>He was right. And I needed him to tell me.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">My 'team': Janet and Becca quickly reenforced Caleb's words. They promised me I was so near the end. They promised I'd be holding Rowdy soon. They promised me I could do it. Then my mom suggested I go get in the shower and let the hot water fall onto my back. And that was it. That was exactly the option I needed.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">With a fresh wave of motivation, and a <i>complete </i>lack of all decency, I de-robed and bolted for the shower. Caleb grabbed some swim trunks and jumped in with me. Mom held the shower-head over my back while Caleb pushed. We all prayed out loud over and over again. I talked to my body. I talked to my baby. I talked to myself. I grunted like a wild beast. I pleaded with God. I shook and moaned. I heard the encouraging words of the people around me. The contractions were still miserable, but I felt somewhat 'in control' again and like I could force this kid down by focusing <i>extra </i>hard. I squatted like a gorilla and worked and worked and worked. But ten short minutes later my epidural-fan-nurse came in the bathroom and told me I needed to get back in bed and be checked on the monitors (to hear the baby's heart beat.)</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">My HERO mother said <i>"Why does she have to get back in bed? Can't you use a portable doppler?" </i>The nurse told my mom that the midwife said I had to get in bed. My mom fired (and I do mean fired) back with <i>"Can you please go check with the midwife right now and get specific instruction from her that Kristen must get out of the shower and be strapped to the monitor? And can you also ask if the portable device may be used?" </i>The nurse semi-argued back but did leave and returned with a portable monitor. And I got to stay in the shower ;)</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">So instead of 10 minutes, I was able to work in there for 45 minutes. I was totally refocused, Caleb was 'rejuvenated' and I was finally as sure as everyone else that I <i>could </i>do this. Around 8:30pm I was out of the shower, and at 8:45 I used the word "pressure" over and over. I was a little annoyed because the nurse kept asking me if I had 'the urge to push' and I said I didn't particularly feel 'an urge' but I felt pressure and I was in excruciating pain and I was mentally VERY ready to push. She would somewhat casually say <i>"Well, let us know what you have the urge."</i> My mom had seven kids and did not always have the urge to push. I knew from reading that not all women get 'that urge.' I wanted to push. I felt ready. I felt pressure. My mom grabbed the midwife and at 9:00 pm she checked me. <i>"9.5 cm." </i>The midwife, who is a very monotone, collected, unemotional and un-animated lady, blankly said <i>"I'll be back in half an hour and we can re-check then."</i> HALF AN HOUR?!? I nearly lost it again. Tears filled my eyes. I couldn't do another half an hour. I just couldn't. I wanted to push. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">And the following thirty minutes, ladies and gentlemen (okay, ladies) were... well, basically, I was screaming "THIS IS [NOT HEAVEN]!!!!! THIS IS [NOT HEAVEN]!!!!! I'M NEVER HAVING CHILDREN AGAIN!!!! I've tried to think of ways to describe this. One odd analogy that came to mind was a soft corn tortilla (my body equals tortilla). The early contractions felt like someone folding a tortilla in half and tearing it. Then the later contractions felt like someone ripping a tortilla into tiny pieces to feed to ducks. The transition contractions felt like tossing a tortilla into a blender and letting it be pureed into tortilla dust. These post-shower contractions? It was like taking a tortilla through a tree-trunk-chipper, setting the chips on fire in furnace, and then feeding the ashes to a flock of starving tortilla-ash-eating sharks, then blowing the shark den up with nuclear bombs. It made the "heavy menstrual cramp contractions" sound like a free vacation to Fiji. My grandma used to say that the final minutes of labor is like <i>"funneling all the power in the entire universe through your body."</i> Yes. All Jafar-like. It's extraordinary, really, how much <i>power </i>a body had inside it. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">My mom says I was absolutely panicked. I remember clawing at things and practically climbing up the counter/wall. I bit hands and clothing. It was absurd. For a girl who had just relatively calmly and gracefully and relax-ed-ly endured a very long labor - even the most extreme moments where met with an effort to relax and breathe. I never swore. I hardly yelled. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"</i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Another physical sign of transition is the inability to relax or be comfortable. A woman who was handling labor well may suddenly find that she has no idea what to do and nothing is comfortable any more." </i>I was not handling labor well anymore. I was a complete disaster. And I honestly thought I was going to pass out and die right then and there. Here's how much pain I was in: I swore... IN FRONT OF MY MOTHER. One of these demon-contractions was a game-changer because the pain was no longer in my back, rather it was in my hips and pelvis. I screamed for Caleb to push <i>"lower! Lower! LOWER!" </i>After a day and a half of pushing my back in the same place, he was confused. The women eyed each other.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Janet went to get the midwife. She calmly said she would be in soon. Janet returned alone. So my mama bear went to get her. Something about a strict tone of voice, and fake wrist watch and <i>"I'm counting" </i>got the midwife into my room within 60 seconds ;)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Now. Brief pause to this loooong story. I feel a little bad for this midwife because I had only seen her once before this trip to the hospital. We certainly did not know each other well. <i>And </i>she had only been a part of my 35-hour labor for about two hours. I really think she thought I was a dramatic, bad-at-dealing-with-pain, over-the-top laborer. I don't think she realized <i>how </i>different I was from 5:00pm to 7:00 pm to 9:00pm. And it was still wildly busy on the floor. She was being pulled many directions. I don't think she really believed I was ready to push. I think she didn't fully 'get' how my labor had gone. She was doing the best she could with the knowledge and time she had. But it wasn't particularly available and understanding. Okay. Carry on.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>Meeting Our Son</i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">She checked me at 9:30 and said that magical word "<i>Ten!</i>" and at 9:35 I pushed for the first time. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Everyone's eyes got big and the midwife seemed shocked. Caleb nearly squealed and leaped with excitement: <i>"I can see his head! BABY! He's SO close! I can see his head! He has hair!" </i>The midwife paused and seemed confused. She asked me if my water had broke a few days ago, or earlier today, or when, really? My mom told her that we had been told it had broken, but we really didn't know when. She shook her head and said <i>"No, it hadn't. It just broke now." </i>I took that first push very seriously? FINALLY, for real for real, broke my water and showed off my kid's head all at the same time.</span></div>
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Little Man's heart rate supposedly dropped during that first push (my mom thinks the monitor just picked up my heart rate) so they had me stop pushing while they put an IV in and put an oxygen mask on me. After I was all geared up, they let me push for the second time. I heard a chorus of <i>"His head! He's coming! His head! You're doing it! He's almost here!" </i>After that contraction ended the midwife answered a phone call and quietly exited the room. On her way out she mentioned something about pushing. We didn't really hear what she said, and another contraction was coming. "<i>Can I push?!?" </i>I asked. The nurse said I could, so I did. After a push or two she told me to stop. "<i>You need to wait for the midwife to get back." </i>I'm sorry. But where did the midwife go? Like. My baby is COMING OUT OF ME RIGHT NOW. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm0zfNxRkGSAIqpa3nTHojCigc6v0eigbfoyzod1wKg4Z-IFgc5DEIibTXzQst2FOCkgkJ9RzfX7fWFMG0ynOgA9Dassimvuy8HNI-5Mex-f5yLDNM4MhdL5-UQMTXOWZPaHiFV3HwVQM/s1600/kristen_caleb_rowdy_natural_birth_prodromal_bradley_photography+(13+of+87).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm0zfNxRkGSAIqpa3nTHojCigc6v0eigbfoyzod1wKg4Z-IFgc5DEIibTXzQst2FOCkgkJ9RzfX7fWFMG0ynOgA9Dassimvuy8HNI-5Mex-f5yLDNM4MhdL5-UQMTXOWZPaHiFV3HwVQM/s640/kristen_caleb_rowdy_natural_birth_prodromal_bradley_photography+(13+of+87).jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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A couple minutes later she returned and she took one look at me 'down there' and instructed the nurses to prep for delivery. (Because, yes, up until this point there was nothing prepared for him to actual come out. No scissors to cut the cord. No blanket. Nothing.) They hustled about preparing the table, and dropping down that big light, and giving the midwife her outer-garment, and putting a blanket on my belly. Caleb whispered to me <i>"This is it, baby. We're about to meet him. You're about to hold him. This is it. You did it. I'm so proud of you. You're incredible. We're going to see him in just a second. It's happening, baby."</i></div>
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Pushing was an incredible relief from the contraction pain. I'm quite curious how God made it work, because all of that torture-of-a-contraction melted away when I pushed. Pushing wasn't painful it was just 'hard.' I think I said <i>"This is like pushing the Empire State Building through me!" </i>I felt calm again, though. I could feel my body dropping and releasing my baby. The next contraction came and I pushed - trying to be steady, strong and patient. The room was cheering and adrenaline began to pump. Pushing felt similar to sitting on the floor, with your back against the wall, and legs pulled back and resting on a couch or bed you're trying to move alone. Using alllll your might you try to push the furniture with your legs and it won't budge... and then! All of a sudden! It slides away like it's on ice! A perfect, sweet head plopped out and in the same push his whole body came, too. He. Was. OUT! NOT in me anymore! And... It felt dreamy and completely, completely wonderful: </div>
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He reached his long arms towards me, nuzzled into me when I wrapped myself around him, and looked right up at me as he took his first liquidy, panty breaths. He was perfectly rosy, with flailing arms and legs. He was smooth and had chubby cheeks made to be kissed. </div>
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What had been the depths of the dark side, in truly a single <i>instant, </i>transformed like the Beast's Castle, into a high and bliss I've never experienced before. I felt <i>amazing. </i>My body felt <i>fantastic. </i>My mind was clear and <i>completely </i>engaged. I remember the details of those first few seconds brilliantly, in dazzling colors. I can smell and feel and breathe it. My heart was absolutely swelling. Just being poured into with the warm water of brand new love. I loved my son (I really did!) before I met him. But here he was! With us! Caleb was breathless and equally smitten right beside me, where he'd been the whole time. I felt so strongly for him in that moment. I adore my husband. My mother was incredible. My friends are bizarrely kind and amazing. My dad is in the doorway, with tears in his eyes. <i>I am SO proud of myself! Of us! WE DID IT. </i>Oh, I felt amazing. No pain. None. No cloudiness. No fog. Just intense happy and true emotion. I wouldn't trade those 60 seconds for the entire world. I'd do the natural birth all over again, in a heart beat, just to have that first minute back.</div>
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While I was still laying there I told the people around me <i>"Oh, that was worth it. That was so worth it." </i>I'll never forget Rowdy's spindly, strong arms reaching <i>right </i>for me. It was honestly a combination of all my favorite feelings: winning championship games, making hard-to-make-teams, scoring over 100%, people loving the food I made for them, falling in love, being in love, getting engaged, waiting to walk down the aisle, coming home after our honeymoon, making Rowdy, listening to my dad laugh, talking for hours with my mom, the times I've 'been filled with' the Holy Spirit, long nights of worship and conversation, laughing through childhood memories with my brothers and sisters. All of it. BOOM. In one moment. A culmination of all the things that got me and my Caleb to the place where we were a part of a new soul, a mysterious, fresh person, being welcomed into his earthly life... it was absolute ecstasy. An intoxicating felicity. </div>
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I count it the highest privilege and honor to be able to feel and be a part of the labor and delivery we had. I know so many women who either simply can't have this experience, or who choose not to, and I have only become more grateful for what our story was. It was different than what I expected or certainly wanted, but it was marvelous all the same. And nothing can replace the beauty of that intensity. Something as 'simple' as Rowdy being given right to me, and him gurgling and grunting and grabbing our fingers and sucking his fists and rooting around on my chest, while we looked at each other, just would be foolish and impossible to describe with words. Within a few minutes he was latched-on and learning how to nurse. He was so alert and strong. He knew me and responded to my voice, and daddy's too. In a room mildly buzzed with people and machines, he was deeply focused on us. Incredible. I was so proud of him. So... okay... I'm rambling now. It was nothing short of the over-used word: amazing.</div>
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After we had been able to soak him in and bond, really, we were thrilled to be able to watch the room full of family and friends get to feel and snuggle him, too. It was a worn and weary and teary group. The whole of them had worked hard for this Nugget Boy and they were rejoicing. Rejoicing over him and us with gladness. It was another incredible (and un-planned! People just kept coming in, depsite the nurses wanting them to leave! Haha. I'm glad they came and stayed anyway ;) The moment was too perfect) memory for me.</div>
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My little sisters had been at the hospital almost as long as I had. They slept on awkwardly, uncomfortable love-seats and waited those grueling 36ish hours with us. They weren't allowed to come back to see me, but I knew they were there. And I kept getting reports from others about how sweet, concerned and eager Shannon and Lauren were. I couldn't wait to let them meet their nephew.</div>
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And when they did, they both burst into tears. It was the first time I cried, too. Salty, hot love and relief tears.</div>
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But TheLadies weren't the only ones waiting long and hard. My "support parade," as the nurses called it, were there too. We didn't even get pictures of everyone who came back (Jess, Kevin and Mikey... I loved that you were there!) <i>while I was still in labor&delivery</i>, delivering a placenta, getting stitched up (a random skin tag/strip ripped off that needed to come off anyway, so it was handy to have it come out during labor... now I don't have to make an appointment to get it removed!), having my stomach mashed on to make my uterus contract, barely dressed... they with glowy-eyes and full hearts made their way into the room to join in the joy.</div>
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My wiggly, vocal, peering, muscular, young son. Oh I love you.</div>
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Hahaha aaaand this is too "a part of it" not to post ;) I didn't realize until I saw these pictures how... rough I was looking. I told Caleb that at the time I felt like this triumphant war stallion, emerging from a foggy battleground, bloody and tattered, but strapping and formidable and victorious. My flag waving in the background, while clouds parted over the scene. And then... I saw these. And. Yeah. I had more of a War Hippo thing going on. Plopped over on a log. What happened to my face? And Donald Trump Mullet hair? Why was my chin and neck connected with a frog-bubble? Gosh my eyes were tired ;) I love this picture because I've never been more proud of myself, amazed at my guy, and impressed with my body. My body... can do awesome things. Wow. And I won't be gracing the cover of any magazine anytime soon, or hash-tagging "fitmom" or be printing this one out to hang over the fireplace, but in my rough, swollen, disheveled, worn-out state, I love the story it tells, and what I was able to accomplish. So I love these War Hippo shots. <br />
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(And! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU Janet and Lydia for taking all these pictures. You. Both. Rule.)<br />
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The minutes only grew better and better.<br />
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As my dad texted me on his way out <i>"Now you know what instant unconditional love is." </i>Yup. Amen. I do.</div>
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After finally getting cleaned and ready, we left the l&d ward and made that grand trek to the "Mommy & Baby" rooms. We were in the wee hours of our third day in the hospital, and we had a baby to show for it. Roughly four days of real labor, 36 hours of laboring in the hospital, four hours of transition, pitocin but no pain meds, and it was all done. Labor was over and life with a child began.<br />
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It was my favorite experience of my life. And the adventure has only just begun! God is good, and does what is good. Our life is good, and we are so happy that God, many decades ago, before the earth was made and before time began, decided to love and make a Little Rowdy. We truly are enchanted.<br />
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<i>(Side note: Before labor started, I often prayed that I would have a good recovery. I even said 'I don't mind if the labor is hard, I just don't want the recovery to be hard.' I was worried about stitches and catheters and breast-feeding and bleeding and after-contractions and a slew of other things. I really wanted to be able to fully enjoy my baby once he arrived and not be so physically hurting that I couldn't be 100% 'there' with him.</i><br />
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<i>God completely answered that prayer - but next time I'm going to pray for an easy labor AND easy recovery. Too greedy? But really. I'm stunned and grateful. I've really felt marvelous ever since that last push. Essentially zero pain. Completely mobile. The kid eats long and hard and easily. Natural labors have the best odds at having a smooth recovery, but there is certainly NO guarantee and I easily could have had another long hard road ahead of me <b>after </b>he was born. But God gave us that enjoyable and peaceful recovery we had prayed for. I'm grateful grateful grateful. Thank you, Lord.)</i></div>
I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-59585451554287032392013-06-26T23:13:00.002-07:002013-06-26T23:35:29.850-07:00My Weird, Natural, Prodromal, 'Induced,' Pitocin, Drug-Free, Long, Beautiful Birth Story | Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>THE BIRTH STORY | PART ONE</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><i>the most dedicated, difficult, wonderful, supported experience i've ever lived through and accomplished</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv7e-luDWuDakkN5Sn_kNvkdQhKDKuwAJ4EAVD7DtYO-kzxi0QLtX62lAgGBVnct_c2xw2RxZT3KmBS09vu_64PKr03ATu8JejWJat7wJB8E11tgKiZtNdggJaUeAT_jn35exxvmFMhig/s1600/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(54+of+69).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv7e-luDWuDakkN5Sn_kNvkdQhKDKuwAJ4EAVD7DtYO-kzxi0QLtX62lAgGBVnct_c2xw2RxZT3KmBS09vu_64PKr03ATu8JejWJat7wJB8E11tgKiZtNdggJaUeAT_jn35exxvmFMhig/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(54+of+69).jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Preparation + Expectations </span></i></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: inherit;">Both Caleb and I come from families who really support and affirm natural childbirth. His mom had many homebirths (including a set of twins! and carried another set of twins 42 weeks without induction!) and my mom took Bradley classes, labored <i>mostly </i>at home and then delivered at a now-closed area birth center. The dads were always very and eagerly involved in the entire process. Because this happened to be "normal" and "what we were used to" growing up, it just seemed natural (ha.) to investigate this option first, and was also what we both automatically desired - more out of familiarity than anything else.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Movies like "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4DgLf8hHMgo" target="_blank">The Business of Being Born</a>," friends who delivered naturally, our moms, Bradley classes and the book "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Husband-Coached-Childbirth-Fifth-Edition-Bradley/dp/055338516X" target="_blank">Husband-Coached Childbirth</a>" were all brilliantly helpful in educating us and helping us talk through what we hoped, wanted and expected out of "the birthing process." </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">We learned more about the "domino effect" of medical intervention in healthy women and babies, the approach most hospitals take, what birthing has been like in history and in most places around the world, what l&d medicine has been in America the past 100 years (actually quite scary...<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Twilight_sleep" target="_blank"> chloroform and twilight sleep</a>?!), the biology of the body, the details of natural and synthetic hormones used in labor, animal/mammal instinct in labor, benefits of laboring in a "home/home-like" environment, definitions of all things "birthing," etc.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">"Comparing birthing to swimming, the doctor is the lifeguard. Both swimming and birthing carry irreducible and minimal risk, and <b>doctors and lifeguards are necessary</b>, but <i>only for complications</i>. Good swimmers and good birthers need them to be present, but just in case problems arise."</span> </span></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: inherit;">"Their happy chatter as they strolled together in the early stages of labor would be rhythmically interrupted by contractions... Whenever a contraction occurred, the same calm pattern of relaxation, abdominal breathing and affirming talk would be automatically repeated. The couple performed their respective tasks calmly - observers were impressed by the obvious fact that <b>here were two people, who knew each other well, happily working together</b>. The close relationship between husband and wife, the total trust and dependence on each other, was heartwarming to see... even seemingly trivial acts reduce the tasks of nurses, and instead direct the gratitude of a mother to the one she loves: her husband."</span></span></blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">We really think mamas and couples need to make decisions for themselves, and we think being educated is the best way to make decisions. The goal is healthy mama, healthy baby. It really is. And there are lots of ways to get there, and no matter what you "want" life seems to throw change-ups like a Hall of Famer. There is no "right" or "wrong" and there is mostly no judgement. Every story and birth and mama is so different. As it should be.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">We spent time figuring out what was best for us - and we really enjoyed the process! I, personally, wanted not just Caleb's <i>help</i>, but for him to not be <i>helpless</i>. I hated the idea of him standing there, watching me suffer, with no idea what to do and no idea what was going on or with nearly noway to practically help. I would struggle being tossed into a traumatic situation I knew <i>nothing </i>about! I didn't want him to feel like a bystander or observer. I wanted to have <i>our </i>baby<i> </i>together. We both also wanted to do everything we could to let my body do what God made it able to do by itself. We both WHOLEHEARTEDLY wanted medical help and intervention if my body wasn't able to do it on it's own. We are so grateful for drugs, hormones, needles, surgeries and procedures that can protect, keep and save life. But unless those were <i>necessary </i>we didn't want to take 'advantage' of them. We felt like this was the healthiest and best 'plan' for me as a woman, and also for our little BorisMorrisBoy.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">We learned in our Bradley Class about the reasons medical intervention should be used. We talked about - to the best of our ability - "what if ______ happens?" We knew it might not be possible for us to have a totally natural birth - heck, Dr. Bradley's own daughter had an emergency (life-saving!) c-section! These things are not evil or something we were trying to avoid. It was more of a mindset: we want to <i>pursue </i>these other things first, and go to those grace-of-God medical interventions if we <i>needed </i>to. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">I've heard/read/seen women say something along the lines of "I'm too wimpy for a natural birth/I have a low pain tolerance/I don't need to be the hero!/We have the drugs for a reason!" and truly: I'm too wimpy too <i>not </i>try a natural birth ;) I'm a tough woman, I really am. But I'm terrified of needles and drugs and "the works" (really, I get cavities drilled without novacaine... Because I'm more afraid of the shot than the drilling. I'm weird.) I'm more scared of epidurals and c-sections (and the recoveries after them) than I am of the pain of natural birth. Again, proof that eeeevery mama is different! Haha! So as natural as possible was the plan :)</span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><b><i>The Back Story</i></b></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: inherit;">Most of the 20 Morris and Snyder children were late. Caleb, a twin, was 14 days late and I was 11 days late. My mom's last baby was 14 days late. Basically, I was expecting to pass my due date with a baby inside me ;)</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">I shot a wedding on June 1, and made it to due date - June 6 - with very, very nothing exciting to report. The "craziest" thing to happen was just so.much.mucus. Like. SO. much. Enough that I was almost daily wondering if my water broke, but instead of the liquid being clear, unscented, and watery it was always slippery, yellow and smelly. I called the office two different times to ask <i>"Should I come in? Not sure what's going on..."</i> but from my descriptions I was reassured: nope, just sounds like your body is getting ready - when your water breaks, you will know! At my midwife appointment on June 6 I found out I was 3cm dilated and about 70% effaced. Encouraging news - yes! But not all that exciting - I know women can be 3-4 cm dilated for weeks before going into labor. I carried on with my week, waiting for something to happen. On June 10 I discovered two different super-leaks in bed. But it was all slippery mucus, as usual, and not watery. I felt no burst or pop, and it didn't keep "leaking" throughout the following hours or day. <i>My body is just getting ready</i>, I told myself.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">On June 12, around 1:00 pm I started having consistent, trackable, painful contractions. They were about 8-10 minutes apart, with varying degrees of pain. It felt like everyone said: bad menstrual cramps. I went out with my mom to run some errands. Maybe once an hour I had a "strong" contraction (had to stop and focus and breath through it). Caleb started timing them around 4:30 pm and they were happening about every 2-3 minutes, lasting a minute each. It was confusing because I couldn't usually tell when one contraction would start and another would end. It kind of always felt tight and crampy and then it would just "peak" and I could say <i>"Oh! Okay! Yeah, something just happened!" </i>but I couldn't predict when it would happen. The hard, churning was just sort of "there." I texted a few friends to give them a heads-up. Did some laundry. Went to the grocery store with C to walk and get a few last minute hospital items. After 7:00 pm things were still moving and grooving. The painful peaks hurt more and more. This seemed very likely to be "it." And then all of a sudden, right after 8:00 pm, everything stopped. EVERYTHING. No more tightness. No crampy-ness. No peaks. Nothing. One good hard painful peak, and in a *snap* it was all gone.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">I was confused and a little discouraged going to bed that night. <i>What the frick </i><i style="font-weight: bold;">was </i><i>that? That was not a few Braxton Hicks. No way. </i>I did some googling and came across the term "<a href="http://belladolcebirths.blogspot.com/2012/01/prodromal-labor-what-is-it.html" target="_blank">prodromal labor</a>." Not false labor, not pre-labor - no, no, prodromal labor is it's own animal. REAL labor that takes place over days or weeks, not hours. The analogy used was one of running a race. Many labors have a distinct (ish) start. Looking back a woman could say<i> "I started active labor contractions here, and ____ hours later the baby was born."</i> Start, run, finish. 30 minutes. 8 hours. 36 hours. Whatever the length of time, it is definitive "active" labor.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">But prodromal labor is apparently more like a race that begins, and you have no idea how long the race is, mile-markers are prohibited, and you are forced by a race official to sprint for as long as he says so, and then forced to stop racing and sit and wait until he says so, and then to walk when he says so. You're really "in the race" and can have genuine, intense, even transition-esque contractions for a full day, only to be told <i>"Okay, sit down and stop now." </i>and be left sitting on the side of the track for two full days, waiting all over again.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">It's quite mentally, emotionally and physically grueling.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">And I read all kinds of blog posts and testimonies of mom's who experienced this kind of labor, getting my mind around the idea that this was probably going to be me as well. I was relieved to know I wasn't a dramatic or stupid first time mom: I was feeling something more than "false labor." I fell asleep assuming I had a solid few days ahead of me before I'd be checking into the hospital to deliver.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><b><i>The Curve Ball - Hospital Day 1</i></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">I had a pre-scheduled appointment with my midwife for June 13 - one week past my due date "just in case" I was late. Caleb and I left for our 10:00 am appointment and on the ride over discussed where we wanted to stop for lunch on the way home. Long story short, while I was there I told the midwife about the night before and I repeated the "SO MUCH MUCUS" story I always tell them when I'm there ;) She seemed somewhat head-pat-y and polite, and not even slightly rushed or curious or "intrigued." After chatting I laid down to hear baby's heart, be measured and see what dilation was looking like. As soon as she "took a look" the midwife said, I quoth, <i>"Oh wow, there IS a lot of mucus down here."</i> I trriiiied to tell you! She ran over and grabbed one of those paper-strips to see if this was amniotic fluid (from a broken water bag) or just above-average-lady-part-scuzz. <i>"If it turns blue, it's amniotic fluid,"</i> she said as the strip turned a brilliant shade of deep royal cobalt. <i>"Hmmm. We're going to need to send you to the hospital to do another test. I'll let the midwife on call there know you're coming. And I can't check your dilation here because if this really *is* amniotic fluid, then we don't want to risk infection."</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;">And with that, we were off to the hospital. A few things were going through my head, but mostly that "24-hour-rule." I knew that aside from the odd-case, most hospitals wanted babies out no later than 24 hours after broken water (because of, yes, infection and the chance of risking the baby's health.) But <i>if this was </i>amniotic fluid, I was fairly sure it had started coming out three days ago... at least! Maybe longer! I was just praying that I wouldn't be rushed into an emergency c-section. Interestingly enough, as we walked back to the car, contractions started up again. They'd been ALL TOTALLY NOTHING since 8:00 pm the night before, but now they were rearing up, roaring in my nice-sized middle. I breathed and counted and instructed Caleb to <i>"drive gently!"</i> </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;">We checked into the hospital a little before noon, scooted over to triage, had a more "official" test done and it was confirmed: this was amniotic fluid. My water bag had broken or ripped enough to leak and I wasn't leaving without a baby. It was weird laying there in my gold hoop earrings and cotton wrap dress trying to understand what was happening as they started strapping arm bands and stickers on us.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>(one <u>very</u> excited daddy... precious thing.)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">By the time we were in our room, the contractions had <i style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;">totally </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">stopped again. We sat there and kind of laughed - it felt like we were checking into a Holiday Inn Express or something. It didn't feel like... well... what I was expecting to feel at this point: nearing transition, after laboring most of the time at home! My mom and sisters met us and helped bring our bags (which have been in the car for weeks) into the room. Katie braided my hair, the little girls took our order for Chipotle, oh... and a tornado hit. In very movie-esque evening-medical-drama form, a blue summer day turned green and quiet in hot stillness. And then *blam* a storm moved in. Nurses were RUNNING up and down the halls, with beds of women moving them from "window rooms" to "middle rooms." Lights flickered. Computer systems shut down. "Code White, I repeat, Code White" was being monotonously spoken over the speakers. And we just kept walking the halls... excited when contractions picked up, and then always bummed when they stopped for five... ten... fifteen... shoot... twenty...twenty-five... DARN... minutes. At this point it was 4:00 pm and I had gotten an IV in which fed me a stinging, cold dose of antibiotics, to help protect BabyBorisMorris from infection. My midwives had no problem with me laboring naturally - even though it appeared that the water had been broken for days - as long as my heart, his heart and my temperature remained healthy. I even asked </span></span><i style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;">"So, if I'm still here in 24 hours...would you feel like 'Okay, times up! We're getting the baby out!'?" </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">The midwife - very helpfully - promised that there was no timeline. As long as all my information and baby's information came back "healthy," they'd let me labor as long as I needed. Loooooad of concern off my back with that answer!</span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>(smiling is not a 'good sign' in natural labors ;) a clue that... i wasn't even *close* to the intense stuff yet. haha! it felt hard, but little did i know...)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: inherit;">So Caleb and I walked. And walked. And walked. And squatted. And walked. And contracted sometimes. And then stopped. And then contracted! Yay! This must stick around this time! Walk! Walk! Walk! DOH. WHY DID IT ALL STOP AGAIN? (Reminder: I'm not talking spaced out contractions, I'm talking contractions on a 7-9 on the pain scale, every 2-4 minutes, lasting a minute each, for 45 minutes... then nothing. Not so much as a twingy cramp.)</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: inherit;">At 9:00 pm I had "witnessed" quite a few mamas arrive, and deliver their young. We heard the grunts and pushes and first yelps over and over. I wanted to know how far along we were. I had been 3cm for over a week, and these contractions must be doing SOMETHING. My midwife checked and said hesitantly <i>"Mmmm, thr... eh, maybe, yeah, I'd say four."</i> Four? Double-You-Tee-Ateshe, body! We kept walking and visiting the friends who had come to cheer me on in the waiting room (the were like a spring in the desert lands. SO hopeful and motivating and happy to see them all. Shared joy is addicting.) and snacking and eating ice and feeling <i>slightly </i>more confident because the contractions seemed to be getting harder and sticking around.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6uGPuxtWfe87c7OgA3pLCdfkuVxbDKJ2iDIgVkHRL5Zw1kENHM9VoU4sfr73e4oEHDp_Poup88W1SehBiD7McA0jBdRzS57VzyzFbCfpv5gsY5PmeFzq7sMR_kMr-lZ-71P3AwlKbCc/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(29+of+69).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>(Becca was SO happy to see me in labor. It was adorable. "KRISTEN. You're having a BABY. You're SWAYING!")</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgPSh08z_iH6xvN1yPvNDcqBDZTQjaVnk9ZtUr06t_9N7jTjq-7xGby2jyDD6j2VZtmLQzmYomLYD5ENKgpQASoph3g5isnzNGl4R0oEqGdZ13s1tBg77Z-TDcp-HYslN3R6fnplxc5M/s1600/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(38+of+69).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgPSh08z_iH6xvN1yPvNDcqBDZTQjaVnk9ZtUr06t_9N7jTjq-7xGby2jyDD6j2VZtmLQzmYomLYD5ENKgpQASoph3g5isnzNGl4R0oEqGdZ13s1tBg77Z-TDcp-HYslN3R6fnplxc5M/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(38+of+69).jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp353gvfYlEm8er0G2SnFteekXKi4XBrzughDxCexyar-FzFSCODhgAZ9Ega0nANQYv7e1Xm3_NRGsIpVn1nHf2bsanH2DLyITHWqVGSfOhLxpD2WmfbB0v9aYnyMn26KQz3jV03zXgYU/s1600/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(26+of+69).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp353gvfYlEm8er0G2SnFteekXKi4XBrzughDxCexyar-FzFSCODhgAZ9Ega0nANQYv7e1Xm3_NRGsIpVn1nHf2bsanH2DLyITHWqVGSfOhLxpD2WmfbB0v9aYnyMn26KQz3jV03zXgYU/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(26+of+69).jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>(remember? smiling = bad. waaaay too happy-go-lucky during my contraction breaks ;) but, hey, i'm glad i wasn't a total crab for my family and friends?)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">At 10:00 pm I fell asleep briefly and the monitors showed that I was still contracting, but they weren't intensifying during my snooze. I, I'm told, appeared much more tired and far less social at this point. For the next few hours Caleb and I worked on the birth ball, walked SOME MORE, and the peaks in the contractions started becoming 10 on the 1-10 scale... every time. Intensity was actually building and <i>lasting</i>. So we WORKED. HARD. We buckled down, focused f'real and concentrated every part of ourselves on helping this baby work his way <i>out</i>.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>(mama bear took over for a bit so daddy angel could re-group and refresh. i needed him to have plenty of energy to last the long haul with me, and i <u>needed</u> mom to help me while he rested. i could not have done it without her. she's the best.)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY293EOb2bwmI8h_EHKpgsbvO0XKggULwgnMC015kdOrBfDx6YN7ZH2kEm0e58XXmPFt6SiBY4kjT3_6c1RfwpGHkxPVLEyob7gSMutvCe6FxdRn_vnZkCvDb3qiyocNJ0jpQ5n5_OiH4/s1600/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(68+of+69).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY293EOb2bwmI8h_EHKpgsbvO0XKggULwgnMC015kdOrBfDx6YN7ZH2kEm0e58XXmPFt6SiBY4kjT3_6c1RfwpGHkxPVLEyob7gSMutvCe6FxdRn_vnZkCvDb3qiyocNJ0jpQ5n5_OiH4/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(68+of+69).jpg" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbqCp7jVSyvoRrlBjjQ_gOUiO7_HjT3Z6gBvfMsvMyZbxlNppdb3s3NYSsewyRo6gSCaUWlz7N4toUVrwnGBxvTPRLLwfJyNSxdj1uYy5MVW5LOw1FaCtDqWG_REakGezYp9FyIRPoyA/s1600/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(53+of+69).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbqCp7jVSyvoRrlBjjQ_gOUiO7_HjT3Z6gBvfMsvMyZbxlNppdb3s3NYSsewyRo6gSCaUWlz7N4toUVrwnGBxvTPRLLwfJyNSxdj1uYy5MVW5LOw1FaCtDqWG_REakGezYp9FyIRPoyA/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(53+of+69).jpg" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3IZplK7cKoSJ1AHVT43Cp5eJA02azSdUaamaGsM5vJKuQ3QjqL9b2dYdTYP8_tyc-huF53lJZovMmSeEs2RzzyP3OOqO6pznPPTl4UYsrTgAcwnJrlNkpNxNnZ5snmlzCNt6neblZzLY/s1600/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(61+of+69).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3IZplK7cKoSJ1AHVT43Cp5eJA02azSdUaamaGsM5vJKuQ3QjqL9b2dYdTYP8_tyc-huF53lJZovMmSeEs2RzzyP3OOqO6pznPPTl4UYsrTgAcwnJrlNkpNxNnZ5snmlzCNt6neblZzLY/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(61+of+69).jpg" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi9AMy69sRkHOIR-6D_ZbrAEpJpekyNbIu5GDccQFSyxZ4Y-O9ExouwbjPB71J58jsXKlJSAg3jaYi6we0S97GqdlZsAz2DI1n5S-_isp2_ag29GoFLxw-Jac3kr1_CdH9yO8bUrI7678/s1600/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(69+of+69).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi9AMy69sRkHOIR-6D_ZbrAEpJpekyNbIu5GDccQFSyxZ4Y-O9ExouwbjPB71J58jsXKlJSAg3jaYi6we0S97GqdlZsAz2DI1n5S-_isp2_ag29GoFLxw-Jac3kr1_CdH9yO8bUrI7678/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(69+of+69).jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2LUQ7hJHwZvwSNBsLIpUPmSJcDX3Cwy-5CPMQgCfsOZcsw-vznQpTTI8Ov9iZAhIwruxYp4bGuMxwTfJJ_DOc7bf8qHP2ma9ysVtFFbpqyka5RGASk7gxCK685x6zxlJo3fvYto4JhA/s1600/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(57+of+69).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2LUQ7hJHwZvwSNBsLIpUPmSJcDX3Cwy-5CPMQgCfsOZcsw-vznQpTTI8Ov9iZAhIwruxYp4bGuMxwTfJJ_DOc7bf8qHP2ma9ysVtFFbpqyka5RGASk7gxCK685x6zxlJo3fvYto4JhA/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(57+of+69).jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>(the time stamps on these photos are painful. i scroll through and watch 10:00 go by... 10:30 go by... 11:00 go by... 11:30... midnight... 12:30... 1:00 in the morning... 1:30 in the morning... TWO O'CLOCK... TWO THIRTY...! Makes me tired just thinking about it!)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But when 2:30 am arrived and, once again, all signs of labor seemed to stop, we decided to take a break. The friends had left to go home, mom and my sisters (who were still there, waiting and helping away!) were so sleepy. Caleb was worn out. I was frustrated. So we went to bed with a plan. My midwife said we could either try castor oil or breast-pumping to get contractions <i>staying </i>and really going. We decided on pumping. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9cgSsnuA9vxLLkPw6Ek07pYQ5ecusq3tgagaHDtZkkE7s-WqK38DduvDKPksTqDG_H59geVM4OOVOge9CevUP9ifJujx6tU0YiMbXzMFJH02zj_UbDUea5Mcl0xAofIwAL_wdT0KdEQ/s1600/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(62+of+69).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9cgSsnuA9vxLLkPw6Ek07pYQ5ecusq3tgagaHDtZkkE7s-WqK38DduvDKPksTqDG_H59geVM4OOVOge9CevUP9ifJujx6tU0YiMbXzMFJH02zj_UbDUea5Mcl0xAofIwAL_wdT0KdEQ/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(62+of+69).jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2Z1ZWD1k0JzdW1XHlJja4bUibdVN9UMvmwAEdVH_mka23JNd9tMcRqM5R8gFe4k_G_JbszGVNa-MPi1UbwR6BSvX_-_LxltQQIdOl3jWKlrOqddHxD-CL8uaea1ZBw0nfK2ls6PBVoI/s1600/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(39+of+69).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2Z1ZWD1k0JzdW1XHlJja4bUibdVN9UMvmwAEdVH_mka23JNd9tMcRqM5R8gFe4k_G_JbszGVNa-MPi1UbwR6BSvX_-_LxltQQIdOl3jWKlrOqddHxD-CL8uaea1ZBw0nfK2ls6PBVoI/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(39+of+69).jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOZU86l68Hb8dj4OhrUe_xi4TJ4opf07t8LFBL9ijN5Oxr5U2gb4GLkomL_6QcW134yUkNcTchNzYiFiz12eDCJwGHX02wYzVPEfhs1vtMtFyLeP4IHl-wmWQuGJ-V-PX5mo31suyxFpc/s1600/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(40+of+69).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOZU86l68Hb8dj4OhrUe_xi4TJ4opf07t8LFBL9ijN5Oxr5U2gb4GLkomL_6QcW134yUkNcTchNzYiFiz12eDCJwGHX02wYzVPEfhs1vtMtFyLeP4IHl-wmWQuGJ-V-PX5mo31suyxFpc/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(40+of+69).jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;"><b><i>The Next Day - Hospital Day 2</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: inherit;">After sleeping on and off until 6:30 am, Caleb and I embarked on the Great Pumping Adventure. 15 minutes on the machine, 15 minutes of walking, repeated four times. This two-hour process finally wrapped up around 9:00 am. I knew things weren't happening the way they should be. I was also emotional because every four hours I had to get the antibiotic through the IV and I <i>hated </i>the way it felt. So burn-y and uncomfortable. I HATE needles. And I hated being "hooked up" or having something stuck in me. I couldn't grab or hold or move freely with an IV port in my hand. And it hurt. And I just didn't like it one bit. I would always get a bit teary when that four-hour mark came again. Every time I'd hope I'd be close to pushing - or maybe even with the baby! - by the time the next antibiotic shoot-up was scheduled. But over and over I had to get it, sometimes right in the middle of a bratty contraction.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">At 9:45 am, after all that pumping!, my midwife checked me: 5cm. Almost 13 hours had gone by, and I had progressed one.tiny.centimeter. And! To top it off, the midwife said <i>"I feel a bulging bag of forewaters."</i> The nurse quickly asked <i>"Wait, I thought this was the patient who has had a broken water for three days? That's why she's on the antibiotic...?</i>" <i>That's why I am HERE</i>, I thought ;) The midwife talked about how a water can break, but then the baby's head can plug it up like a cork so it's "there" but open. My mom and I were confused by that, but believed them. Just. Didn't quite know what to think. 5cm. My water still needs to break (or needs to break again). Okaaaay? </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">In the meantime, the hospital was still going bonkers. Babies babies babies. The tornado babies. The heavy, barometric pressure babies. Firing off like a shooting squad. The nurses and midwives were very, very busy. And I was now on my third or fourth shift with a new midwife. I rarely saw them because they had SO much going on (surprise twins! mother almost dying! baby getting stuck! crazy and scary.) Meanwhile, I was the slow one over in Room 3, with an involved husband and doula-mama.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">It wasn't until 11:00 am that my midwife kind of laid down the law for me, in a gracious, smart way. She, for the first time in 24 hours, said the dreaded 'P' word: Pitocin. I didn't want pitocin for a number of reasons. If you don't particularly care why I didn't want pitocin, skip these bullet points and continue on with the story ;) The best is yet to come. But, if you are curious about what my train of thought was, have at it: </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #666666; font-family: inherit;">1) I hate IV's and needles. So enough said. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #666666; font-family: inherit;">2) Being on IV that drips would mean I couldn't be as mobile and free to do anything I wanted (like walk the halls, take a shower, etc). I'd also have to be strapped into the continuous fetal monitors - another limiter for my positions and ability to move about. My midwife did assure me I could move around the bed and my room as much as I was able and wanted. But still. I didn't like being limited in options ;)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #666666; font-family: inherit;">3) I know that <i>most </i>women who use pitocin end up getting an epidural. The pit contractions are a force working "outside" your body, as opposed to the "natural" oxytocin contractions that are triggered by baby's brain and mama's brain and working "with and within" your body. I had been taught that pit contractions are harder, faster and more intense, with longer "peaks" and shorter breaks. Overall it seemed to be a much more painful experience than natural labor, which seemed painful enough to me! And I didn't know if I'd be able to do it without an epidural. (</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #666666; font-family: inherit;">4) The side effects of pitocin on mama was exactly what I was hoping to avoid (and why I did not plan on being induced to begin with). Anything from mild to severe allergic reaction, nausea + vomiting (I was working hard to keep my body fueled and hydrated... I did not want to start losing my 'energy source'!), rupture of the uterus, premature separation of the placenta, dropped blood pressure and slow/fast/uneven heart beat, headaches, seizures, pelvic hematoma, increased swelling and engorgement (pitocin is an anti-diuretic so the body retains more fluids), etc. Of course I could experience none of these side effects. And, of course, these things could happen 'on their own' without pitocin! But, like I had said before, I wanted to avoid adding risk and medical involvement <i>unless necessary</i>. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">5) Worse than potential effects of pitocin on me were the potential effects on my little boy. Just a month before my due date, on May 7 2013, The American Congress of Obstetricians and Gynecologists released the findings of a study specifically directed at pitocin and <i>the baby</i>. <i> "</i></span><i>Induction and augmentation of labor with the hormone oxytocin may not be as safe for full-term newborns as previously believed. 'As a community of practitioners, we know the adverse effects of Pitocin from the maternal side,' Dr. Tsimis said, 'but much less so from the neonatal side.'"</i> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">In keeping with many past techniques used in hospitals for labor&delivery, the research showing harm to mother/baby doesn't come along until after they have been using said technique for years or even decades. Slow/fast/un-even (dangerous) heart-rates, limp and poor muscle tone, low APGAR scores, increased likelihood of jaundice, bleeding in the eyes and/or brain, poor reflexes (including sucking), etc are the known potential side effects. As a mom I did instantly become protective and careful/aware of my baby's well-being and safety when I found out I was pregnant. No alcohol, or tuna, or processed deli meat, or soft cheese! Take the prenatal vitamins! Have prenatal care! Hydrate hydrate hydrate! No contact sports (aka: no scrimmaging with my basketball team)! No sleeping flat on your back! No roller-coasters! All for the safety of the baby! That same protective mama-bear came out when "pitocin" was said. I wanted to be <i>so careful </i>what I was exposing my little guy to.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #666666; font-family: inherit;">6) I didn't want the pitocin to cause an 'emergency c-section' scenario because the BorisMorris' heart rate was dropping. He had been remarkably stable and healthy, with a strong, dependable heartbeat, the entire labor. And I was willing to work through labor longer if it kept him in a safer situation. It was 'okay' with me if he and my body needed more time. And if he simply wasn't ready, I didn't want to 'force' him out and exasperate his sweet little heart.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">That being said, Caleb and I talked and we had a couple other choices: castor oil and breaking my water (again? or whatever.) Our midwife affirmed and supported those other two options, but we ultimately decided based on our midwife saying: <i>"Castor oil <b>could</b> help contractions get consistent, breaking your water<b> could</b> help get things moving, but pitocin <b>will</b> make this happen. Pitocin is really a great tool when used right, and we are not using it to try to start your labor. You<b> are</b> in labor. You are having active labor contractions. Your body might just need an extra little nudge to fall of the edge, so to speak. You've been in real labor for over 24 hours, and I want you to see the light at the end of the tunnel, and have enough energy to do this. We would start you on the smallest does possible, and only increase it if we needed. We're not about to pump you with pit." </i> My midwife knew what we wanted for our birth, we had talked many times, and I trusted her. She said she believed this would be best, and she was confident it would help, not hinder, us in having the birth we wanted. So. We went for it.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Interestingly enough, I had written on my birth plan that I didn't want any students present at the birth, but a nurse asked me while I was there if I would allow the student following her to come in and observe. For some reason I said <i>"Sure! No problem!"</i> God knew. The student came in as they were hooking me up to those two bags full of clear fluid. I was a bit teary. She came right over, looked me in the eyes, and said "<i>You are <b>so</b> strong. What you've done so far is incredible. I <b>know</b> you can do this</i>." I pathetically muttered "<i>I really don't want an epidural or a c-section</i>." She got very serious and told me that she had two vaginal deliveries with pitocin and with<i>out </i>an epidural. "<i>You'll be just fine. Really. You've got this. I know you can do it</i>." During contractions she would encourage me ("<i>GOOD Kristen! GOOD. You are so relaxed. GOODJOB. Gooooood</i>.") I didn't know this woman from Adam, and after this conversation I don't remember seeing her again, but wow: she was an angel from God sent into Room 3.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYmFRZ4meSNyERyQROCyp-tEw9ofqlOMsukJcR_ySYG17pfqiOd2IQwoPZvZJUb_ehBowFqkqzjGYNQLrmM-TjpaPXRjL6N-4phJSN4Qj6bT4SOgwqZJPdXawJuQOgE3tKbe5qRKpupq8/s1600/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(66+of+69).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYmFRZ4meSNyERyQROCyp-tEw9ofqlOMsukJcR_ySYG17pfqiOd2IQwoPZvZJUb_ehBowFqkqzjGYNQLrmM-TjpaPXRjL6N-4phJSN4Qj6bT4SOgwqZJPdXawJuQOgE3tKbe5qRKpupq8/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(66+of+69).jpg" width="425" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1QTgpW7mU4Rq6eI2vCEHM1VjQn27fH-3bW3ZhM8p5gHUSeVWKf2fb9IzxYQrKf35Tb6HZ2sZmapwvXtB7cBQgRUiRXpCG9VP4q1S6dL6iQz0J-3UsvZ846ECpS4C5Gm53PpxQ4jAk6k/s1600/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(21+of+69).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1QTgpW7mU4Rq6eI2vCEHM1VjQn27fH-3bW3ZhM8p5gHUSeVWKf2fb9IzxYQrKf35Tb6HZ2sZmapwvXtB7cBQgRUiRXpCG9VP4q1S6dL6iQz0J-3UsvZ846ECpS4C5Gm53PpxQ4jAk6k/s640/natural_birth_story_rowdy_caleb_kristen_morris_leigh_baby_photography+(21+of+69).jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Around noon I was all hooked up, with the Powerful Synthetic Oxytocin dripping into me. I tried to gear up mentally for what was impending. Hopefully harder, faster, stronger, BETTER. Hopefully closer to the end than the beginning. Hopefully ready for... whatever it was that was about to happen. Some "labor verses" came to mind - ones I'd written down, prayed through, and enjoyed before labor started, hoping they would help in my sure-to-come-time-of-need:</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">"Run with endurance the race set before you."</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;">hebrews 12:1</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">"You will not labor in vain... How joyful we are! We <i>will </i>enjoy the fruit of our labor!"</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>psalm 128:1</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">"He increases the power of the weak!"</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>isaiah 40:29</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">"He enables me to negotiate the rugged terrain."</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>isaiah 59:1</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><b><i>"</i>The Lord is in the midst of her, she shall not be moved."</b></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>psalm 45:6</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Funny story: on the playlist we had in iTunes there was a Johnny Cash rendition of "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iNfr0D0HcBY" target="_blank">I Shall Not Be Moved</a>." We laughed that this was BorisMorris' anthem ;) <i>"I shall, I shall, I shall NOT be moved!"</i></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">But when I think of the labor, almost immediately those lyrics come to mind. From here on out this song will take me back to that dimly lit, beige, clean hospital room.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>"Though all hell assail me, I shall not be moved</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><b>Jesus will not fail me</b>, I shall not be moved.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>Just like the tree that's planted by the water</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>I shall not be moved.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i><b>Though the tempest [or uterus ;)] rages</b>, I shall not be moved</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>On the Rock of Ages, I shall not be moved.</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>Just like the tree that's planted by the water, </i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>I shall not be moved."</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">{Part Two to follow...}</span></span></div>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-86949869812929051742013-06-10T21:30:00.000-07:002013-06-10T21:30:03.300-07:00Rest | Post 30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">A piece of writing that has changed my life. One I read often, and only love more. One makes God desperately attractive to me - I read, and I want to know Him better and sweeter.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYgzEsXxusoCAHQmerqr_b8PcREVa3PHmT1hXaI_0uwCdR1sZDnFiwmXmr2DwnCq7LIiYt_KXIUxpOQG_8IteMoPgcKQmfztHN1OhBeYHDmoeHAFkYHHPQbdz4VwplY8nswNLnhRJrwJ4/s1600/93021850ce2711e292d022000a1fcc15_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYgzEsXxusoCAHQmerqr_b8PcREVa3PHmT1hXaI_0uwCdR1sZDnFiwmXmr2DwnCq7LIiYt_KXIUxpOQG_8IteMoPgcKQmfztHN1OhBeYHDmoeHAFkYHHPQbdz4VwplY8nswNLnhRJrwJ4/s400/93021850ce2711e292d022000a1fcc15_7.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Restlessness is unbelief, skepticism, blasphemy against the capability and character of God. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Restlessness declares that God is unable or unfaithful to honor His word. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Restlessness is a direct affront to God. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Restlessness is hell. It is a splendid angelic warrior, Lucifer, finding his role in the glories of heaven too constraining to his gifts and potential.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Restlessness is providing the Lord of Heaven and Earth reinforcements, emergency resources, and a Plan-B if His efforts go South. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><i>"Don't worry, Lord, we've got your back!"</i> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is Moses hearing the promise of God to make fresh water flow from the rock and saying (in essence) <i>"Here, Lord, I'll help!"</i> as he beats the rock with a stick.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> It is the people of Israel surveying the land that God had<b> promised</b> them, and declaring, <i>"We are not big enough to defeat the giants in this place."</i> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Neither Moses nor that generation entered t</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">he promised land of <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">rest</span> because they did not <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">rest</span> in God and His promises. In the words of Hebrews, <span>"they could not enter His <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">rest</span> because of unbelief."</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Rest</span> is thinking deeply about the good of what God has done, keeping in focus the promises He has made for both your present and your future, and letting God be your God, letting God be in control.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Rest</span> at essence is God-entranced, God-magnifying, and God-satisfied. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Rest is treating God's promises as rock-solid and unquestionable. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Rest</span> is a conscious relishing of God's gushing generosity and <span>a relinquishment of our own self-sufficiency</span>. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Rest</span> is the <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">garden</span>, the Sabbath, the feasts, the land, and the worship of God's people in the Old Testament.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Rest</span> is the promise of the Gospel and the only path into its life. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Rest</span> is a gift. Everything good starts with <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">rest</span>, grows through <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">rest</span>, and is sweetly tasted in the feast of <span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">rest</span>. And then comes Heaven. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Rest</span> is refusing to try to satisfy ourselves through our work, ability or worthiness and (instead) savoring, embracing and exploring all that the Lord has already done and thereby discovering, <i>"Behold, it is very good!"</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">There were two lost sons in the story of the Prodigals, one who offered to work his way back into His Father's favor and one who reminded the Father of the favor he deserved for the work that he had already done. Both offered work as a payment for the gift of the Father's fellowship, forgiveness, and feast; and to both He said, <i>"No."</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"Come in!"</i> was the only offer of the Father.<i> "Cease from your work and celebrate my lavish extravagance and prodigal generosity and you will have me and everything that is mine."</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Peter the apostle sums up the Gospel simply<i>, "<span class="il" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial;">Rest</span> your hope fully upon the grace that is brought to you in the revelation of Jesus Christ."</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>---</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i>[By Don Shorey - <a href="http://enjoyinggrace.org/" target="_blank">Enjoying Grace Ministries</a>]</i></span></div>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-64239256433176085952013-06-03T08:47:00.000-07:002013-06-03T08:55:05.062-07:00The Garden | Post 29<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The Garden of Gethsemane has been my accidental theme the last couple weeks. It started with a purchase of <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/My-Mothers-Hymn-Book/dp/B000WIP690/ref=tmm_other_meta_binding_title_0" target="_blank">My Mother's Hymn Book</a></i>, a basic and endearing Johnny Cash album. Though I have hymns I've historically enjoyed more, "In The Garden" has been my number one repeat - it has just crept in my heart.</div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #383838; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">And He walks with me, and He talks with me,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #383838; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> And He tells me I am His own;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #383838; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> And the joy we share as we tarry there,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #383838; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> None other has ever known.</span></i></blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5UBV6h7GXii_ta1CI_NwkabUhm5Vj0KyP1wF8da8vyLSPnr-FWS2lI2DgZtCFqWkPn8BxfVVVDaog0-QntK_j9f5fjfYTYjwdIPiavb3SHydvAlurgHbpkshnRoc0Muo2YlzqQmlOAVQ/s1600/8d5371c0ac7f11e2a67a22000a9f3cad_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5UBV6h7GXii_ta1CI_NwkabUhm5Vj0KyP1wF8da8vyLSPnr-FWS2lI2DgZtCFqWkPn8BxfVVVDaog0-QntK_j9f5fjfYTYjwdIPiavb3SHydvAlurgHbpkshnRoc0Muo2YlzqQmlOAVQ/s640/8d5371c0ac7f11e2a67a22000a9f3cad_7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Then I read these paragraphs in <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Grace-Based-Parenting-Tim-Kimmel/dp/0849905486" target="_blank">Grace-Based Parenting</a> </i>and I've been unable to move on from the ideas and "wow"-moments they have sparked:</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"The unwillingness to give a voice to the hurts we have placed in our children's hearts is the epitome of high control. High-controllers are not strong people but rather weak, small, and selfish. In contrast, it is our openness to 'openness' that draws us closer to our children's heart and to God.</span></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For example, Jesus came to do His Father's will; that meant <i>everything </i>His Father had sent Him to do. But when the moment came for the Savior of the world to complete His job, reality washed over Him. As Jesus stood on the threshold of the crucifixion and that His time had finally come, He was overrun and overwrought by the price of it all. <b>In that moment of humanness, the Son did what He knew He had the freedom to do any time with His Father</b>. He slipped to the back corner of Gethsemane, fell to His knees, and had a candid heart-to-heart talk with His Dad.</span></blockquote>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">'My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me.'</span></i></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I just can't hear the Father saying anything like 'A deal's a deal; get up and stop your whining!' There is nothing in God's nature that would even <i>hint </i>that He would say such a thing - especially to His child. But I know there are human fathers who dismiss their children's questions and doubts with statements far terser. They don't enjoy what was <i>basic </i>between Jesus and His Father. </span></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Jesus came to do His Father's will and was committed to seeing it through. Ultimately, He said 'Yet not as I will, but as You will.' He arrived at this place after His Father had listened to His pleadings and pains and identified with His human reservations. <b>The Father didn't rebuke His Son for asking or begrudge Him for hoping for some way out</b>. He listened to his suffering plea and came alongside Him with help for His resolve. They both there was no other way to redeem mankind. </span></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And Jesus came back to His Father a second time, and a third time! The Father's love <b>allowed His Son to wrestle</b> with the same issue even though the facts were not going to change. That's because<b> in the grace of the moment, the Father wanted to be available to His Son to listen as long as it took</b> for Him to work through the weight on His heart. </span></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>'Let us approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in times of need.'</i>"</span></blockquote>
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<b>1 | Jesus' questioning, fearing, emotions and humanness <i>was not sin</i>.</b><br />
The past few years I've become increasingly comfortable with being honest about where I am at and who I really am and how I'm <i>really </i>doing - with myself, and with other folks, and with God. The 'comfort' is found in a new understanding that it really is true: when I am weak, then He is strong. The point isn't to be "as strong/unaffected" as I can be, but to be in Him "as much as I can be." Wondering, begging, intense feeling, numb-not-feeling, wanting a way out... It's not sin. Jesus did it. He wasn't "not trusting God." The proof that He trusted God was that He went <i>to</i> Him, and that He went forward, not that He didn't wrestle.<br />
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Part of being a strong, good, "godly" Christian used to mean, to me, that I didn't "give in" to my emotions. I didn't break down. I had to keep it together. I had to have the right answers - and if I didn't, I better get busy studying and knowing those right answers. Life Poker Face. Don't let anyone know how terrible this hand really is. Keeep it tooogether. <br />
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I love that Jesus was like "Uh, screw it. I'm a mess. I can't take it. Dad? Please. Get me out of this - if there is <i>any </i>way. This is unbearable." And He was welcomed, and given "grace and strength for the moment." The Father gave Him enough to move forward into the following minute. And when that minute was done, there was enough for the next minute. I'm learning that Garden of Gethsemane Time isn't a guilt-trip about spiritual disciplines and something to become a noose: "<i>Even Jesus went to be with the Father alone, how do you think you can face your trials without going to Him? Who do you think you are?" </i>No. It's more of a picture into ferocious heart ache and how instinctual it was to go to Dad. "<i>He will help. He's not ashamed of me. He's not bothered by me. He's not rushing through conversation with me. He's not annoyed that I am still dealing with this. He's not disappointed. He eagerly awaits comforting me, and wants me to share everything - everything - on my heart. I know I am safe with Him." </i><br />
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Thank you, Jesus, for not over-thinking and over-spiritualizing "your heart" - the roots and the motives and the actions and the reasons - you made it so simple. "When you hurt, you have a Father who wants you. And He made you - and even me - to feel and need Him." I love that. Thank you.<br />
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<b>2 | Jesus knew the answers to "Why, God?" and "How will this be worked out for good?" and He <i>still </i>wrestled.</b><br />
Before the physical world was made, there was a giant family-planning session. And the three-in-one God knew the cost and wanted to proceed ahead. Jesus' life on earth was a part of the agenda, and Jesus knew why. He had known why for eternity. He know how it would be good. He wanted the good - that's why He was here. It was a volunteer mission with a definite conclusion.<br />
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<i>But the moment was still so hard.</i><br />
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It makes me feel better. I know what the last chapter of my book says. I've read ahead and know that "glory" and "paradise" and "no more tears" and "forever" and "eternally satisfied" and "rejoicing" is the end, and just the beginning. I know the best is yet to come, and it won't be a tainted best - it will be thorough and full and tangible. But I don't know the why's and how's for most of this life. Many things I can look back on and say "Oh, whoa. I see how <i>that </i>had to happen in order for <i>this </i>to happen, and okay, yes, that was good." But honestly, sometimes I just don't see it and God doesn't seem to make <i>any </i>sense whatsoever.<br />
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And how refreshing is it that Jesus knew the facts, the plans, the details, the answers, the WHOLE story, page by page, word by word, because He was a part of the penning of the tale, but when He was set into a climax as a human character, He responded like one? He allows us the freedom to work through and work out our salvations without fear of frustrating or resisting God. He shows us that being a child of God doesn't mean we robotically and stoically crank through life. He releases us to storm the throne room, dirty and disheveled, knowing that the scepter will <i>always </i>be extended, and that the King doesn't flinch when His royal garb is muddied by our tears and mess while He holds us. It's where He <i>wants </i>to be. Wrestling strengthens our relationship muscles with Him. It's, again, not a sign of weakness as much as it is a sign of strength. Thank you, Jesus, for showing me that even the answers to the questions can't ward off the pain and that I am allowed and invited to think, mull, weep, plead and interact with my Father.<br />
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<b>3 | Jesus didn't have access to specific promises that I do. </b><br />
Lastly, it amazes me Jesus didn't hear the Father say "I will never leave you or forsake you." Jesus wasn't promised "I will be hear. I will never leave your side." He had to deal with the silence of <i>actually </i>being abandoned by God. <br />
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This is never true for me.<br />
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However it feels, however it seems, however I act, I will not be forsaken. I will not be left. He <i>is </i>near. He goes before me, and stays with me, and hems me in behind. I am entirely safe. He remains in me, and I remain in Him. We're attached. And Jesus didn't live life as a person with that same hope and promise. He had to say "good-bye" and relinquish all the good He had ever known. He handed it over at the gates of Hell. 'My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?' It will never be my cry. I scream 'Abba, Father!' and He hears me, and flees the house, and meets me on the road, and comes to me, and gives me all His good things - He showers them on me, and excitedly celebrates.<br />
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Thank you, Jesus, for making me a part of the pact - for putting me in <i>your </i>place and giving me a very real hope and security.<br />
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-67734378544749866752013-05-24T09:10:00.000-07:002013-05-24T09:13:31.071-07:00Rustic Recession Tacos | Post 28<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">Last night we were planning on bbq'ing so hamburger meat had been out thawing all day. But come afternoon there were one too many bronchitis-cases and the weather was awfully dreary and rainy. Nothing about it screamed "let's go outside and cooook!" </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">Other than some buns and potatoes for a salad, we didn't have much else around. I opened the fridge and their was english muffins, corn tortillas, four open jellies, and lots of tupperware with leftovers, about 12 salad dressings and chicken broth. I opened the freezer and there was turkey sausage, frozen strawberries, pie crust, and two bags of peas.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">Dad suggested making a meatloaf. But for some reason I wasn't "in the mood." After a quick google search I came across <a href="http://spinachtiger.com/recession-delicious-italian-ground-beef-peas-and-onions-and-the-three-things-food-bloggers-avoid-discussing/" target="_blank">this</a> recipe for what to do with hamburger meat and peas. I modified it a bit, added a taco shell and wa-la! Dad and all the adult and teenage boys who were over <i>loved </i>it. Caleb, my meat-and-potatoes trash compactor had nine "tacos."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">Everyone was trying to figure out <i>what </i>it was. "It's like light Shepherds Pie?" "Or, like, British Tacos?" "It's a kind of 1930's 'depression dish.' At least that's what it said online." Whatever it was, everyone was a big fan and it took a total of 20 minutes to whip together. We'll absolutely be making it again.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">It's probably very customizable, but I have to admit that the simple, basic ingredients and no-fuss seasoning somehow worked <i>really </i>well together. I wouldn't do too much to change it! </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIjJ_K6BCndS7xA6lkKh9uc5aby9upQwTHXRYyLmGi7E1z2IZJM6HLkYgu0gYzL3VYi3atU5xB1nPCBNB_H0O2EiRHtUv75YoJo2cC88BAS6SyI2f0N1tlU6RJcpLt3Buq5WCeqTAriM/s1600/114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNIjJ_K6BCndS7xA6lkKh9uc5aby9upQwTHXRYyLmGi7E1z2IZJM6HLkYgu0gYzL3VYi3atU5xB1nPCBNB_H0O2EiRHtUv75YoJo2cC88BAS6SyI2f0N1tlU6RJcpLt3Buq5WCeqTAriM/s640/114.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://spinachtiger.com/recession-delicious-italian-ground-beef-peas-and-onions-and-the-three-things-food-bloggers-avoid-discussing/" target="_blank">pc: spinach tiger</a></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #23394f; font-family: Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #23394f;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #23394f;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #23394f; font-family: arial;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">Ingredients</span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #23394f;"></span><br />
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<ul style="font-family: arial; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: square; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; color: #23394f;">
<li class="" itemprop="ingredients" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: inside; list-style-type: disc; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">One large white onion diced</span></li>
<li class="" itemprop="ingredients" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: inside; list-style-type: disc; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">Two large potatoes, boiled and chopped</span></li>
<li class="" itemprop="ingredients" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: inside; list-style-type: disc; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">One pound ground beef (seasoned with salt + pepper)</span></li>
<li class="" itemprop="ingredients" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: inside; list-style-type: disc; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">1 bag of frozen peas</span></li>
<li class="" itemprop="ingredients" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: inside; list-style-type: disc; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">olive oil</span></li>
<li class="" itemprop="ingredients" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: inside; list-style-type: disc; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">1 teaspoon butter</span></li>
<li class="" itemprop="ingredients" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: inside; list-style-type: disc; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">red chile flakes</span></li>
<li class="" itemprop="ingredients" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: inside; list-style-type: disc; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">freshly grated parmesan (optional - and I used Fontina because we didn't have fresh parm)</span></li>
<li class="" itemprop="ingredients" style="background-image: initial; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: inside; list-style-type: disc; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: initial;">fresh herbs </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">(parsley, basil, oregano, thyme…they all work! and I didn't use any because we don't have any, but I bet it'd be <i>great</i>.)</span></span></li>
<li class="" itemprop="ingredients" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: inside; list-style-type: disc; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">Corn tortillas</span></li>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">Instructions</span></i></div>
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<li class="" itemprop="recipeInstructions" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; color: rgb(35, 57, 79) !important; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: outside; list-style-type: decimal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">Heat olive oil and butter in dutch oven or deep frying pan (perfect use for my <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lodge-Color-EC6D43-Enameled-6-Quart/dp/B000N501BK" style="color: #1155cc;">trusty red Lodge</a>). Add onions, saute until soft.</span></li>
<li class="" itemprop="recipeInstructions" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; color: rgb(35, 57, 79) !important; font-size: small; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: outside; list-style-type: decimal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">Add ground beef that has already been flavored with salt and pepper. Cook until medium rare.</span></li>
<li class="" itemprop="recipeInstructions" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; color: rgb(35, 57, 79) !important; font-size: small; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: outside; list-style-type: decimal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">In separate pan (we use an electric griddle) heat vegetable oil and fry corn tortillas.</span></li>
<li class="" itemprop="recipeInstructions" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; color: rgb(35, 57, 79) !important; font-size: small; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: outside; list-style-type: decimal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">Add in frozen peas, right at end and allow them to defrost and heat up, while the meat is on its way to medium-well done. Add potatoes. Toss in fresh herbs and red chile flakes. Season with salt + pepper to taste. </span></li>
<li class="" itemprop="recipeInstructions" style="background-color: initial; background-image: initial; color: rgb(35, 57, 79) !important; font-size: small; line-height: inherit; list-style-position: outside; list-style-type: decimal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 30px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;">Serve meat mix in tortilla shells and top with cheese.</span></li>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;"><b>(This is an EASY recipe. You may be tempted to keep adding other ingredients, but the simplicity is what gives this dish it’s proper structure and flavor. <i>More is not always more</i>. </b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: garamond, serif;"><b>You could also easily skip the tortillas and put the meat in a bowl and serve with crusty bread. My fam was all about the taco-not-taco thing, but it'd be great on it's own!)</b></span></div>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-91457419106422935742013-05-22T09:57:00.001-07:002013-05-22T10:42:54.901-07:00Dear Laundry Basket | Post 27<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Dear Laundry Basket,<br />
<br />
A year or two ago I saw a blog post a mama wrote to her son's blankie. He had basically just, out of the blue, stopped "using" it. She'd even try to sneak it back into his bed, but he didn't care about it. It was no longer a signal of his trail, and where he was venturing off to... it was a signal of him leaving something behind, moving on and growing up. I thought it was <i>very</i> sweet and honest, but that was about it. My mama-friend who showed it to me, on the other hand, was a little misty and emotional while she read.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY8QFPdPSLSyN_vtOKRUB07E5UQcisrpUxVCzQeO3vV3mV7JuLfqc06ZAV1UrCtHHHXBWTR0DZuwqvS-4tAffkkS-74mXA01_gkuhUl3H-aW2I0pbdRfsBY3t-0w7ESwYllfCI4SZfKtY/s1600/laundry_basket_kristen_caleb+(1+of+1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY8QFPdPSLSyN_vtOKRUB07E5UQcisrpUxVCzQeO3vV3mV7JuLfqc06ZAV1UrCtHHHXBWTR0DZuwqvS-4tAffkkS-74mXA01_gkuhUl3H-aW2I0pbdRfsBY3t-0w7ESwYllfCI4SZfKtY/s640/laundry_basket_kristen_caleb+(1+of+1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Another mama-friend wrote a short "Dear Breast Pump" letter with accompanying picture of the black machine when her babe stopped nursing. The knee-jerk reaction I had (and apparently some other people who commented were like me) was to scrunch my face and think <i>"...ew. Breast pump notes? On Instagram? Ohkay, moms."</i><br />
<br />
You swear <i>"I'll never let <b>all</b> I talk about be my pregnancy and my baby!" "When I'm a mom, someone stop me if I'm posting weekly belly pictures or photo after photo of my kid during late nights... who cares?!"</i> But you make those promises before you've experienced it yourself, and before you get it. Before you know how front-and-center every single part of this person's life is in your daily thoughts, your soul-searching thoughts and your conversation thoughts. Before you know how your heart will embrace this person, much like your body does - stretched tight, filled full, naturally and without trying. Once you're pregnant you watch your Human Making Factory do it's thing and somehow it just... happens!<br />
<br />
And it never <i>really </i>leaves your mind. What you believe and say and write about has more weight to it - <i>"Would I teach that to my kid? Do I <b>really</b> mean that? Is that what I'd want him to hear me say?" </i>What you eat matters, and how you talk about your body getting all slashed and soft and uncomfortable matters, gaining weight matters - <i>"Do I want him to believe that I was better 'back when'... before he came into my life? When I didn't have the scars that prove he was in me? Do I want him to hear a complaining woman, who is frustrated by... what he did to me? Do I make food and eating <b>so</b> rigid and strict that it's not enjoyable anymore? Do I make food and eating <b>so</b> lacking in self-control and health that it's not enjoyable anymore? Do I talk about weight and size like I'm choosing cattle? I don't want him to think 'Mom was beautiful because she was thin' - I want him to think 'Mom was beautiful because <b>she was beautiful.</b>'"</i> The topics are endless. Money. Church. Treatment of friends and strangers. Planning. Education. Personality. <br />
<br />
But you don't realize, until you're pregnant, that getting cheese <i>and </i>sour cream <i>and </i>a side of chips at Chipotle can spark such swirling questions. Before it was like <i>"Eh, I should watch my calories."</i> Now it's like <i>"But WHAT *<b><u>IS</u></b>* THE MEANING OF LIFE?!"</i><br />
<br />
You make those promises before you know how many statuses and tweets and 'grams and pictures and texts and words you think of writing or speaking or posting, but you say <i>"No, that's probably not necessary."</i> You make those promises before you know that you only share a sliver - maybe decimal point small - of what is in your head. You catch yourself holding back <i>all day long</i>. I appreciate my husband more than ever, and one reason certainly is that he never gets tired of talking about Baby Child either. He happily spends a full hour discussing something like the position of our kid's spine or how excited we are to go on a family vacation <i>with our own baby </i>this summer. No one else <i>really </i>wants to talk about that. And it's okay. I didn't either.<br />
<br />
I wasn't moved to tears about blankies being forsook or breast-pumps being put away. But now, Blue Laundry Basket, I'm experiencing the entry feelings of motherhood. And I look at you, filled with clothes that my baby hasn't worn - most that were given to you, and I see their faces when I see that onesie or this footie-pajama or that jacket, and strawberry-sized socks for pink rice-paper feet, and blankets - so many blankets - and I get a little misty, too. It feels funny to take perfectly clean clothes into the laundry room and wash them. <i>But the germs! </i>So, I wash them. Store germs and other people germs and hanger germs and gift box germs! We must clean these germs. But not with Tide. Instead with dye-free, fragrance-free, toxin-free, baby detergent. It takes a long time to fold an entire Blue Laundry Basket (let alone three) of baby clothes. Because the clothes are very, very small and it takes a lot of very, very small clothes to fill a big basket, like yourself. Small clothes like to pop back open after you fold them, too, so you have to figure out your system. And small clothes are nearly impossible to not hold up and daydream about while you fold.<br />
<br />
To be honest, if one of the clean blankets folded in you becomes "his favorite" and then one day, it's not anymore? My heart will skip a sad little beat. I know it. He'll wear those clothes and most of the days will blur together. But someday, in one of those outfits, something will happen, and I'll never forget it for the rest of my life. A first smile or a roll-over or just checking him because <i>he is still asleep...! Yes! </i>or something. Some of those clothes will get thrown away - stained eternally by his biggest blow-out yet. I don't know. I'm sure it will catch me off-guard. In the same way I was caught off-guard with how long I sat there, staring at Blue Laundry Basket, like you were The Hope Diamond or an original Monet that had just been given to me. The costumes for the set are in place! We're just waiting for the actor to arrive and for the Director to say "action!" Someday those cotton cloths won't be ghost-apparel... they will warm and protect and decorate my child's body. And, well, I guess I just had one of those moments.<br />
<br />
I guess I underestimated what would cue my emotions and body to react so strongly. When you dream about having a baby you don't dream about<i> "the day he stops using his blankie!"</i> or <i>"the day the breast-pump is turned off for good!"</i> or <i>"the day you do their first load of laundry!"</i> but when those days come they make the major-milestone list. <br />
<br />
Thank you for being a part of the anticipation and memory of awaiting Ol' Boris Morris. You're a good Laundry Basket. And I bet someday you'll be a boat or a fort or a crib or an airplane or a stage. The best is yet to come.<br />
<br />
With odd affection,<br />
Mama Morris<br />
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-68090128690660500192013-05-01T20:24:00.000-07:002013-05-01T20:24:39.258-07:00Grace-Based Parenting | Post 26<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>"...learning to see our children through God's limitless tenderness,</i></div>
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<i> to raise our kids the way God raises us..."</i></div>
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I love reading about pregnancy, and talking with women who have been and are pregnant, and learning things on my own. I love reading about labor, and how a mama's body and a baby's body work together to meet face to face. I love learning about what all 'the big words' mean, and what principals are important, and what questions are good ones to ask. I love hearing birth stories and watching birth-movies. I love reading up on newborn "advice." Feeding and sleeping and swaddling and enjoying. I love researching strollers and preparing a little room for a little boy and washing clothes in "safe" detergent and just getting to do any-and-all mom things I can. I love learning about this new part of my life. I love anticipating and voicing fears and wondering and feeling and preparing and getting excited about it all.<br />
<br />
I love to talk with my husband about our parents, and I love to talk with our parents about raising me and my husband and their other 18 children. I love taking time to elaborate on the things we most love and remember and care about our childhoods. I love all four of our parents' honesty in saying "We had such good-intentions, and we loved you guys <i>so </i>much, and <i>so </i>badly wanted to raise you right, in a God-honoring way... but wow. Would/do we do things differently now. We learned so much."<br />
<br />
One of my favorite parts of how my parents raised me is their <i>very </i>personal relationships with and understanding of us children individually. Both of my parents "get" us. They know us as "we are." I've always felt like they loved me and liked me. They engaged me in conversation about hard things and didn't keep me away from scary or painful things. They loved letting me spread my soggy little wings and they prepared me well to be able to enter "real life" socially, spiritually, mentally and educationally. They were just real - for better or for worse. And they didn't fake for me or for others. And honestly, they were just really fun. I felt like they liked having me around and doing things with me. <br />
<br />
So going into being a mama, I think about all these things. I want to copycat my parents. And I want to learn from them, too. Mom bought me a book called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Grace-Based-Parenting-Tim-Kimmel/dp/0849905486" target="_blank">"Grace-Base Parenting" by Tim Kimmel</a> and said "I looked through this and wish I had read it when I was just starting out."<br />
<br />
It's been fantastic. It makes me delighted to parent, and not afraid of it. It makes me think of memory after memory in my own childhood, and love my parents even more. It makes me, most of all, feel a swell in my heart as I know the grace and love I'm reading about is something that's real in <i>my </i>life because my Father gives it to <i>me</i>. It makes me love learning about Him more. So, I'm sharing a few of my favorite quotes so far... I'm reading slowly so I soak up as much juicy-flavor as possible.<br />
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<i>
"The real test of a 'parenting model' is how well-equipped the children are to move into adulthood as vital, engaged members of the human race. </i></div>
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<i><b>Notice that I didn't say 'as vital members of the Christian community</b>.'"</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #45818e; color: white;">Fear-Based Parenting</span></i><br />
<br />
--- "[In the past] parents were armed with little more than a vibrant relationship with God that consistently served as the ideal springboard for great people. So something changed. We got <i>scared</i>. And I think that fear is what motivates so much of Christian parenting advice..."<br />
<br />
--- "We're scared of Hollywood, the internet, the public school system, Halloween, the gay community, drugs, alcohol, rock'n'roll and rap, partying neighbors, unbelieving sports teams, liberals and Santa Claus. These fears seem to determine our strategy for parenting... Jesus says 'Dont' be afraid.' We <i>should </i>be the last people afraid of just about anything! Fear-based parenting is the surest way to create intimidated kids."<br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #45818e; color: white;">Evangelical Behavior-Modification Parenting</span></i><br />
<i><br /></i>--- "... assumes that the proper environment, the proper information, the proper education, and the absence of improper or negative influences will increase the chances of a child turning out well. This parenting plan works from two flawed assumptions: that the battle is primarily <i>outside </i>the child (it's not) and that spiritual life can be transferred onto a child's heart much like information placed on a computer hard drive (it can't)."<br />
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--- "Children brought up in homes where they are free to be different, vulnerable, candid and to make mistakes learn firsthand what the genuine love of God looks like." </div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #45818e; color: white;">Grace...</span></i><br />
<br />
--- "Grace does not exclude obedience, respect, boundaries, or discipline, but it does determine the climate in which these important parts of parenting are carried out. You may be weird and quirky, but God, with grace, loves you with all of your weirdness and quirkiness! You may feel extremely inadequate and fragile, but God comes alongside you, with grace, and carries you in those very areas of weakness. You may be frustrated, hurt, and even angry with God, but His grace allows you to candidly, confidently and boldly approach His 'throne of grace.' His grace remains when you make huge mistakes. <br />
<br />
This is the kind of grace that makes all the difference in the world when it's coming from God, through you, to your children."<br />
<br />
--- "Grace frees you to make big decisions in raising your kids. One of the characteristics of God's grace is <b>how much latitude He grants</b> within his clear moral boundaries to make choices."<br />
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--- "Grace is not so much <i>what </i>we do as parents, but <i>how </i>we do what we do."</div>
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--- "Grace allows you to tailor your parenting style... God is a God of variety, and He deals with us accordingly. Take zebras. God hasn't painted the same stripes on any of them. Fingerprints. Snowflakes. Sunsets. None are the same. He's an original God who wants to have an original relationship with you and your children."<br />
<br />
--- "Grace is what attracts us to Him and what confirms His love over and over."<br />
<br />
--- "<b>Grace keeps you from clamping down on their spirits</b> when they walk through awkward transitions and places like the valley of the shadow of adolescence."<br />
<br />
--- "Grace can help you know what matters and what doesn't. It helps you give kids freedom to be 'kids' and keeps you from living in a reactive mode as they go through certain stages. <br />
<br />
Without grace, <b>you can turn high standards and strong moral convictions into knives that cut deeply</b> into the inner recesses of your children's hearts."<br />
<br />
--- "Grace helps you know what to write in pencil - with a good eraser - and what to write in blood."<br />
<br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #45818e; color: white;">Clarifications </span></i><br />
<br />
--- "Christ is filled with grace <i>and </i>truth, not grace <i>or </i>truth, or <i>some </i>grace and <i>some </i>truth. It wasn't a balancing act. He is describing two parts that makes up a single whole. Grace <i>and </i>truth.<br />
<br />
That reminds me of the time I read about a set of Siamese twins who could not be separated because they shared the same heart and respiratory system. The way their organs were arranged inside them, doctors didn't even have an option to separate them and allow one to live and the other to die. For them,<b> to eliminate either was to eliminate both</b>."<br />
<br />
--- "God gave us Ephesians 6:1 to help children respond to their parents' leadership and authority. He didn't mean for parents to use it to pistol-whip their kids. One of the standard ploys of grace-less Christian parents is to abuse Scripture to get their own way. I've seen husbands do the same thing with a verse directed to wives... a lot of men use this verse like some kind of ball-peen hammer to metaphorically whack their wives into submission to their selfish agenda. Ephesians 5:22 is between a wife and God, not a husband and a wife... <b>These verses aren't weapons</b>."<br />
<br />
<br />
--- "... he wanted to raise 'safe' kids. My wife and I would rather raise <i>strong </i>kids..."<br />
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-22140982192634580542013-04-08T09:21:00.000-07:002013-04-08T09:21:12.451-07:00Pregnancy Is Funny | Post 25<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've always been curious about how I'd like/handle/enjoy/feel/process being pregnant. I had no doubt that I would love my wee small babe (mothers seem to agree on that one), but across the board there are such clashing reviews of the whole "being pregnant" thing. <br />
<br />
I genuinely hated the first two months. And would like to never do that again. And I genuinely adore the rest of the months. And want to do "this part" again, a lot. So. I'm considering how safe/healthy it would be to be knocked out for a couple months. If it's possible to have some sort of big-brown-bear-hibernation-medication? To finally unlock the powers of time-travel? Forget going back in history or traveling 100 years into the future, I would - NO QUESTION - choose to fast-forward first trimester.<br />
<br />
But maybe - in the sense that it made me more compassionate, more amazed at the capacity the human body has for pain, more aware of the physically hurting around me, and SO HAPPY TO THE LORD OF HOSTS FOR RELIEF - I'm glad I went through it. And it probably helped me have a more laughable, delightful experience <i>now</i>... I'll take heartburn or kicked-in-the-crotch-with-a-steel-toed-boot-pain or swollen, stubby ol' body parts over nausea. Especially if I can feel the babe of mine moving - that cures a multitude of sins (even if he's exploring my rib cage, which is as uncomfortable as everyone said it would be.)<br />
<br />
I wanted to record a few of my "favorite" and I-never-could-have-known moments/parts of pregnancy because I think they're hilarious and part of what I'll miss... in their weird, inconvenient way ;)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSk0u1tIjMBeToLpFTxZSIu_GMJpipZ9v-8lnQq9bRE8oRoKYocpB1w9OHpMyVtg5KgNj7ZpP_sPLiyhUdhxTxkjmt5TizU_7_mX6uXQO6z1w7aOu6FAga4fNIBqU5EI6xo2vjviWczw8/s1600/252291_10151128876701976_1754255626_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSk0u1tIjMBeToLpFTxZSIu_GMJpipZ9v-8lnQq9bRE8oRoKYocpB1w9OHpMyVtg5KgNj7ZpP_sPLiyhUdhxTxkjmt5TizU_7_mX6uXQO6z1w7aOu6FAga4fNIBqU5EI6xo2vjviWczw8/s640/252291_10151128876701976_1754255626_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFFmlQrpXtqbpFyfeNu0nSzB0RoAjytYtsRRb6Q1bJp3c-9mcoFOMWanlJw1e88_dtGltkRSSL1pIs2AOqbwRpBa1ooQr-Bm7_MxkKTmhj5wdcxuoe8SfWAizbv-PQ3XZT2DZ-QH7IH4/s1600/5c38ab90537011e2bb3522000a1fb076_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlFFmlQrpXtqbpFyfeNu0nSzB0RoAjytYtsRRb6Q1bJp3c-9mcoFOMWanlJw1e88_dtGltkRSSL1pIs2AOqbwRpBa1ooQr-Bm7_MxkKTmhj5wdcxuoe8SfWAizbv-PQ3XZT2DZ-QH7IH4/s640/5c38ab90537011e2bb3522000a1fb076_7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDKIgsnXJnkoCKzSSlHZl2qoF_Tc8puj9qfQB9rxrfuBYUE0bvjNw1iX9LpWovmqvA460GvarZ3x2QT3AbkFBZhmFuWUaFDvvB9f3YAyD6CJPyOMpz38_Z1mH6siqcW8gh2bk6HRxZbpQ/s1600/c875fc84425b11e2830722000a1f9d75_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDKIgsnXJnkoCKzSSlHZl2qoF_Tc8puj9qfQB9rxrfuBYUE0bvjNw1iX9LpWovmqvA460GvarZ3x2QT3AbkFBZhmFuWUaFDvvB9f3YAyD6CJPyOMpz38_Z1mH6siqcW8gh2bk6HRxZbpQ/s640/c875fc84425b11e2830722000a1f9d75_7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHaGQsrSkHRUbO5rYuZDr0NK7J0pNjDETs9Mny6iBSQbiBY5pH2ZNpz9pEj5V8IFAIeYdik0VVU-4ZXeznSS-CWcQmv8Oo-s6Jo0mhQBFqnGyPV5FOhr99YV2LrpdmZpEvGJ1kv6bPJWg/s1600/5bede57c68e411e284c322000a1fbca9_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHaGQsrSkHRUbO5rYuZDr0NK7J0pNjDETs9Mny6iBSQbiBY5pH2ZNpz9pEj5V8IFAIeYdik0VVU-4ZXeznSS-CWcQmv8Oo-s6Jo0mhQBFqnGyPV5FOhr99YV2LrpdmZpEvGJ1kv6bPJWg/s640/5bede57c68e411e284c322000a1fbca9_7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNiVUUztzZNcsPL69i4mhjzzJo5M8Bp474tcCyHgNqfp2-pEZf4FQX02d-qMaIA12tALCA04TUror26YEmuslofHv8nCCYEM0t-K4L6wBoWeyEzK9-pclR9YH3WhhDlIDRXEfbaD3BT1o/s1600/5261a82c6b2d11e2b45222000a1f97b0_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNiVUUztzZNcsPL69i4mhjzzJo5M8Bp474tcCyHgNqfp2-pEZf4FQX02d-qMaIA12tALCA04TUror26YEmuslofHv8nCCYEM0t-K4L6wBoWeyEzK9-pclR9YH3WhhDlIDRXEfbaD3BT1o/s640/5261a82c6b2d11e2b45222000a1f97b0_7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgax3RSbrgamth6vYwjyAsR9OYbhuqtH74Z_1bTN5YNo3OX0aJA-A_O8DnuoELHXlI_6L0XSYq3Pil_KlJ1ZOXSXg7MFkVtNyqfQpUYu4ZZyEnrcE1qKWWfegwFZzQvG1qrMbcuRZTLveY/s1600/e5a9d53a804c11e2877122000a1fbc4f_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgax3RSbrgamth6vYwjyAsR9OYbhuqtH74Z_1bTN5YNo3OX0aJA-A_O8DnuoELHXlI_6L0XSYq3Pil_KlJ1ZOXSXg7MFkVtNyqfQpUYu4ZZyEnrcE1qKWWfegwFZzQvG1qrMbcuRZTLveY/s640/e5a9d53a804c11e2877122000a1fbc4f_7.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
- <b>Burping like a preteen boy showing off to his mangy friends at a fast food joint after downing a pint or two of Cherry Coke. </b><br />
<br />
I'm not obsessed with manners (I do eat with my hands all the time) but I'm certainly not one of those girls who is all "dudebroyaPAAASSSSGAAASSSShahahahHILARIOUSpottyhumor!" I'm conservative when it comes to bodily sounds. Or I used to be. I still feel this "pit of terrible" when a spontaneous wind breaks. Everything goes into slow motion - it all starts before I even have chance to stop it, gaining speed and smell with every passing nano-second, and then BEEEELCCCCHHHH. I'm left standing there with my mouth wide open, and my mother's heart, for some reason, wherever she is, a little bit sadder. <br />
<br />
Grocery store clerks, <i>"...Uhm debit. And yes, I'll need threeBEEEELLCCHHHH!!!!! Excuse me, I'm so sorry."</i><br />
<br />
People at church, <i>"... we ask these things in Your loving name, amen." "AmenBEEEEELLLLLLCCCCCCCHHH!!! Excuseme, I'msososorry." </i><br />
<br />
On the court, <i>"HEY! COme on! This is WEAK. This is lazy. Pick up the BEEEEEEELLLLCCCCHH. ExcusemeI'mverysorry."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
- <b>Going from "you don't look pregnant at all!" to "Are you due any day?!" "Nope, not until June!" "WHAAAT? Are you SURE you aren't having twins?" "Yup. Pretty sure." "Wow. Well. You are HUGE. I've never seen someone so big who has two whole months left with just ONE baby! WOW." </b><br />
<br />
Thank you, thank you very much. I'm looking into state fairs and circuses who need an extra act. I really was bummed, at first, when people would tell me they couldn't see my bump. I was obsessed with it growing and "popping" and was sure the world could see what I saw when I stood in the mirror! I'll never forget the first stranger who saw me in public, looked at me, and said <i>"Oh! Are you expecting?"</i> I wanted to cuddle her in my arms. "Yes! Why, yes, I AM. I <i>am </i>expecting." And then it feels like I had about 72 hours before I, apparently, turned into quite the shock-and-awe. <br />
<br />
An enormous beasty of a creature, shaking the ground with every step, a blonder King Kong, a modern-day Goliath, a portly half-female half-hippopotamus. I'm surprised the government hasn't whisked me away for security and lab testing...! ;) "Huge" is never a word that I've longed to b described as. I do feel it - trust me - I feel heavy, large and not so cuteandtiny. But in case I forgot, a discerning handful of folks remind me daily. And when I insist that, no, I'm not having twins and that, no, I'm not due this week, some people argue with me...! Questioning my doctor/midwives. Questioning my health. Questioning my timing. <i>"Are you sure you didn't get the date you conceived wrong?" "Aren't there stories of people who didn't know they had twins until they delivered?" "Are you sure everything is okay?"</i> "Yes, my midwife says I and the baby are measuring perfectly. She has no concerns. And happiest of all, we are both very healthy. Thank you for your thoughts, though."<br />
<br />
So, lesson learned: keep my opinion on the size of a person to myself, pregnant or not. And feel free to comment on how much I love a lady's bump, or how lovely I think she looks. And to women all over, who I'm sure I've said "You look SO small!" or "Oh, man you're huge!" - I apologize. I didn't know. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>- Growing out of clothes</b><br />
<br />
Bellies grow suddenly, and there is nothing quite like catching a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of a window out in public, or putting your hand under your bump while talking to someone... and discovering that about two inches of your round midriff are undressed. One day a shirt is perfectly long enough, and the next: it's not! Grace and charm, always. That's the motto in my head. But my torso often disagrees. <br />
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- <b>Bladder control and "where the *bleep* did my mind go?"</b> <br />
<br />
This duo is best explained by a recent story.<br />
<br />
On our way <i>to </i>Oklahoma, I had a fairly easy time with the whole drink-lots-of-water-yet-not-use-the-restroom-every-20-minutes thing. I could last for the length of a tank of gasoline. For the most part. On the way <i>home</i>, it was an entirely different experience. One month of Hungry Hungry Growing Hippo in me, and all of a sudden I couldn't wait - or give much warning. <br />
<br />
So somewhere on route 40 in the middle of Arkansas, I panicked. "Baby, we need to stop somewhere. Right now. Ohmygosh. Hurry. Ohmygosh." Because the Lord is kind and good, there was an exit within seconds of my announcement. We peeled off the highway ("Not too fast! It hurts!" "Ah! Don't brake too hard! It hurts!") and pulled up to a podunk, tired and greasy, pathetic gas station. Up until this point we stopped at very <a href="http://www.wawa.com/WawaWeb/" target="_blank">WaWa</a>-esque gas stations. This was not a WaWa and probably the home of weekly crimes. The bathrooms were across the lot, on the opposite side of the snack shack. It was a small, square cement (cinder block?) building, with a flat, weak roof. I giddy-up-ed into the Promised Land of Soothing Comfort. One of the faucets on the sink was taped down with a clear scotch tape "X" and a wrinkled and faded "sign" was taped to the grey, blocked wall: "Out of Order." There were paper towels, brown and moist, all along the perimeter of the space but none in the old dispenser on the wall. The toilet seat was yellowing, the water was cloudy, the room was cold, the trash can stank. <br />
<br />
And I didn't care one tiny bit. I made it. Off the highway, to the station, INTO THE RESTROOM. It was a Tony&Maria blur movie moment. <i>"Toilet. All the beautiful sounds of the world in a single woooord. Toilet toilet toiiiileeeet..!" </i>I ran, sprinted, leaped, slammed, raced, rushed over to sit. And I pulled down my pants. And expected to be rejoicing. But instead I had a weird de-ja-vu to sleeping over at the cool girls house in second grade. It was her birthday and the whole class of girls was there. And I wet the bed. And I'll never forget the warm, terrible feeling when I woke up and realized what I had done... in front of MY WHOLE CLASS. And in that moment in Arkansas I realized: I forgot to pull down my underwear.<br />
<br />
This created a bit of a garden-house effect when you put your thumb over the spout to make the water come out faster and harder. I didn't know what to do, but I couldn't stop. Eventually I walked into the middle of the bathroom and stood on my fake Ugg slippers while I shimmied my yoga pants off and slung them over my shoulders like a sweat towel on a March Madness athlete during a time-out. I think I had kept them from getting sprayed, and needed to keep them safe out of harms way - harm, at the time, was the drips coming down my leg and anything in the entire cement bathroom. I somehow stayed balanced while I took off and tossed my soaking peach panties into the trash. I stood there with a giant sweatshirt barely covering me, and I nervously pulled out my phone to call Caleb. He didn't answer. I scooted to the bathroom door, hid behind it while I opened it, peaked out and called him. He didn't hear me. My brother did though. And he yelled at Caleb. At the same time Caleb returned my phone call. "I need help. Quickly." I shut the door and resumed my new yoga pose - the Standing Fountain. Husband Dear flailed around the parking lot trying to locate the bathrooms. He was preparing himself to deliver our child. To use his pocket knife to cut the umbilical cord. To wrap up Little Son in a pillowcase. He was red and heart-race-y when he found me. <i>"What's wrong."</i> "I forgot to pull down my underwear and I wet my pants." <i>"......"</i> "Can you go get me some new clothes out of the car?" <i>"Kristen."</i> "I know. Trust me. I need a towel or something too." <i>"How...? Okay. Yes. Just a second."</i><br />
<br />
Before long I was cleaned up, and needing some trail mix and sour rope to enjoy. Don't worry. I managed to lose my wallet during the 48 seconds I spent in the snack shack. The wrinkled, course young lady was very kind and helpful. The boys didn't know what to say, but they looked diligently. We found it, and after waaaaaaay too much time, we set off on our eastbound highway - empty-bladdered and thouroughly amused. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlz6pDgX8pF4J57MGUX3VO0hTsDyMMQUh7Pwp5y3v8cB368nXFltFrifnZJI-G2b2WqAmMjULCe8DYxFry5fwEDB1VzuaWIQ2l-JWASJgtm1cWLDu1OFRbI9gmbt4YqCMocYw6yZiKXo/s1600/db1e3dda837c11e293e422000aaa088d_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlz6pDgX8pF4J57MGUX3VO0hTsDyMMQUh7Pwp5y3v8cB368nXFltFrifnZJI-G2b2WqAmMjULCe8DYxFry5fwEDB1VzuaWIQ2l-JWASJgtm1cWLDu1OFRbI9gmbt4YqCMocYw6yZiKXo/s640/db1e3dda837c11e293e422000aaa088d_7.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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It's a beautiful, odd, gross, delightful thing to be involved with. And, like any person I love dearly, despite its flaws and issues, I love being pregnant. It's high, sweet, bizarre honor to be a part of it. Cheers to pregnancy! And our favorite kiddo! And getting stuck "in" the couch! </div>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-11619635251144859452013-03-25T13:13:00.000-07:002013-03-25T13:13:55.340-07:00Lessons from Joel | Post 24<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My mom had the idea, and I'm in the throes of it. Because I loved it. A "Wall of Men" in our Little Guy's room. My two grandpas - Dirt and Papa. Caleb's two grandpas - Paps and Pop. Our fathers, Alan and Terry. And our brothers: Daniel, Elijah, Tim, Micah, Kevin, Andrew, Joshua, Dude, Jeremiah, Josiah and Joel. One of my projects during this month in Oklahoma was to gather and scan all the individual portraits of the men in Caleb's family. His mom pulled out album after album for me. I chose my favorite, she scanned, and we'd repeat.</div>
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Today I chose Joel's picture. I flipped through his album - my first time since having my own little man in me. The pictures of him singing like he's in a choir (songbook and all) with big rainboots on make me laugh out loud. And his scrunch-nose faces. Page after page of that scrunch. His album is happy - full of farm life, birthdays, holidays, animals, family and big big cheeks. I chose my favorite picture: one where he's wearing a yellow tie, doing his scrunch face. I adore it. The pages are obviously coming to an end… and he's still only three. I know there aren't more years of pages to add. I know the album is going to end with a thud. There aren't hospital pictures. Or chemo and bloated and sleeping in a white metal bed pictures. There are some pictures of cute twins in cowboy get-up, making faces in a window sill on a red barn. And then: there is a letter, on the front side of the final page.</div>
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A mom writes to her boy and tells him how sad she is to finish this book. Reading "finish" makes my eyes sting. She's sad to finish this book, because she's finishing it without him. She goes on to list the things that come to mind in that moment - the things she misses the most. They were awfully beautiful and dreadful to read, especially while Little Guy butt-butted my belly-button as I took it in. "I miss your little voice." She told a story in her letter about how Joel would ask her to "help me, mommy?" in his final few weeks. Everything was so hard and painful for him. She wrote to him how much she loved to help him, and how she'd hold his hands and lift and carry him. When he was particularly uncomfortable he'd ask "Help me carefully?" </div>
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The yellow-tied, rain-booted-choir-boy, bald-baby, scrunch face from a few pages ago. I couldn't help but cry. Oh Joel. "Help me carefully." What sound and sweet words, little brother. I flipped that last page and there were sticker letters spelling out a part of a common verse: "The Lord gives and…" That was all. The Lord gives and. "Takes away" didn't need to be said. The hard white back of the photo-album, with the "Creative Memories" logo made it clear. The Lord gives and… the end. We know what else He does. But He <i>gave</i>. Flip back two pages, and look at what He <i>gave</i>. And He gives still. He gives promise. And Himself. And album-making. And time passing. And grandsons. And sunshine.</div>
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And He gives help, carefully. </div>
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<span style="color: black; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I've unavoidably meditated on Joel's brilliant phrase for the last few hours. "Careful" is nearly implied in the definition of help: "</span>Make it easier for someone to do something by offering aid; <span style="color: black; font: 13.0px Verdana;">to make more pleasant or bearable; to give assistance or support to</span>." If the "help" isn't actually easing the load, making the situation better, really full of care and ability to know "what makes this situation better?" than it's not much help at all. It's more problem. </div>
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Careless, flippant, off-handed, rushed "help" is actually harm. Check the thesaurus. Harm. Obstruction. Hinderance. "Help the weak," the Bible tells us so. And who among us would be confused at the concept when "weak" is a blonde, limp, beautiful, distorted-by-disease child asking with his mouth for food or for the potty or for more blankets? A heavy, tear-filled, eager heart can only carefully help. Maybe even fearfully - so concerned about the welfare of the little guy, I know I'd edge far more on the side of moving too slow, taking more time, and checking with him too often. I'd hate to bring more hurt to him. </div>
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But I think carefully helping the other kinds of weak are a sad blind-spot in the church. Full of good intention ("Hey! I'm helping! Serving, even!") and maybe even deep, well-studied doctrine, many are aware of truths and promises and help's about God. Who He is. What He says. What He commands. Militantly, sometimes, church-folk can stomp into the newly burned ashes of a destroyed heart-town and say "Ah-ha! We know what fixes this!" Quickly, the broken is gone and the new-and-improved homes and shops are re-built, the roads are paved, the ashes are swept away. They took care of <i>that! </i>This was me. A true (<i>very </i>true - and not even misapplied scripture) was my handy-dandy construction crew. It's simple, I "helped." Get rid of this, create this - here, I'll even do it for you - and wa-la! All better now!</div>
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I spent a lot of my life doing a lot of very, very good building. And a lot of very, very bad helping. I didn't slowly come up to someone in front of their charred home and sit with them, weeping. I didn't ask. I just did. I didn't offer to go through the rubble and mess and see what could be restored and saved. I didn't offer to leave the grieving alone, and give them plenty of time to search and mourn themselves (if they wanted.) I didn't unlock my heart and engage my brain and try to imagine and understand just what <i>this </i>may be like. I didn't listen to stories as much as I offered my two-cents Jesus-girl solution to the "problems" in the stories. I don't think I helped carefully.</div>
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And when it was <i>me</i>. When <i>my </i>life was the one on fire. When <i>my </i>memories and feelings were the ones black and impossible-to-breath-through. When <i>my </i>heart needed an ear, not a mouth. When I was weak and silently begging for help. It changed me. And the pat-on-my-back, "you're actually being <i>kind of </i>annoying and clingy… and not trusting God… but I won't say it, I'll just casually throw out this excuse about why I can't really take the time to understand you," Bible BandAid, "God won't give you more than you can handle! Grin!," brief "help" was so hurtful. It made me feel so much worse. It wasn't considerate, caring or careful. And now I knew what it was like to be on <i>that </i>side of it.</div>
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I wanted (and treasure) the Hosea 11 help. "I took them up by their arms… I led them with cords of kindness, with bands of love. I became the one who eased the burdens on their jaw. I bent down, and fed them." I learned of Mark 14 help. "Leave her alone. Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me." I learned about me and Jesus. I learned about a mother's head rub and silence, letting me cry and duke it out with my Father. I learned about friends who announced that they were coming to get you and take you grocery shopping with them! That's that! I learned about the people who didn't compare and share their heart-hurts with me while I was just trying to work through my own stings. They just simply were <i>there </i>- with their whole hearts and minds. These things "were hidden from the wise and understanding, and have been revealed to little children," like Joel. "Come to me! All! All who are weary and heavy of heart! I will give you rest. I am gentle, and lowly in heart. My yoke is easy, and My burden is light." And My help is careful. </div>
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I'm figuring out what it means to help well. To really be a burden-easer. To not just dive into the pool with my wisdom-whistle and understanding-inner-tube. I'm learning that impractical, irrational, crying, dirty people don't just do beautiful things for the Lord, but they <i>are </i>beautiful things to Him. I'd smack your face and say very rude things to you if you thought Joel was anything but cherished, wonderful and beautiful. Even though he was sick and weak.</div>
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I'm learning I needed a smack, because the heart-sick, and spiritually-crushed, and emotionally-weak are cherished, wonderful and beautiful. They didn't needed Jesus to sit them down with a sermon and practical take-home point. He knew that. They needed <i>Him</i>. And that's exactly what He gave. The Lord gives and.</div>
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And there is a little scrunch-face with Him right now. Thank you for helping <i>me</i>. You're changing the way I help other people - I can't thank you enough. I can't wait to hang your face on your nephew's wall.</div>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-80933579713610778742013-03-15T07:25:00.001-07:002013-03-15T07:25:12.504-07:00Letters to Baby | Post 23 | Week 28<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Dear Boy,</div>
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The <a href="http://wearethefamilymorris.blogspot.com/2012/11/letters-to-baby-post-14-13-weeks.html" target="_blank">last letter I wrote</a> you on the blog was a long and hard one. But a couple of weeks later, you stopped making me sick, you started showing off yourself to the world inside your growing-globe and you would do the greatest swim-flip-turns that almost tickled me. And I could <i>feel </i>you.</div>
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I went from probably the closest thing to despair I've experienced - <i>nothing </i>prepared me for how hard two months of non-stop, intense nauseation would be. I not only thought "I can't do this ever again. I'm not having any more children." I also told dad and grandma... and maybe a few others. </div>
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But then.</div>
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Second trimester came. And first of all, that came with relief and health and NO MORE NAUSEA. But mostly, second trimester came with all sorts of signs of you. Just like nothing could have prepped me for the pain of the first few months, <i>nothing </i>adequately prepped me for the bliss of the next few months.</div>
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I want 32 children now. Maybe more. (wink face)</div>
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I catch myself thinking to and convincing myself that <i>no one </i>has ever felt this way, or experienced these things. I must be the only one. I just. Can't imagine. That. I don't know. A sensation so great could have been lived out before. We're probably setting Love Records, little guy! I know it! But then I see a mom in a grocery store, focused on buying the cheapest Cheerios. And her boy tries to reach out and grab a set of plastic straws hanging from the rack. And she gasps and throws her pad of paper and pen. Her shriek makes the whole aisle turn and the boy cry. "Don't do that, Max! You're going to fall!" She wraps him up and apologizes for startling home and just holds him in the aisle, kissing his cheeks. "I just don't want you to get hurt. And CAN'T stand in carts." The pen rolls under the rack of colorful boxes. She pushes her cart away, probably forgetting that she never grabbed Cheerios.</div>
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I see the older mama at the Guthrie Library with her probably Kindergarten age daughter. I don't know who is more excited about Amelia Bedelia. The girl has her special library tote and is so proud to reach up on the counter and slide her newly stamped books into it. Mama is just <i>happy</i>. They hold hands walking out to the car.<br />
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I see my own mom, after chemo, asking who can take her to her middle boy's play-off game. It's <i>all </i>the way in DC. At 6:00 pm. The traffic is going to stink. Dad has a work meeting he can't miss, the other kids have plans they <i>can </i>change... but to go sit in traffic while it's dark to watch a game they'll probably lose? No one is jumping at the offer. Mom gets the keys to take herself. She is <i>not </i>missing this game. Her baby is playing, and she is going to be there. My sisters and I eventually take her, and she's the loudest, cutest, fire-cracker-iest fan in the stands. They win, and my brother scans for her face in the stands, and beelines to her to hug her after the game. <br />
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I know I'm not the first woman to be the factory and the home to another human. I know I'm not the first wife to just <i>lose it </i>when her husband goes bananas over feeling all the different kinds of baby movements - <i>"That was a HUGE one!" "Whoa, is he, like, doing boxing practice in there?" "I think he just gave me a high-five!" </i>I know I'm not the first one to stand, undressed, in a mirror and just stare for whoknowshowlong at my midsection, tracing its new, funny shape. I know I'm not the first fiercely protective, or blissfully in-love mother. I know millions - maybe billions - have experienced these things before.<br />
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But you know what? I'm the first to experience them with <i>you</i>, cool kid. <br />
And that certainly makes it different.<br />
Though motherhood has happened over and over, you've never happened before.<br />
This is the first time.<br />
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<b>And I don't want to ever forget the firstness and the one-time-ness of everything about you. </b><br />
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Thank you for making my every-minute sweet, for giving me brand new reasons to love your father more, and thank you, even, for the swollen ankles, heartburn, leg cramps and muscle pain - it means you here, and I'm so glad.<br />
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See you soon, camper.<br />
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Love, mom.<br />
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-49658883128018803542013-03-07T06:06:00.001-08:002013-03-07T06:06:40.507-08:00"Liberty Tree Tavern" | Post 22<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"no one's gonna love like I do,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">someone should have warned you."</span></div>
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Since my creative-cute-make-the-internet-jealous-and-not-nearly-as-great-as-me-ideas <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(only partially joking)</span> for the husband + the house have been on strike this winter <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(I blame pregnancy, dreary un-inspiring coldness and coaching... but we all know this just happens in life. Sometimes you're on your A-game, and sometimes you're not. These days, I'm not.)</span> I have to document our "One Year of Being Engaged Iversary" dinner!</div>
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Right before he presented me with <a href="http://www.imkristensphotoblog.com/2012/02/enjoy-project-how-us-people-got-engaged.html" target="_blank">a ring and a request at DisneyWorld</a>, we ate dinner at my <i>favorite </i><a href="https://disneyworld.disney.go.com/dining/magic-kingdom/liberty-tree-tavern/" target="_blank">Liberty Tree Tavern</a>. That dinner was the one where I talked all day about "THE GREEN BEANS!" but Caleb was too distracted to remember, the one where I cried and the waiter had to awkwardly stop pouring water mid-pour because I was so hysterical, the one where I caught Caleb up in the bathroom hallway talking to Lydia about photographing the impending proposal (but didn't think anything of it...?). It was a good dinner. I tried to <a href="http://livinginagrownupworld.files.wordpress.com/2011/11/3794223122_c4fa881824.jpg" target="_blank">re-create the menu</a> to the best of my ability. Caleb said my roast was better (<a href="http://www.marthastewart.com/313619/slow-cooker-pot-roast" target="_blank">Martha's version</a> + one package of ranch seasoning), but their potatoes won. Game on, potatoes.</div>
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The night we got engaged I ate three platefuls (not servings) of green beans, and asked for my own gravy boat. I would eat their beans + gravy on a daily basis if possible. </div>
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With some classical "Main Street" Disney music playing from the laptop, and a chocolate cake bought from Safeway waiting in the fridge, we dined like we were kids again. (Full disclosure: Caleb told me he'd be home at 6:00. I cook a real-meal so rarely that it never really matters when he gets home, but he's always home when he says he'll be. I didn't tell him about our dinner plans in the Magic Kingdom, and at 5:30 I got a text saying he wouldn't be home until 7:30. Shoot. I turned the oven and stove off, blew out the candles and waited until 7:00 to get things going again. At 7:00 I turned everything back on... and he walked in the door. My first response was "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!" <i>Good to see you, too, sweet wife. </i></div>
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I covered his eyes and made him sit on the stairs for half an hour hahah. My sisters brought him his outfit - the same J. Crew button-up and khaki shorts <a href="http://wearethefamilymorris.blogspot.com/2013/02/february-25-2012-post-20.html" target="_blank">he was wearing last year</a>, and I rummaged through my closet to find my floral dress and blue cardigan and neon yellow purse. He changed, but still had sawdust in his hair from work. </div>
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It was cheesy. And us. And it's always great fun to see his teary excited/blessed eyes.</div>
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After dinner he rubbed my back until I fell asleep and then he stayed up for two more hours drawing architecture plans for our roof while "<a href="http://www.cbs.com/shows/the_mentalist/" target="_blank">The Mentalist</a>" kept him company. </div>
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Just an evening I want to remember. It was one of my favorites as a married person.</div>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-80130402450779088382013-02-27T11:16:00.000-08:002013-02-27T11:18:05.650-08:00Why We Didn't Save Our First Kiss For The Wedding Day | Post 21<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>grace, only grace</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>can move us to a rhythm that will change our ways</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>tenth avenue north - grace</b></span></div>
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If you were to sit down and talk with Caleb and I, we could (and would!) happily share with you our personal convictions. All of these topics, without proper definitions, explanation, and relationship, could be not just misunderstood, but terribly judged. When we say any of the following sentences, there are important things we DO mean, and other important things we DO NOT mean. Someone else could "believe" the same thing we do, and have nearly opposite reasons for why, or a nearly opposite definition for what that conviction is.<br />
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We believe in sharing, listening, freedom, conversation and engaging.</div>
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We believe that the Spirit works differently in <i>every </i>believer.</div>
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We believe Christians <i>should </i>have different beliefs and convictions from each other.</div>
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We believe it is dangerous for Christians to believe the <i>exact </i>same thing, on every front.</div>
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We are sharing what we believe, not to judge, shame, boast, label or separate.</div>
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We are sharing what we believe to <i>say </i>"There are probably parts of this you agree with, and parts you don't. We think that's good. And we hope you do, too. These things are evolving, and we ever learning what they mean and what we mean by them."</div>
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We are sharing to say "Don't do what <i>we </i>do, know God and learn from Him, and do what He leads you to do. This is where He has led us."</div>
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We are sharing to say: grace. </div>
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We believe in living debt-free <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(and we had no idea <i>how </i>to make that happen until we came across <a href="http://www.daveramsey.com/home/" target="_blank">this guy</a>)</span>. We believe in paying taxes to the government. We believe in tithing 10% of our income. We don't practice birth control and we do 'practice' "<a href="http://carrotsformichaelmas.com/2012/05/10/afp-awesome-family-planning/" target="_blank">Awesome Family Planning</a>" (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">stolen from <a href="http://carrotsformichaelmas.com/" target="_blank">Haley at Carrots for Michaelmas</a></span>). We are feminists. We believe in complementary gender roles. We would 'believe in' public, private <i>and </i>home-schooling for our children. We 'believe in' dating and not "courtship." We believe in the right to bear arms (legally own guns). We are pro-life. We are pro-small-government. We 'believe in' personal fashion (women can wear pants, men can have long hair, tattoos are rad if you want them, etc). We 'believe in' art and creativity. We 'believe in' and listen to all forms of music - classical, current, religious and 'secular.' We love The Bachelor. We believe the Bible is God's recorded story and living Word, and sufficient. We believe baptism is a sign of salvation. We believe in modern-day gifts of the Holy Spirit, and that they weren't 'closed' with the Canon. We believe in the virgin birth, that Jesus was fully man and fully God, and that the incarnation was perhaps the most shocking and important part of The Gospel. ("Once Jesus was born, death was inevitable.") We believe grace is real and vast, freedom is truly freeing, and that salvation comes <i>only </i>through believing, not working. We believe love wins, death died and God over all forever reigns.<br />
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<b>We didn't 'believe in' saving our first kiss for our wedding day</b> (or a number of physical activities, for that matter.)<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>"If with Christ you died to the elemental spirits of the world, </i><i><b>why</b>, as if you were still alive in the world, <b>do you submit to regulations</b></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;"><i>—“Do not handle, Do not taste, Do not touch” —</i></span><i>according to human precepts and teachings? </i><i>These have indeed <b>an appearance of wisdom</b>, </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;"><i>promoting self-made religion and severity to the body, </i></span><i>but they are of<b> no value in stopping the indulgence of the flesh</b>.</i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">{Colossians 2:20-23}</span></i></span></i></span></i></blockquote>
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<b>The Process</b><br />
For us, it was important to have a natural, gradual, comfortable, building closeness and relationship. We didn't want to "jump all in too quickly" or unnecessarily "force" ourselves to not do normal, and good things. There would be (and was) grace for when anything happened "too quick" or when we were being ridiculous and needed to stop over-thinking (like: holding wrists but not holding hands ;). It was a process. It brought us closer. As we tried and talked and considered and cared, we were honest with each other and enjoyed each other. The trust and love grew with time, conversation, laughter and knowledge. <i>"There is a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing... He has made everything beautiful in it's time."</i> We wanted to enjoy the timing, and the "thing" in it's time. And we realized: the Bible doesn't say much (or anything?) about physical-standards-in-dating-and-engaged-relationships. There are principles - very important and real and plain principles - but not specifics.<br />
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<b>The Story</b><br />
I'm the sort of person who far more enjoys a surprise, spontaneous date to get tacos than a planned, "romantic, "built-up" date to a dressy restaurant. Actual, almost always, I enjoy surprise <i>anything </i>to planned <i>anything</i>. So to plan something as sweet and precious as a first kiss "when we get engaged" or "when we get married," <i>for me</i>, lost some of the magic and excitement of it. I love that when Caleb asked me out, we hugged, and that was all. And a different time, we held hands for the first time. And a different time we said 'I love you.' And a different time we kissed. And a different time we _________. And a different time we ____________. And a different time we got engaged. And a different time we became husband and wife. Those memories (and many more) stand alone, as individual events. Other than the wedding day (and the engagement, for him) none of these events were scheduled or planned. Just like meeting him and actually liking him wasn't planned. It was part of the story and part of the surprise!<br />
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<b>The Past </b><br />
Our pasts, and mostly lack thereof for us "dating-ly" and physically, played a significant part in our comfort and readiness level. He, who is two years older than me, hadn't held hands with anyone either. He knew I'd gone over two decades without holding my crush's hand - <i>ever - </i>and I knew the same for him. That meant something. That mattered to us. I wouldn't have minded holding hands with a couple or even many people before I got married! It wasn't "that" big a deal to me... but that's how brief my past relationships were: we never even got to a place where I was comfortable <i>holding hands. </i><br />
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We also both came from very extreme personal legalism. We <i>both </i>in many ways pridefully boasted in our "I've never messed up in relationships" tale. I was a judgmental, harsh, honored, burden-placing, goody-two-shoes. Caleb was a yes-man, a fearful obeyer, a timid speaker, a bound soul, a "perfect from the outside" man. So for him? For <i>him </i>to hold my hand? This proved much. For <i>Caleb</i>, of courtship-first-kiss-on-your-wedding-day-emotional-purity-God-will-speak-and-let-me-know-you-are-the-one-guard-your-heart-keep-it-whole-mindset, to hold my hand when he did <i>not </i>know he was going to marry me? When he did not know if he "loved" me? When he did not know God had made our lives to come together forever? When it was simply a gesture of affection, trust (in me and in God), and desire... it meant something different and entirely significant than it would have to held Other Boy's hand. It didn't make it better or worse, or "more important" or "less important," or something to do sooner or later, it simply was a fact: we BOTH have never done this in our past. That affected our physical connection. (Duh.)<br />
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<b>The Trust</b><br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i>"Love is unconditional, but trust is something that must be earned."</i> Eight months after we started "talking" and four months after we started dating, we said and meant "I love you." We were about five hours away from our homes, and we had roadtripped together for a photoshoot I had in a small PA town. The shoot was scheduled for the morning, so we went up the night before to make a little date weekend out of it. We had different places arranged for us to stay. We dropped off his duffle-bag at his room for the night, and then drove half a mile away to the place where I was staying. The gorgeous lake home we pulled up to was empty. The owners were away, but had welcomed me to spend the weekend there. Caleb and I were alone. We brought my duffle-bag and camera gear inside. We watched TV and rested for about 30 minutes to regain energy, and then set off for a walk around the lake around 4:00 pm. The next few hours were some of the most exhilarating and beautiful of my entire life. We said "I love you" for the first time. I felt things I'd </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i>never </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">felt before. I was overwhelmed and trembling and so happy. After a picnic and just plain magic, we ended up back at "my" empty house - so in love, so happy. On the car ride up, we decided that Caleb was going to leave my house at 10:00 pm that night. We weren't concerned that "anything" would happen, but we both have a very, very consistent habit of falling asleep anywhere and I had an early shoot the next morning, followed by a wedding back in Maryland later in the afternoon. Our biggest concern was that we'd stay up so late talking that we'd fall asleep, miss our alarms, and ruin the schedule the next day. Keep in mind, on the car ride up we hadn't yet said "I love you" or kissed. BUT THEN. This crazy, huge, precious once in a lifetime evening happened! And 10:00 was coming </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i>way </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">too quickly. And we thought "Eh, 11:00 would be fine?" And, it could have been fine! But Caleb said "You know, I said 10:00. You need to sleep. Today was amazing. I can't wait to see you in the morning. But I will be leaving at 10:00." It took nearly twenty minutes for him to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><i>actually </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">get out the door when 10:00 came. We hugged by the door, and flirted, and said good-night and "I love you!" 'just one more time' (and did all those things young lovers do). But we didn't kiss. He left (almost) at 10:00. And he earned my trust all over again, like he did every time I was with him. </span></b><br />
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My dad thought we were nuts to not kiss on such a perfect evening. He understood, but mostly just laughed at us. "Aw, you're trying so hard. That's very sweet. But I can't believe you didn't kiss him." <br />
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Caleb is really THE most trustworthy person I have EVER met. He NEVER used privacy, darkness, desires or la-la-la-love to pressure, force, manipulate or test me. He knew (because he asked and we talked about it) what I was and was not comfortable with all through our relationship. He truly never "pushed it." It was incredible. I know couples who, with a desire and conviction to keep the good biblical principles of wisdom, patience, community, and purity, decided to never be completely alone while they were dating. Public dates, chaperones, group settings, daylight, always in somebody's eyesight. And if that was their personal conviction, I think that's cool! And I respect it so much.<br />
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For me, however, I was WOW-ED with Caleb's trustworthiness when we were in private, alone, dark, unwatched places. No one would have seen if Caleb had decided to stay at the lakehouse later - or all night. No one was around to raise their eyebrows if Caleb had kissed me and we had wound up in one of the five bedrooms. No one was waiting at home for Caleb to make sure he did walk in the door that night. <i>That </i>proved his trustworthiness to me... gosh... like I just can't explain. It proved to me that if we did get married someday, and he found himself in some compromising or alluring situation, he COMPLETELY has the character to walk out. It wasn't just that he "avoided bad situations" and hopefully he could avoid "all the bad situations" in marriage, too. No. We were on an overnight trip, all by ourselves, very madly in love, and kiss-and-most-other-things-virgins, and he kept his word. He didn't make me feel unloved, rejected or like a giant stumbling block. He made me feel dear, valuable, and very very important.<br />
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Because he was this sort of guy, we were able to enjoy a LOT while we were dating, without trampling our convictions, standards and principles from the Bible we cared about so much. And we showed each other that we were worthy of the other's trust, and that we did indeed trust the other. It was a beautiful unfolding. <br />
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<b>The Fun</b><br />
We discovered that there is a LOT you can do that is just so much plain FUN! We were almost afraid that, well, you know, once you START, once you KISS, there is just NO stopping what happens next. You'll be accidentally pregnant before you know it! Or at least steeped in sin...! And you know what? I believe that is very true, a lot of the time. Lust and desire to be loved and pressure do crazy things. And in an unhealthy relationship, I bet you could cross some bridges rather quickly. I also think people can innocently, in very caring relationships, end up thinking "Wow. How did we get <i>here</i>?" It really can all get moving very quickly. But, again, for <i>us</i>, we realized: we don't have to cross the bridge, and we don't have to stand here staring at the bridge, we can swim across! Swimming was slower than walking/running/driving. But man, it was refreshing! And fun! And our "relationship muscles" got stronger as we swam... in every category. We were learning, together, how to love <i>without fear </i>and <i>without guilt</i>. We were also learning how to love with wisdom and self-control. It was great! We got to play, tan, splash, race, float, noodle fight, tread and improve. We didn't feel out of control. We didn't feel unable to stop ourselves. We mostly felt like "Man, this is fun!" We also didn't feel shame or guilt. And if we did? We talked about it. We were not perfect. We overstepped boundaries we set for ourselves at times, and quickly and joyfully remembered grace, mercy, forgiveness and liberty.<br />
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My point isn't to say "These are the things appropriate for the early stages of dating, and these things are appropriate for engaged couples, and these things are appropriate only for marriage." My point is: there is fun, delight, joy and happiness in doing "little" things with someone for the first time, and we, at least, think it's important to savor each bite and not starve <i>or</i> scarf. That's not healthy.<br />
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<b>The Pace</b><br />
We fell in love fairly quickly, <i>and</i> (because they are very different things...!) we also knew that we wanted to get married fairly quickly (about a year after we met each other - some would say that's quick, others would say that's slow.) We didn't feel rushed or forced to get married (my parents, especially my dad, actually thought it would be better for us to wait longer. "God never really seems to be in hurry. Take your time building a foundation. If you know this is it, there is especially no rush.") My dad's psychology professor said that the definition of personal maturity is "not attaining a certain level, but rather when <i>how you view yourself </i>and <i>who you really are </i>are the same." We talked about that often. "Is how we think of our relationship <i>really </i>where our relationship is at?" "Do we think we're supposed to get married, but in reality we're just human, sexual, 20-somethings who want to get'er'done without feeling guilty? Or who are tired of being alone, so we'll settle for anyone decent?" "Are there things I'm afraid to share with you or give to you, but because I don't want to break-up or deal with the problems our relationship has?" "Does everyone <i>else </i>think this is so perfect, and we are just going along with it because it's easier than disappointing 'everyone'?" <br />
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We were brutally honest with each other. We said things to each other that to this day only <i>we </i>know. We and God. Not sweet nothings. Serious, tearful things. We laid our relationship flat out: You aren't what I was expecting. You are quieter and not as funny as I was dreaming. You don't want to live in my hometown and you yell and refuse to back down in an argument. You are so stupid sometimes. You are so mean sometimes. You are a people pleaser! You are a bulldozer! I love you. I love you, too! We didn't want to force "us" to work. We almost wanted to give "us" every reason not to work - and see how we did ;) And truthfully, we really were just so good together. With all our idiosyncrasies, messes, weird sense of humors, and aspirations we worked. Really well. We had the best-friend, look-up-to-you-respect, sizzling inner fires trifecta. And it happened fast, in my opinion. 18 months isn't very long. But. It was just right for us! All of that to say: our friendship/relationship pace set the tone for our physical/relationship pace. EVERYONE WILL BE DIFFERENT.<br />
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<b>The Off-Chance We Were Horrible Kissers</b><br />
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Really, I was mortified at the thought of puckering up for the FIRST TIME EVER, in front of grandparents, pastors, children, adults who changed my diapers, my girlfriends (?!?!?!), my new in-laws, my little brother, my MOM. What if I kissed like hummingbird wings? What if we were teeth-clunkers or nose-bumpers or puffer-fish-blowers? I have no real conviction on this, it just made me stomach <i>turn </i>to imagine an audience of lifelong friends with bulging eyes and restrained laughter. I didn't want that kind of pressure for my first kiss. Nor did I want that kind of pressure for our engagement, either. Good thing, because I could not stand up or speak, let alone collapse into a passionate first kiss. I also know people (personally and from reading) who actually didn't like their first kiss at the altar. "Weird" and "gross" and "peck" and "nasty" were words I had heard from their mouths. (Granted, I also know many people who RAVE about their first kiss on their wedding day, and wouldn't have wanted it ANY other way. That's awesome!) That didn't sound... happy... to me. I hoped for a very precious memory of my first kiss, and "ew, gross" wasn't exactly what I had in mind. No no. I'm so glad our first kiss happened in private, with no one else around. We have no idea if it was terrible or adorable. But we loved it. <br />
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ALSO. We didn't want to feel guilty if we <i>did </i>kiss. Look. It's normal. You should want to smooch the guy you love. Smooching the guy you like might prompt some "love." It really, in the grand scheme of life and God and eternity, wasn't something worth getting our knickers in a knot about. We, because of the perfect love we've been gifted from God, wanted <i>so </i>much to love the other person well. And it's scary when you think you might be doing something to harm, hurt or not-love that person. And going on a few dates, and "dating", and dating-but-we-are-ready-to-get-engaged, and engaged are all such different things. Caleb and I are such different people than you are. Than your friends are. Than you will be.<br />
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We <i>love </i>that people all around us have very different single, dating and newlywed advice, regrets, successes. We <i>love </i>listening and learning from their relationships. It would have been wrong of us to do exactly what someone else did or counseled <i>just because </i>they said so. It would be lazy. It would be based off of fear and not because of the Holy Spirit working in our hearts. And it would be confusing. Because we heard things <i>literally </i>across the board: 'you're WAY too physical' to 'you're so strict and rigid.' <i> "You're like the whore of Babylon!" "You're an inexperienced clueless prude!"</i> Touche! ;)<br />
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<b>It was the perfect topic for us to start hearing from others, figuring out whose counsel mattered most to us, whose marriages we <i>most </i>wanted to learn from, and to learn how to make decisions for ourselves, in an honest, vulnerable and clear-minded way. To not just "give the appearance of wisdom" by being "severe with our bodies" but to actual learn how to think, discern and be wise together. </b> To:<br />
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<i>"Let love be genuine. </i><br />
<i>hold fast to what is good. [ps. I think strong chests are very good. So I obeyed ;)]</i><br />
<i>Love one another with brotherly affection. </i><br />
<i>Outdo one another in showing honor. </i><br />
<i>Do not be slothful in zeal, </i><br />
<i>be fervent in spirit, </i><br />
<i>serve the Lord. </i><br />
<i>Rejoice in hope, </i><br />
<i>be patient, </i><br />
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<i>be constant in prayer. </i></div>
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<i>Live in harmony with one another. "</i></div>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-48540334710395157612013-02-25T08:44:00.001-08:002013-02-25T08:49:53.617-08:00February 25, 2012 | Post 20<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I had no idea that it was going to be the best day of my life.</div>
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I had no idea he'd been shopping for a ring.</div>
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I had no idea he'd <i>bought </i>a ring.</div>
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I had no idea he'd asked for my dad's hand in marriage.</div>
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I had no idea he'd had a few foiled attempts at this day already.</div>
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I had no idea he was sweating hotdogs during this picture because I told him to take his North Face off, and when he did I tossed it on the ground in front of the glow-in-dark alien toys.</div>
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I had no idea this was in the pocket of his North Face.</div>
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I had no idea that he had been secretly saving money.</div>
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I had no idea he'd been deleting all of his phone calls with the jeweler, then "calling" about 25 different people after he deleted the jeweler call. To fill back up his iPone "all calls" feed. Because he knew I'd be suspicious if I saw an empty que. </div>
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I had no idea he had had meetings at my friend's houses to make sure I'd like the ring.</div>
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I had no idea he was in touch with my best friend Lydia - all day long.</div>
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I had no idea Lydia was in Orlando, Florida, too.</div>
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I had no idea my mom was in on it - because I pressed her and hinted at it, and she shut down my guesses ;)</div>
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I had no idea that he knew me so well.</div>
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I had <i>no </i>idea WHY he was so squirmy and quiet before the fireworks started.<br />
I had no idea the situation I caused when I asked to wear his North Face because I was cold.</div>
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I had no idea how my heart would race, and my body would fall-apart, when he asked me to be his forever.</div>
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I had no idea the amount of feeling and capacity my heart had for pure happiness.</div>
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I had no idea a heart was capable of thudding so hard, so quickly, so long, without a person dying.</div>
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I had no idea that getting engaged was going to feel <i>so </i>different from talking about and "knowing" we were going to get married.</div>
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I had no idea I could possibly love a symbol of love so much.</div>
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I had no idea I could love another person so much.</div>
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I had no idea.</div>
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And I have a feeling, I still don't, really.</div>
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But he is my best decision.</div>
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And I have no idea how I get to be his,</div>
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and how he gets to be mine.</div>
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It's a <i>very </i>good thing.</div>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-58483673639676426432013-01-17T08:09:00.002-08:002013-01-17T08:15:09.238-08:00Wasn't It Easier | Post 19<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">"Wasn't it easier in your lunchbox days?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><b>Always a bigger bed to crawl into?</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Wasn't it beautiful when you believed in everything?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Wasn't it easier in your firefly-catchin' days?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">When everything out of reach,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">someone bigger brought down to you?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Wasn't it beautiful runnin' wild 'til you fell asleep</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><b>Before the monsters caught up to you?"</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><u>t.swizzle // innocent</u></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">who can be sad when they see a snowman made out of salad?</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I distinctly remember specific conversations with either my parents or other adults where they said "Don't be in a hurry to grow up. It happens too fast. Being an adult is <i>hard.</i>" It didn't seem like being an adult could be that hard. I mean, sure, I knew adults had to make decisions and "deal with money" and make dinner. But to be honest, I hungered to make my own decisions. Maybe that's part of why I was fond of constantly playing Barbies/dolls. I could make the rules and plans for them and I could make them "obey" my rules and "do" my plans. Being an adult seemed like Big Real Dollhouse. You get to choose what to spend money on! And you have more than $2.51 in change in a little glass jar! You get to go where you want! And eat extra dessert! AND. If you don't like mushrooms, you can choose not to make them with dinner! And don't get me started on the jewelry and make-up and beautiful shoes adults get to wear. Bras seem weird, but then again, talking on the phone whenever you'd like sounds divine.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Though I was "tried" (moved often, had people close to me die, watch my mom suffer through cancer, had much responsibility, etc) I "became an adult" when I was 19. I had hurt before that, and I had cried and struggled before that. But even babies hurt and cry and struggle. I graduated - no, not highschool... I did that when I was 17 - I moved from one "life grade level" to another. <i>Innocent </i>by Taylor Swift was playing while straightening up this afternoon. I love all the lines I posted up top. <b>"Wasn't it easier when there was a bigger bed to crawl into?"</b> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I was 14 my parents announced "Mom is very sick. She has breast cancer." I cried all day. I felt tired at bedtime, but laying in my room all by myself I couldn't sleep. I became increasingly forlorn the longer I was awake. Before long I was shaking and weeping into my pillows. Instincts kicked in. <i>When you're alone and afraid at night, go get mom and dad.</i> I ran up to their room. They were sleeping. I crawled into the foot of the bed and they stirred. They didn't tell me to move. They didn't ask if I was okay. They knew how I was. Mom patted my arm and said "Good night." And all of a sudden, it <b>was </b>a good night. And I <i>could </i>sleep now. I <i>felt </i>better.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But when I was 19 and my world was rocked like it never had been before or has been since, and I had a similar night. I, dressed head to toe in shoes, socks, jacket, scarf, jewelry, bobby pins... eveything, lay in bed with my mom. She held her arm around me. And it didn't make it feel better. I still couldn't sleep. It didn't "help." I didn' feel any better - at all. It was not a good night. It was a bad night. And it was the beginning of the end of "believing in everything!" All of a sudden - now that I knew what even a teaspoon dose of <i>real</i> pain could feel like - I saw pain everywhere. I didn't see wonder everywhere. This was a first for me. And I shuddered and tried to block out the stories I was now aware of - babies shockingly dying in their sleep, bodies screaming in broken pain (and there was nothing I could do to help), friends turning on friends, parents hurting their <i>own </i>children, car accidents, waves that eat nations. Does everyone hurt? Can I back to being a kid? When will this be over? Are we there yet? Wait, some people realize all I'm realizing when they are 12? Nine? Four years old? How cruel! Even the wonder years are robbed from some? Man.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That was (is?) the hardest part of growing up for me. Not just that I had to endure pain, but that I was <b>aware</b> of pain in a way children just are not. Being an adult is not Big Real Dollhouse. Doll's don't get hurt - even when their heads pop off. And they don't have hearts. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I, at times, wish I could "speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child." I'd be the first to announce "God intends for us to rest in Him, our Father! We are His children! Come to His arms!" I believe in the beauty and eagerness a child sees. I love how easily children laugh. Play. Share thoughts. But today is one of those days where I especially realize that I am not four and a half. Painful marriages. Sudden tragedies. Disappointing news... <i>again</i>. Cancer tests... <i>again</i>. Sick people, everywhere. The flu. Mental illness. Emotional illness. Brain illness. Miscarriages. Anniversaries of death. Comas. Human betrayal. Reality. And it's not <i>my own </i>pain or story today, but I love these people and it's their pain, and I can't help but hurt too. In a little way, even.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I read the end of Job. We know the tale. God allowed him to lose all his "wordly good." His children, his wealth, his career, his health. His friends turned on him, his wife was anything but comforting, he wanted to die himself. What was the point? It would have been better to never have been born than have to LIVE and LOSE! I would have rather <i>never </i>experienced the joys if that meant that I could have <i>never </i>felt this pain! WHY GOD! Why would you do this to me? ANSWER ME! WHY?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">God answered him. And came to him. And was always with him. God helped him. <i>And </i>He restored him. Real friends came back, and they ate together. They brought with them sympathy and comfort. The Lord gave. Safety and hope returned. Eventually he had children again. His first daughter was named Jemimah. What a waterfall of joy she must have been. Naive, beautiful, needy and full of love for her bruised-but-renewed father. Wonder returned. Jemimah means "the bird of peace, or the bird of new beginning, bright as day."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So, here's to the "Jemimahs" today. The content, REAL, hopeful thing that flies in and makes a difference. The ways God chooses to "deliver" a "Jemimah" for us. The little Jemimahs and the big Jemimahs. The bright days that <i>will </i>come. The promises of good, the assurance of complete, untangled, easy joy. The reminders of happiness, miracles and even delightful amazement in this thorny place. The new beginnings. The things you stopped believing could even happen. The things you stopped even wishing for. Tasting again. Sleeping well again. The mirror is dim and sometimes even broken now, but we will see face-to-face. Faith, hope and love <i><b>do</b> </i>live. Immanuel <b>is </b>with us. These words are trustworthy and true! There is comfort in the waste places, deserts turn into gardens, there is a voice of gladness in the song - even if it's a melody sung in the night. God loves His humans - and God <i>likes </i>us too.<i> </i>Thank you, Lord, for hope. For adult minds and hearts to "understand" pain <b>and</b> to understand real happiness. Thank you for time. Thank you for words. Thank you for not making us like machines, who can't feel and who only deteriorate, but rather we only become more "alive" and "more real" (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all...and once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.”</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;">) </span></span>and more perfect with every passing day. Thank you that we are dynamic. Thank you for questions. Thank you for the monsters and the heroes. Thank you for telling an interesting and good story (and thank you that stories don't end in the middle). Thank you that it "used to be easier" and for memories. Thank you for comfort food. Thank you for comfort truth. Thank you for new beginnings. Thank you for Jemimah.</span></div>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-36330673976332335002013-01-08T08:09:00.000-08:002013-01-08T08:09:49.014-08:00Public Question | Post 18<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">"Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, so now,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> not only as in my presence but much more in my absence, </span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, </span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">for it is God who works in you, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">both to will and to work for his good pleasure."</span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Philippians 2:12-13</span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMl6ZnQI-U_JZ6PddY_IwMubQaaTrW2PjX5SeeplPms0c5rXiV9MV3yOMPaM969vgGBIBXGTWIrpnn_kQD39HYbnAnCk8W2Tcb0JMqZiQA699IwHHGO6sZj2o_umGGGGKqsY36y9DCrk/s1600/a0570de6509411e2ada322000a1fbcdb_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMl6ZnQI-U_JZ6PddY_IwMubQaaTrW2PjX5SeeplPms0c5rXiV9MV3yOMPaM969vgGBIBXGTWIrpnn_kQD39HYbnAnCk8W2Tcb0JMqZiQA699IwHHGO6sZj2o_umGGGGKqsY36y9DCrk/s320/a0570de6509411e2ada322000a1fbcdb_7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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As part of the recent discussion + thinking about "the spiritual discipline: quiet time" I wanted to ask for your thoughts. After all, "<b>Dialogue is a neglected spiritual discipline. It should be ranked and relished on equal standing with prayer, Bible study, solitude, meditation, and all such timelessly healthy habits. It is shared meditation - with the bracing benefit of extra minds and a slew of thoughts we would have never thought of by ourselves</b>." <a href="http://www.enjoyinggrace.org/index.php?pID=38" target="_blank">EGM</a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I need the help of your mind and thoughts! What do you think Philippians 2:12-13 means? What is it saying/teaching/asking/<b>not</b>-saying? How is it "applied" or "lived out"? The context surrounding it obviously matters (like any scripture)... so what do you think or believe?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I genuinely, truly want your dialogue in this! Pwetty pwease?</span></div>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-6741907276025589452013-01-04T09:29:00.000-08:002013-01-04T09:29:37.222-08:00'Quiet Times' + Bacon | Follow-Up | Post 17<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"...do not set hopes on the uncertainty of riches, but on God, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">who richly provides us <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #d0e0e3;"><span class="Apple-style-span">with everything<b> to enjoy</b></span>.</span> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Do good! Be rich in good works! Be generous! <b>Ready to share</b>! </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And you will <b>store up treasure</b> for yourself. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #d0e0e3;">take hold of that which is truly life</span>."</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">There was, I thought, a very enjoyable <a href="http://wearethefamilymorris.blogspot.com/2012/12/quiet-times-bacon-post-16.html" target="_blank">response to my last post</a>. From texts, twitter, conversation and blog comments, I really loved discussing and thinking more about all these ideas and opinions. This post was actually in the original post, and I took it all out because it was just really (seriously) too long. But now I'm going to share it as my "follow-up." I hope - whether you agree or disagree - that it encourages, "sharpens" and excites you to ponder and talk about these sweet things of our sweet God. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Being affectionately desirous of you - being crazy about you! loving you just so stinking much! - we were ready to share with you not<b> only</b> the gospel of God but also <b>our own selves - </b>our things, and our home, and our time, and our stuff, and our food, and our thoughts, and lives -, because you had become very dear to us - you mattered to us, a lot." <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/search/1%20Thessalonians%202%3A8/" target="_blank">1 Thess 2:8</a></span><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Devote yourself to every activity, reflection, or enterprise that expands your vision of God, His grace, His gifts, and His gladness. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #d0e0e3; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Abandon every discipline, devotion, or duty that offers the Lord a reason to think well of you</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">or gives you a reason to think better of yourself." (</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.enjoyinggrace.org/index.php?fuseAction=blogs.entries&blogID=1&cat=26" target="_blank">Enjoying Grace Ministries</a>)</span></span></b></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's hard to write and share thoughts that could be misinterpreted. But I think a better way to say that would be "It's hard to write and share, because thoughts <b>can</b> be misinterpreted." They often are. If you tell a story to a group of 100 people, you'll definitely find at least two different take-aways on the story. Likely more. I don't think it'd be weird if there were 100 different take-aways. While some may be offended and outraged, others might be blessed and quickened! While some might be confused and discouraged, others might be bored and annoyed. And I think that's okay. I'm glad we all hear the same things, and then process and analyze and care about them differently.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">But since my last post about quiet-times is dealing with the holy, beautiful, fierce-some and dazzling Word of God, I want to make sure I'm as clear as I can be. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">I'm not against God's Word. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm not against spending time <i>in </i>God's Word - hourly, daily, weekly and... life-ly!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm not against knowing, going back to, meditating on, learning more of, reading, hearing, saying and loving God's Word.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm not against "alone" time with God, reading plans, or structure for God's Word.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm not against knowing God better through His Word, and enjoying Him more because of His Word.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Not only am I not against those things, I am eagerly <i>for </i>them. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">I <i>am </i>against activity around God's Word being more important than personal relationship <i>with</i> <i>God</i>.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am against spiritual disciplines (reading the Word, praying, corporate worship, etc) being something better, holier, more honoring to God, more meaningful/important/crucial to your life than "normal" life activities.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am against doing spiritual disciplines resulting in pleasure with yourself, <i>or </i>not doing spiritual disciplines resulting in guilt with yourself.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am against proving, performing, going through the motions, pretending, or as Jesus put it, "white washed tomb"-ing. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am against trying to impress, appease, delight or win God.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am against the separation of "the spiritual" and "the material/earthly/non-spiritual." (For example, I would not believe that a pastor has a better/higher calling because his career is involved in spiritual matters while a mechanic only deals with cars. I think being a pastor <i>is </i>a high calling, and involves spiritual matters. And I think being a mechanic is a high calling, and involves spiritual matters. I think <i>praying </i>is a gift and good, spiritual thing and I think eating, laughing, playing, etc is a gift and good, spiritual thing.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am against Pharisee-like obedience, discipline, prioritizing, maintenance and review check-ups. I am <i>for </i>obedience, discipline and prioritizing. I am also <i>for </i>feet-kissing, perfume-pouring, and weeping. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>"The Pharisee's held it as their central commitment to please God + to pursue His word + to permanently plant and grow these passions in their children, from generation to generation. You can only imagine their bewilderment when they were bluntly told by Jesus over and over again that <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">their scrupulous theology and tireless activity could actually be what was exiling them</span> from the fellowship and family of the God that they were pursuing."<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> (<a href="http://afastore.afa.net/p/778/generations-of-grace" target="_blank">Generations of Grace</a>)</span></b></span></span></blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I coach middle school girls basketball at a Christian school. We represent a Christian school and the Christian God when we play. Most of the girls are friends outside of basketball. They go to class together, they see each other on the weekends, the like each other's instagram pictures, they have crushes on the same boys, they like the same pop bands. They have braces, and are learning how to wear eye-liner and they are wonderful. We recently had a team discussion. "Girls, tell me which of these four things is <i>most </i>important. Number one: to pray before a game. Number two: to cheer loudly from the bench. Number three: to sprint and steal the ball. Number four: to run Detroit the way I've taught you to." Their hands shot up. I called on about six or seven of them. They all said "To pray! Praying!" Once the whole team was in agreement that, yes, praying was the most important of those four things I asked them "And you're sure that <i><b>nothing</b></i> else on that list is as important as praying?" One lively, sharp girl said "Well, I think praying AND cheering are the same-important. Because when you're cheering you're encouraging your team and not complaining about not playing and thinking about other people more than yourself." "Wow," I said, "that sounds really important." They all started chiming in "Yeah, yeah! Praying <i>and </i>encouraging are tied." Until another sweet soul said "But! If you're sprinting it means you're working really hard and being diligent! And I think that's important." At this point they caught on. Someone else added "And if we run Detroit right, it means we were obeying you and paying attention and being respectful and using our minds."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Right. I don't want my little girls to think that the way to "play like a Christian" is to pray before games, have team talks about God, and only listen to worship songs on the bus rides. I want them to know that <i>all </i>that we do, we do "Christian." I don't want them to think "First we do the Bible/God thing, and then we do the basketball thing." I want them to know that together we do this <i>life </i>thing, and the Bible-thing and basketbal-thingl is <i>all </i>a part of life. Sure, we may do good things that other "non-Christian teams" don't do - like pray and discuss the Bible together. But we'll also do things that many other teams will do - we'll shoot baskets, and learn plays, and have starters, and foul, try to win. But <i>why </i>we do those things is intrinsically different than <i>why </i>they do them. It's not one or the other. It's both. And it's about the "why." </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">To be honest, though I pray with my girls every single event I'm with them, I am personally not comfortable praying with them in public. We don't gather together at the bench before the game, in front of the other team, in front of the fans and parents, in front of the referees and pray. I don't want to draw attention to us (and God) by doing "spiritual things." I don't want the girls to ever feel "better" than other teams, or like they are impressing any pastor/parent/person in the crowd who might be watching. They should be able to communicate the heart of our team, the love we have for our God, and the difference in "why" we do what we do <b>when they play.</b> Now, does this mean I would never ever pray in public with my team? If someone is injured? Or if there is a serious moment where we need to get out of "basketball" and be turned sharply to God? Of course I would. But public-praying is not a <b>habit</b> of ours. And to be honest, it's more important to me at this point that the girls run hard, obey well, encourage loudly and actually treat each other kindly than close their eyes and pray. It's hard to fake exhausted, determined, work ethic. Or skilled, tried and excellent execution. Or squealing, loud, shared joy. It's easy to fake praying. (And, again, I LOVE prayer. It's WONDERFUL! Pray more, everyone! Don't hear what I'm not saying.)</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">And I think the same goes for my life. I don't want to come before The Father with a tender, listening heart during Bible/God time, and then go off and do my work time. I want a tender, listening heart <i>wherever </i>I am. I want to enjoy reading my Bible, and running a basketball practice, and making beautiful pictures, and eating frozen yogurt. All those things <i>can </i>be done with great gratitude and joy in God, and all of them can be very stingy and hallow. The way to true growth and joy is through beholding God, knowing Him and enjoying all He is and has. The Bible + spiritual disciplines are an <i>excellent </i>way to know Him. There are some other excellent ways to know Him, too.</span></span><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">"There is <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">nothing</span> better for a person than that you...</span> eat your bread with joy, and drink your wine with a merry heart, for God has already approved what you do! Let your garments be always white! Let not oil be lacking on your head! <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">Enjoy life</span> with the wife whom you love, all the days of your vain life... because that is your portion in life!" "The Lord is my portion and my cup."</span></b></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"My childhood was indisputably marked with predictable (even if abnormal) 'devotional' activities. Warm prayers that sent us off to school, lingering meals with missionaries or friends or neighbors, non-formulaic prayers of gratitude that opened most meals, hymn-sings that spontaneously erupted on the majority of car-rides of a half hour or more, and such things were a 'predictable' part of life - so predictable that they weren't programmed. They <b>were</b> life.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">There was no 'time of day' when we would reference Scripture, engage prayer, sing songs, or dialogue through our Christian world-view - because...well...there were no times of day when these were odd or out of place.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">This is <i>not</i> a critique of thoughtful devotional methods that faithful believers engage to build truth and faith into their lives. My heart aches to share what <i>can be</i> the heart of family faith, not to declare what <i>shouldn't be</i> or <i>must be</i> the habits of family worship or personal devotions.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">At it's root this is not a discussion about family or personal devotions or worship. It's a discussion about <b>devotion and worship</b>. Above all we are asking what honors our Lord and <b>magnifies our joy in Him</b> (which is what honors Him).</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Linger with Him because He's amazing. Do <i>nothing</i> to pay the Lord what you owe or make Him happy with you. Pure absurdity. Live everyday because the Lord immeasurably loves you and loudly sings over you with joy." </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.enjoyinggrace.org/index.php?fuseAction=blogs.entries&blogID=1&cat=26" target="_blank">Enjoying Grace Ministries</a>)</span></span></b></span></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was shocked when I heard this passage unwrapped for the very first time this past March. You know how rigidly strict and intense the Old Testament law is? How it was common for fellows to be struck dead when breaking the law? How there was law after law, rule after rule, seemingly random requirement after seemingly random requirement? When God gave instruction about tithe, He did so very thoroughly. And do you know what He said to do if the place to leave your tithe was too far away and you couldn't get it there? Think about it for a minute. Do you know what the Old Testament law instructed people who were too far away to "give their money to God" were told to do? Give their first-fruits to the poor? Sacrifice it in a fire or altar? Give it away to someone else? Keep it in a storehouse until you can get it to the Tithe Dropoff? Trade the offering for money and then bring the money in later?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"And if the way is too long for you, so that you are not able to carry the tithe, when the LORD your God blesses you, because the place is too far from you, which the LORD your God chooses, to set his name there, then you shall turn it into money and bind up the money in your hand and go to the place that the LORD your God chooses and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">spend the money for whatever you desire</span>—oxen or sheep or wine or strong drink, whatever your appetite craves. And you shall eat there before the LORD your God and rejoice, you and your household!" <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/search/DT+14%3A24-26/" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Dt. 14:24-26</span></a></b></span></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How beautiful. Take My money, and go pick out <i>whatever </i>you want. And gather your loved ones around and feast and rejoice. We would typically consider money we tithe money we give to do God's work. It allows our churches to practically do the things God gives them to do. Doesn't that tell so much about the heart of God? That His work is to <i><b>do us good, for our joy</b>. </i>To give us gifts and treasures and feasts. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Besides being wise, the Preacher also taught the people knowledge, weighing and studying and arranging many proverbs with great care. The Preacher sought to find words of delight, and uprightly he wrote words of truth.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The words of the wise are like goads [pokes that propel you to <i>action</i>], and like nails firmly fixed are the collected sayings; they are given by one Shepherd. But, my son, beware of anything beyond these. Of making many books there is no end, and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">much study is a weariness to the flesh</span>." <a href="http://www.esvbible.org/search/Ecclesiastes%2012%3A12/" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Ecc 12:12</span></a></span></b></span></blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If the carefully chosen words of delight become more of a study guide for the test you're cramming for, they will lose it's savor. The wise words should poke, urge and stimulate to action in our life. We shouldn't just read "there is nothing better for you than to enjoy your meal and be merry with your wine," we should go enjoy our meal and be merry with our wine! We should realize that the finals have been canceled and summer-break has begun! It's time to celebrate! </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">"... he seemed more united to God in his outward employments and activities, than even when he left them for devotion in private retirement. <b style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">His set times of prayer were not different from other times</b>... because his greatest busyness did not divert him from God; for his only business was to love and delight himself in God, *wherever* he might find himself.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />He noted that many did not advance in the Christian progress, because they were stuck in penances, and particular exercises. <b style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">He saw that our sanctification did not depend upon changing our works.</b> It was lamentable to see how many people mistook the means for the end, addicting themselves to certain works, which they performed very imperfectly!<br /><br />No, no, the most excellent method he had found of going to God, was that of doing our common life. <b style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">It was a great delusion to think that the times of prayer ought to differ from other times</b>; that we should savor and enjoy God's presence more in prayer and than in any sort of business? Woe!<br /><br />After prayer and devotion, he still continued with God, praising, enjoying and blessing Him with all his might, so that he passed his life in continual joy.<br /><br />We ought not to be weary of doing little things for the love of God, who regards not the greatness of the work, but the love with which it is performed... which will naturally produce its habit in us, to the delight of God, and - yes! - to our exceedingly great delight as well." <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Practice-Presence-God-Brother-Lawrence/dp/0800785991" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Brother Lawrence</span></a></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">The end. For now ;)</span></span></div>
I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-65420080844382398422012-12-30T19:43:00.002-08:002012-12-30T19:48:36.305-08:00"Quiet Times" + Bacon | Post 16<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>Let's get this straight...</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>The Lord has not called us to storm the walls or conquer the land. </b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>*HE* has routed the enemy, beheaded the oppressor, liberated a people too vast to count, and sent *US* in with the good news. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>We're the ones throwing aside the unlocked gates and announcing in German prison-camps that the Allies have landed and won the day." </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>D.<a href="http://www.facebook.com/donshorey">Shorey</a></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiKo8yRrP55N1Qm9IK-efFJ_VN_NjCk39nET2TKNiqEu2AhVzA_W_W5i1MMjk46BlXq1aKwObj5NWuBofYZb5TG7h0Cfl8RYFjx6BOGUnqzC-CxEuPxDW-AVBM8Mg_5FB2RhF_Bb4JJE/s1600/1d7055524fdd11e2a67a22000a9f3cad_6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiKo8yRrP55N1Qm9IK-efFJ_VN_NjCk39nET2TKNiqEu2AhVzA_W_W5i1MMjk46BlXq1aKwObj5NWuBofYZb5TG7h0Cfl8RYFjx6BOGUnqzC-CxEuPxDW-AVBM8Mg_5FB2RhF_Bb4JJE/s400/1d7055524fdd11e2a67a22000a9f3cad_6.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> [Though I've been a Christian for 20 years, the last three years have been a whirlwind of re-learning about God, His grace, and my faith. Caleb has gone through a similar transformation the last two years I've wanted to start writing and, yes, sharing on the internet some 're-learned lessons.' These things really are the dearest truths to me and I am starting to find myself unable to keep from sharing.]</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My church and church-community placed great emphasis on "quiet times" or "times with the Lord" while I was growing up. Quiet-times or devotions were (or, are!) a time of Bible-reading, meditation and memorization, praying, and journaling - or some combination of those things (for some reason 30 minutes seemed to be the ideal minimum time to shoot for, but anytime was better than no time.), essentially a time of meeting alone and quietly with God. During this time, I was a Christian with genuine repentance and Holy Spirit work in me, but I was a goody-two-shoes, I was an "elder son" not a "younger prodigal son,"and nearly every time I interacted with a group of adults I was praised for various character qualities I possessed. And I lived for that. I knew the lines, I knew how to search my heart, how to ask questions, how to worship "whole-heartedly", how to "be humble," I was an eager "servant" and I knew how to impress anyone. I could also point out the "bad kids" in any crowd. Their immodesty and flirtatiousness and over-all worldliness (eye-liner and jeans that hug your rump, anyone?) gave them away. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, back to quiet-times. I remember Sunday mornings, bible classes, small group discussions, womens meetings, and youth meeting main points circling around testimony, example, illustration, challenges, specific passages and exhortation to be in the Word of God, daily, alone and preferably in the morning (I remember specific times hearing that it would be prideful to think you needed the newspaper, breakfast, internet, sleep, la-ti-da more than you needed God. Even in elementary school I made a "rule" for myself to not look at the beautiful, colorful Sunday comics until after church so that I could "put God first.") If I could sum up my thinking and interpretation of what I was taught at church all those years, it would be 1) The Gospel (which condensed to five words was "Christ died for my sins.") and 2) to continue in deeper understanding and personal sanctification of The Gospel, you need to be consistently in The Word of God - especially through quiet times. And it's even better if you have a solid plan for Bible-reading, and also a quiet-time basket nearby so you can easily get to everything you need without roaming around gathering it - efficient!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">**Disclaimer: I'll be careful enough to add that this might not have been what was being preached, or at least not as "much" as I thought it was. I had - still do - a tendency to get an idea in my head, and hold onto it fiercely. If I heard a message or series or two about personal devotions, and I began to apply it well, I would have looked in any other message or setting for that "point" to be made so I could check it off and be all "Yuuup! Taking care of that! I so good."**</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Another quick note: You might not think that what I've described is that bad. Isn't the Bible - the Word of the Living God, sharper than a two-edged sword - one of the greatest gifts He's given to humanity? And isn't it one of the best ways to learn more about Him? Shouldn't we be learning more of Him, and reflecting on His truth daily? Shouldn't we be praying constantly? What is better than starting a day in conversation with your Father - praising Him, asking for Him to do mighty things, humbling yourself before Him? I hear you. And we'll discuss in a moment. Stay with me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've had a number of conversations with various friends who have talked about taking a season of not reading the Bible, and how spiritually beneficial to them it's been. After these talks I realized how much I've changed that I'm perfectly comfortable with my friends not "having consistent quiet times" and I feel no need to push them to begin this *practice* as soon as possible. Even looking at my own life I see a very different pattern of "alone time with the Lord" than I did in my teenage years. My teenage years were far more impressive. I really didn't have this topic on my heart to write about, but then I came across a blog post that triggered my concern with heavy emphasis on quiet times. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stephen Altrogge, from <a href="http://www.theblazingcenter.com/" target="_blank">The Blazing Center</a>*, has recently written a handful of <a href="http://www.theblazingcenter.com/2012/10/dear-moms-jesus-wants-you-to-chill-out.html" target="_blank">blog posts directed at mothers</a>. For the most part, I loved his call for mothers to chill-out, stop stressing over the small things and to enjoy the crazy ride. But here's what Stephen said that caused me to stiffen:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Your job description is as follows: Love God. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #d0e0e3;">This simply means finding some time during the day to meet with the Lord.</span> It doesn’t have to be before all the kids are awake. It doesn’t have to be in the pre-dawn stillness. Your job is to love God. How you make that happen can look a million different ways.</b> <br />Your job as a mom is to first and foremost, love God with all your heart. Run hard after him. Pursue holiness and godliness. Read the Bible and pray your heart out. </span></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why do I get a little punchy and red reading something like that? Why do I <i>so </i>disagree with the mindset I held of "the spiritual discipline: quiet time" for most of my life?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To begin, "loving God" or "prioritizing the gospel" is NOT a first-thing-you-do-in-your-day-top-of-the-checklist-activity. It's not something to be done. It's <b>who</b> you are. I find it very misleading to put "love God" as the priority over "loving your husband." Loving God IS loving your husband! Loving God IS loving your children. And... loving your husband and children <i>is </i>loving God! Loving God is NOT (necessarily) doing the "God-things" like Bible-time, praying, and attending church meetings. Phaaaariiiiseeeessss (dun dun dun duuun).</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Loving God is (also) eating food that thoroughly blesses you, loving God is talking with your friend and genuinely enjoying the conversation, loving God is talking with a friend who annoys you so much but you're willing to engage her because you love her, even though you don't exactly like her. Loving God is getting excited about a sweet deal on those shoes you've been eyeing, loving God is staying in bed all morning with your diapered kids because they just want to be with you a little longer, loving God is calling your husband to tell him about the funny thing that just happened on your walk. Loving God is having a dance-party to Taylor Swift in the car, while little faces glow, smile and bounce along in the backseat, loving God is singing hymns while you're sweeping, loving God is getting excited about making your house a home - however it is that <i>you </i>do that. Loving God is paying the bills, going grocery shopping, decorating for Christmas, spring-cleaning, going to the pool and not getting very much sleep because your somebody needs you - a lot - in the night. Loving God is not about getting things done, but resting in what He has done. It's about really listening to what someone is saying - if that someone is two years old, or 87 years old. And not just listening, but caring about their words to you. It's about happily letting your schedule get interrupted or your to-do list left unfinished, because your husband forgot ____ and he needs you to run down to his office, with all the children, and bring it to him. It's about eating, laughing, rejoicing, anticipating, sharing, giving, enjoying, praising, receiving and delighting - and doing those things with your husband, children, family and best friends? Even better. And living this way so contagiously and constantly that strangers and unbelievers are like moths to a nightlight? Even even better.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In Christ, and with the right motives for <i>both</i>, the "life-things" like eating and playing and the "God-things" like prayer or corporate worship (or quiet times) are equally pleasing to Him. Why? Because God doesn't want us to become better people. He doesn't ask us to grow, change or sanctify ourselves (or, gracious, to "bear our own fruit"). He doesn't desire for us to work harder at sinning less. He isn't asking us to sacrifice for Him. He wants us to come. Come! He wants to give us every good thing. He simply asks us to receive it and enjoy it. Receive this bacon and eggs this morning as a good thing from God. Receive this boxed mac&cheese as a gift to you, mom, because your children don't care if it's blue box Kraft or homemade. Receive your child sleeping in this morning as a chance to do something you'd enjoy - sleeping in longer yourself, getting a head-start on a project, taking an uninterrupted shower, blow-drying your hair, reading that new book you bought, listening to music alone, praying. Receive it! Receive the gift of your husband! Receive the gift of your children! Receive the gift of your friends! Receive the gift of humor, food, sports and beautiful things! Receive the gift of My written Word! Enjoy it, and remember that I gave it to you because I love you. Receive your salvation - take it! Have it! I want you to know how much I love you, and how final and complete and sure your standing with Me is. You are free from having to worry about your sin and your holiness. Free! I've made you a promise, and <b>I</b> will keep it. Believe that I do only good for you. Believe that I can do it <b>all</b> on My own. Believe that I am able and eager to complete what I have started. Want my gifts. Want the good things I have for you. Want <b>Me</b>. Delight in any and all things that I give you, and please remember that I wanted you to be delighted by them. Share Me. Love Me. Enjoy Me. I quite enjoy and love you.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think the best way to "Love God" or "prioritize the gospel" is by being delighted, grateful and at rest. I disagree that loving God "simply means finding some time during the day to meet with Him." In fact, I think that's a false gospel. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Loving God isn't a "priority" we have. It's our new names, it's our DNA. I had it wrong. I thought that faithfully having quiet-times was loving God. Sadly, in my life and in my heart, it was primarily loving myself. It was my form of "praying publicly in the streets." I did it right, and yet I really didn't enjoy God. I performed for God. And when it came to other people? I required sacrifice, not mercy. I tied burdens on the backs of other people... and was then honored for it. Because it really did look good. It's been like living in an alternate universe to discover that my faithful, obedient, consistent actions do... not... matter. Because my unfaithful, disobedient, unpredictable actions don't matter, either. I'm no longer "in me." I'm in Christ. And His faithful love and obedient perfection counts for something - which means it counts for everything, thank goodness.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>"He set His heart upon His people before time began. He spoke His promises, He sent and spent His Son, He resurrects souls through His Spirit, He is unstoppably building His church, His kingdom is an everlasting and extravagant kingdom and WE get the happy role of carrying His purchased, perfect gifts from under the Christmas Tree and placing them in empty hands that will enjoy them." </b></span></blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wives, enjoy being a joy to your husband. Moms, enjoy delighting your children. Friends, have fun having fun with friends. It's our happy role, it's how we love God, it's how to "prioritize the gospel." </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I made "the Gospel" my God, and "spiritual disciplines" my job. The way to get more "gospel" was to do my job better. To do my job better, I needed the gospel. Now, instead, I'd say: God is my God. His name is Father, Jesus and Holy. He is God. And the way I "get more God" is by grace - by beholding Him, not be "doing" anything. God + grace. Not "the gospel" + "quiet times." God and grace.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>"We are anxious, not because the task is hard, but because we think the task is ours. When we clear up that nonsense it gets much simpler and happier. My friends, let the celebration begin." D. Shorey</b></span></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">*I enjoy reading Stephen's blog. I think he's a sharp, good thinker and that he's willing to say bold things and press through babble to find true, good things. I don't always agree with his posts, but I more and more find myself "amen!"-ing his words. So don't go bash Blazing Center! But read it thoughtfully. Like anything :)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ps. I believe in Bible study and memorization and meditation and journaling and quiet prayer times. So much. </span>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-18331089722392872762012-12-04T11:35:00.000-08:002012-12-04T11:35:53.891-08:00Broken Hallelujah | Post 15<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 21px;"><b>"Love is not a victory march </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 21px;"><b>It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><b>J. Buckley</b></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Before Caleb + I got married, we talked a lot about children, "family planning" and what "we want" for our future. The point of this post isn't to discuss our personal convictions, desires and dreams for our family (maybe I'll talk about that someday, though.) One thing we wondered about was how "easy" getting pregnant would be for us. Everyone assumed we'd have have kids quickly. We both come from big families, and both of our parents got pregnant within three weeks of marriage. My parents, in particular, got pregnant "when they weren't supposed to" or when the odds were very against them (because of birth control, age, timing, etc.) Getting pregnant was never hard for either of them.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But. Everyone is different. And I had no idea what it would be like for me, for us. I was especially curious because I've been on 18-months of accutane (three different cycles over five years). More and more side effects comes out (seemingly monthly!) about the drug, and I <i>always </i>wondered if it would affect fertility. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, two months after our wedding when we discovered thrilling news that made us speechless for hours, I have to admit... I was not expecting it to happen to <i>that</i> quickly! We were hoping to be able to have kids "right away" or relatively soon. We were eager to start our lives together with each other, but also with our children. We hope to have a big family. This was only GREAT news and what we were indeed hoping for! But I was still surprised. And we still had a while to go before miscarriage-odds were reduced.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 21px;">And here I sit, just about to the second-trimester, with a lot of pregnancy still ahead of me... a lot that could still happen or be discovered, but my heart and mind hovers at the people who don't have the same story as us. The people who try and try and try to get pregnant, and so far it hasn't "worked." The people who have had miscarriages early on (or later on!). The people who have had adoptions fall through at the last minute - even after they've taken the child home with them. The people who say "Yay! Congratulations!" to your face, and then go in the car and cry when they're by themselves. The people who are single and wonder if they'll <i>ever </i>have life-long companionship and kids of their own. The people who just plain ache at the thought of children. The road hasn't been easy. It hasn't been what they dreamed. It's been a <i>painful, </i>slow, road with no promise that "Yes, someday this will happen for you."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 21px;">I was listening to my forever favorite Jeff Buckley croon and these words sat on me this weekend: <b>"Love is not a victory march // It's a cold and it's a broken 'Hallelujah' // Hallelujah." </b>I thought of many faces and names I know. Women, in particular, who have been waiting for a baby to hold and keep. So far the love they have for these future people hasn't been "victorious." They still don't have them here with them. At every turn it seems impossible for it to ever happen. Maybe if you stop caring so much? Stop wanting it so bad? Stop hoping for it to happen? Maybe if you try harder? Don't quit and give up? Persevere and fight on? You wonder if you're doing something wrong. If God's "trying to teach you a lesson." If your hurting heart will ever be healed? If a baby of your own (or another baby of your own) will ever warm your house, heart and home? Or will it always be a cold and broken 'Hallelujah'? Or perhaps a cold and broken 'Why, God?' I think of the families who had and lost their children before they ever got to see, feel, name or know them. These Mystery Faces that are real whose souls were real and live on today. I think about these things. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 21px;">Someday we may walk the same road. We may lose this baby and have to wait until heaven until we "meet" our child. We may have this one easily, and then struggle with future pregnancies. Or we may not. We <b>will</b> have what the Lord deems best for us. He will give us what is good. He will not withhold one good thing from us. He will do us good all the days of our life. Even if we walk through the death or "absence" of our children. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 21px;">And I have a heart for those who are hurting over pregnancy, babies and death. I want you to know that I care and that I'm aware. I may not know every story or every situation. But I care that you are hurting and I'm so so sorry. I am praying for you - some by name, and some "in general." I think about your children that we wait to meet in heaven. I miss them with you. I sometimes don't know how to talk about it or what is helpful (or NOT helpful) to say. Sometimes I don't even know your story at all.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;">I don't know - I think I just felt like I needed to say this. Though we have ONLY received happy faces, huge hugs and genuine excitement about our baby, I know in the crowd there must be some who wish it could be them. Who maybe were frustrated that it happened "so quick" for us and it's been so hard for them. No one has even hinted at that to me. But in case there are private tears and secret heart-sinks, I just want you to hear from a young, newlywed who got pregnant fast: Thank you for being brave, rejoicing with your friends and sharing in happy news... And I'm sorry that your hurt is very real and your pain is very deep. I don't know what it's like, I can't relate, my hurts and struggles in life aren't "compatible comparisons" to what you are going through. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"> I feel like it's important for me to say that you and your life aren't forgotten because of "new life" nor is a baby you don't have with you a forgotten one. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And Isaiah 44 <i>is </i>true:</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;">For I <b>will</b> pour water on the thirsty land, </span>and streams on the dry ground;<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;"><b>O Israel, you will not be forgotten by Me. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;">Sing, O heavens!</span> S<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;">hout, O depths of the earth!</span></span></blockquote>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 21px;">I'm praying for a "peace like a river" that streams into the darkest, driest crannies of your soul. I'm praying that the words "You are not forgotten" will not be bland and empty, but will revive and tenderly comfort you. I'm praying that you will be able to sing, even if it's a chorus of broken 'Hallelujah.' I'm praying for the word 'promise' to be an anchor for you. A promise from God is a fact from God. It just IS true. I'm praying that that will be sweet to you, and not bitter. I'm praying that you feel the freedom to cry, talk, share, stay home, feel and work through the process without feeling like a failure or wimp. I'm praying that you will have good, genuine, patient, funny friends to love on, listen to and support you. I'm also praying that your story, even in the smallest way, would speak glory upon glory to someone who really needs help someday. I'm praying for babies in your arms, very soon. And most of all, I'm praying for unmixed joy found in the Gift-Giver because of His sweet, to-hell-and-back joy in you. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 21px;">Life is fragile and it is not a right. Each and every life is unspeakably precious and brilliantly valuable - including yours. Hallelujah!</span></span></div>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-62117765308925553292012-11-28T09:35:00.003-08:002012-11-28T09:35:50.166-08:00Letters To Baby | Post 14 | 13 Weeks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Baby,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are so many things I can't wait to tell you about - how dad and I became "us", how to build forts, how to burn desserts in the oven (maybe you can teach me how not to do that), how English is a ridiculous language with lots of hard rules... but it still matters to know them, how it's fun to wear socks that don't match, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">how to get dad to stop tickling you</span> (he's a softie... it's not too hard), how we come from some incredible families who have lots and lots of stories, how to shoot a lay-up, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">how much we love you</span>.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But right now I want to tell you about your Parent In Heaven. I'm learning a lot about Him lately. Mostly because of you. Parenthood was <i>very </i>important to your Father. He wanted a Family, a Home, a Lineage, Inheritance and Heir to His riches. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">He wanted children in His house.</span> He wanted a bride for His Son. He wanted to deliver, adopt, name, raise and keep His own. Don't be confused with "want" and "need." He didn't <i>need </i>a family. He didn't need to go through the effort of making, providing for, having, feeding, caring, helping, sustaining, teaching, suffering for, bailing, holding, planning for, giving to and loving a motley crew of kids. But He has this crazy, large, good heart that <i>wanted </i>that. Children and family weren't a burden or problem, they were the goal and the prize. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">Being their Father was what He decided would celebrate and display and express His Goodness the best. </span> </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"He chose us in Him before the foundation of the world... In love He predestined us for adoption as sons." "You shall nurse, you shall be carried upon her hip, and bounced upon her knees. As one whom his mother comforts, so I will comfort you." "When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son. I taught them to walk; I took them up by their arms, I led them with cords of kindness, with the bands of love, and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">I bent down to them and fed them</span>." "We cry, 'Abba! Father!' We are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God." "I am jealous for them with great jealousy... the streets of the city shall be full of boys and girls playing in its streets. It is marvelous."<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven." "In my Father's house are many rooms... I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you, that where I am you may be also.""The Father's name is written on their foreheads." <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">"He will delight in prospering you."</span> "Yet the number of the children of Israel shall be like the sand of the sea, which cannot be measured or numbered. And in the place where it was said to them, 'You are not my people,' it shall be said to them, '<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">Children of the living God</span>.'" </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's not something that can be escaped when you read His Story. This Father wanted to be known for His grace, and He wanted to be generous to and love <i>us. </i>The people. You're a person, little one. You're alive. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">Before there was a physical world and even time, The Father decided that He was going to make you and give you a soul, a body and life.</span> He decided that you would start life inside my body, through the life of your dad and I, and that of all the people who ever lived, you would be dearest to <i>our </i>souls. He made these arrangements well before dad or I were alive. We were "visions in His mind" and He knew us, and our parents, and grandparents, and entire family history way back at the very beginning. He chose to make us because He wanted us. He <i>wanted </i>to make you.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3E8I46iJ7_SNYZtAMR8900jjCKCL8dq91Tjtw124EvTvHhA03wIyWZD3anoCinbSDrhmpX-enuGBYZUhYeJkCCOk5oiqUUzHZfRsMcuPV7rhnE2ujR1Btn0JMD0mmVp6JJJS7kgJzgw/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-11-28+at+12.31.46+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="391" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD3E8I46iJ7_SNYZtAMR8900jjCKCL8dq91Tjtw124EvTvHhA03wIyWZD3anoCinbSDrhmpX-enuGBYZUhYeJkCCOk5oiqUUzHZfRsMcuPV7rhnE2ujR1Btn0JMD0mmVp6JJJS7kgJzgw/s400/Screen+shot+2012-11-28+at+12.31.46+PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">it's brilliant fun to "research" and think about getting ready for you.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't know how long your life on earth will be, but because you are a person with a soul, you will live forever. Souls don't die. I don't have a promise that I'll get to hold you in my arms (I pray everyday that I will be able to, however.) I don't get to know if you'll live on earth for one day, or six days, or six years or 106 years. But I do know this: you are God's joy and He has decide to give you to us. So humanly speaking, you are ours. You are a part of our family, our home and our heritage. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">Dad and I are preparing a place for you</span>. We are getting ready to provide for your needs. We love to dream about bouncing, comforting and feeding you. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">We try to imagine what you'll sound like when you call to us.</span> We wonder how soon you'll walk, if you'll be able to walk? It <i>is </i>marvelous to picture a world where you can play in the city streets safely - because all the "dangers" of this place make me want to protect you forever and always. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">We can't <i>wait </i>to do good for you and to prosper you.</span> You are "our people," or rather "our person." And we will name you, keep you and love you. We want you, and you are not a burden or problem to us.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Though, in order to have you, my body has to go through significant pain. Your tiny body inside me causes my body to hurt, struggle and grow exhausted. I've never spent so much time physically hurting like I have being pregnant with you. Food, water, and vitamins are my daily "enemy." <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">I'm afraid</span> of them, and afraid of what they might do to me. Being hungry is also an "enemy" - a more predictable one, however. I KNOW I will hurt - badly - if I don't eat. So I have to try. Nausea and throwing-up and a host of other special treats are common to me. I hardly remember what it feels like to not "feel sick" or "feel queasy." The physical toll directly impacts the emotional and mental part of me. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">Discouragement, comparison to other newlyweds or mothers, fear, weariness and complaining come <i>easily</i></span>. "God, I can't take this anymore. Please make it stop. I hurt <i>so bad. </i>And I'm tired of having a sour stomach. I'm tired of being able to do so little. I'm tired of throwing-up my entire meal, out of my mouth and nose, and wetting my pants in the process - every time - because I'm so out of control of my body. I'm tired of smelling throw-up for hours after the whole process because I can't figure out how to clean my nose out. I'm tired of feeling SO fat. I'm tired of canceling plans because I just can't do it. I'm tired of being afraid of cars, sitting up straight and night. I'm tired of feeling so boring. And useless." Oh, it comes so easily, little baby. But here is where <i>you </i>are changing my life, for always and ever. You are making this sink in: The Father's Son, Jesus, spent His life and body on <i>me</i>. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He left beautiful bliss and came to hurt for me. His body was destroyed. He hurt, He cried tears of pain, He bled, He tasted sour vile, He was hungry, He felt sick, He was exhausted, He ached, He even asked The Father to remove the weight of the pain - if there was anyway possible, and yet, "like a lamb led to the slaughter, He opened not His mouth." He didn't complain. He didn't turn back. He didn't lose sight of the goal: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">life for The Children of The Father, a way for them to come Home</span>. For the joy set before Him, He endured. For me, He endured. And after He championed the deepest pain of all - the sting of death - He proved His victory by rising from death, never to die again. He did it because He loved us. Because He loved <i>me</i>. Because He loved <i>you. </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">He was thinking of you - the joy of you, the worth of you, the jealousy He had for you - when He suffered</span>.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And, sweet baby, I don't know if I could relate my heart to you. I don't know if I can give accurate account of how I feel when I think of you. You'll never understand, unless you one day experience it yourself, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">why I had to cry when I saw you on a screen in a doctor's office</span> - with arms, legs, a torso, a head (with eyes, nose and mouth) and a large beating heart. I can't explain to you why I started to cry again when I typed that last sentence. Watching you for less than a minute move your body, bat your arms, kick your legs and<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;"> frantically "swim" and spin and dance away gave me joy I have <i>never </i>known</span>. Dad and I have that image of you emblazoned on our minds. We were undone and loved you in that moment more than we knew we could ever love anyone. The Father knew I needed to see you that cold morning. He knew how it would capture my heart <i>forever. </i>He know how the pain I've felt and the extra work your dad has taken-up absolutely pale in comparison to the bliss of being your mom and dad. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>It is <i>so </i>worth it.</b> I would endure anything for you. I would die to give you life. Dad would too. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">I love you. I love you. I love you.</span> I would hurt and be nauseous for the rest of my life, if it meant I got to have you. We wanted you before you existed, but now that you are here and "with us" and growing, our hearts race as we look forward to knowing and loving you face-to-face. I wouldn't - I couldn't! - give up on you. And what absolutely hurts my head and makes these eyes of mine dampen all over again is the realization that what I feel towards you is only a sparkle of the way The Father feels about <i>me. </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">I was worth it to Him</span>. He would endure <i>anything </i>for me - He would die for me. He loves me. He wants me and His pulse quickens when He thinks about <i>me</i>. He longs for me. He runs to me like a wealthy Jewish father who was snubbed and disrespected by his offensive son, who considered his father as good as dead and wasted his good inheritance on filth and misery. The father <i>ran </i>to him! He hugged and rejoiced and blessed him! He celebrated, gave that naughty boy even more good and beauty, and announced a day of feasting! He reminded him <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">"All that I have is yours!"</span> His heart was full because His child was home.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Becoming a parent is not right we have or a decision we made, but it's a gift we've been given. We get to share in the character of God by experiencing parenthood. We get to understand in new colorful layers the sweet adoration a parent has for a child. We are learning that our Father genuinely and happily enjoys us, that we <i>bless </i>His heart when He gets to bless us. Not everyone gets to experience this. We consider ourselves supremely blessed by the Gift-Giver and the Gift. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'll end with the scripture that is most-prized to me these days:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; white-space: pre;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"When a woman has delivered the baby, she <b>no longer remembers the anguish</b>, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">for joy that a human being has been born</span> into the world. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">and your hearts will rejoice, and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">no one will take your joy from you</span>. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Truly, truly, I say to you, whatever you ask of the Father in my name, He will give it to you. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ask, and you will receive, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #a2c4c9;">that your joy may be full</span>."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank you for giving us the joy of giving ourselves to you. We wait with baited breath and ever-growing love as we anticipate sharing with you the Story of Our God, and our very lives (I'm also excited about dressing you up in tiny, precious clothes. You have NO idea.) You are very dear to us, tiny dancer. And we long to bring you home.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEjrZSSuT5MeNiMQuCfzTTnOG12NIONVqhRalmkDO2SoSJCDzqeJS2qbe5vQXwS_RpTSSCqQGoxhRR6OkbMM1Ssm66ovt9xmoD5r-DLSwTZXwug2dIJ5RHmW05PeT8RnDhJl6I9SgshI/s1600/2c8386c61e1f11e2bf6922000a1e8ad1_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEjrZSSuT5MeNiMQuCfzTTnOG12NIONVqhRalmkDO2SoSJCDzqeJS2qbe5vQXwS_RpTSSCqQGoxhRR6OkbMM1Ssm66ovt9xmoD5r-DLSwTZXwug2dIJ5RHmW05PeT8RnDhJl6I9SgshI/s400/2c8386c61e1f11e2bf6922000a1e8ad1_7.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With all our hearts and souls,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dad and Mamma</span><br />
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3041918746559985930.post-77387918138999253122012-10-04T13:51:00.002-07:002012-10-04T13:53:12.335-07:00Biscuits | Part 14<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Easy Biscuits That I, The Terrified Baker, Made</span></i></b></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSlyvlJDUliWdAuK53zqc5pLj5qgCegNB9TK_DQulRXekQMdyQrsKyltdatz7QlWe87TeS3rfw6j8jocluMwZGcSSyIsgM0jRjX0rpNwVAzkOJAYFQXZ0HJFvN1NsAtQR_JrK8tfgBkM/s1600/Herbed-Scone-Recipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSlyvlJDUliWdAuK53zqc5pLj5qgCegNB9TK_DQulRXekQMdyQrsKyltdatz7QlWe87TeS3rfw6j8jocluMwZGcSSyIsgM0jRjX0rpNwVAzkOJAYFQXZ0HJFvN1NsAtQR_JrK8tfgBkM/s640/Herbed-Scone-Recipe.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://strandedincleveland.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">pc: stranded in cleveland</a></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;">The other night Caleb was working late (heck, who I am kidding. He works late every night. Unbelievably attractive, that determination and work ethic of his is. Praise God he's days away from finishing this current monster project) and I wanted to make sure he had a good meal waiting for him when he came home. Except that I didn't get myself to the kitchen, ready to cook... until... about 45 minutes before he came home. We had left over roast beef. Perfect. Green beans. Done. Mashed potatoes. Easy. And while I was looking for something to make for dessert, I discovered a biscuit recipe on the side of the pancake mix box. The entire process was supposed to take less than <b><u>15 minutes</u></b> and include only <b><u>TWO</u></b> ingredients. How bad could it be? At the worst the biscuits would just taste like pancakes, right? I decided to take the risk and give it a try. </span><br />
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Well! They weren't bad! Caleb ate about seven of them (But. He eats a lot of any kind of bread.) and they were <i>really really </i>easy to make. They're no Thanksgiving Dinner biscuits, but they ain't shabby for a weeknight!</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #d0e0e3;">- 2 cups of pancake mix</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #d0e0e3;">-3/4 cup of milk</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #b6d7a8;">In a bowl, mix complete pancake mix and milk. Stir and "knead" in bowl or on floured surface (I kinda did both. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #d0e0e3;">You can then make drop biscuits by dropping your mixture on a greased cookie sheet in large spoonfuls or cut into misshapen 1/2-inch tall triangles or circles. Bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for about 8-12 minutes or until lightly browned.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Remember, these were not THE BEST BISCUITS I'VE EVER HAD. However, I am determined to try them again with a little more creativity. Probably put some butter pats in the middle of each biscuit, and then coat with butter again as soon as it's out of the oven. I also think they would be tasty with ice cream/whipped cream and berries. Or apples cooked in sugar and cinnamon, and vanilla ice cream. Or with honey and jam. Oh! Or maybe add some cheddar cheese and jalepenos to the dough? WITH CHOCOLATE CHIPS TO DIP IN COFFEE (My boy would <i>love </i>that.) I really think these easy little suckers have potential. I would ere on the side of less-cooked than more-cooked. And I would give them a shot. Worst case scenario? You wasted 5 minutes and, like $1.50, and have some crumbles to go on your dessert!</span></div>
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I'm Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11128432838418693239noreply@blogger.com5