there is a God, I am not Him

I was 14 days late when I really started to consider the possibility, 18 when it went from possibility to legitimate anxiety, and 21 when I finally went to the dollar store for the test – I always get them at the dollar store. I was with my three-year-old when I threw the little pink and white box in to the cart, along with a few other things we did not need because I don’t know, somehow it feels less awkward for me to buy six random items than to just plop a pregnancy test on the counter and smile at the checker.   

When we got home, I put the shopping bag on the counter and tried to think about other things: the three-week old foster baby in our home, the three other children who were already being such troopers in the midst of a huge and sudden change, and the husband who was pretty darn certain he was done wanting children at three. 

It could all be stress. And newborn sleep. And I haven’t been eating much. It could just all be stress. 

But still, 21 days late? I went to bed that night and prayed for my period. 

The next morning, my prayer still unanswered, Alex headed off to a day-long men’s conference at our church and the four littles and I resumed our typical fall Saturday morning routine. Right around lunchtime, with two of the four down for a nap, I opened the pink and white box. I knew that 22 days late was a lot, but I was still convinced it was my body adjusting to all the things we had just said ‘yes’ to with exactly 60 seconds to make a decision. 

It just cannot be possible, can it? I opened the app that I do all of my monthly tracking on, and I counted everything for the 22nd time. Nope, not possible. I’m going to pee on this little stick and then be exposed for the crazy person I am. There is no way this thing is positive. 

***** 

The truth is, I have always wanted a fourth baby. I was fine with three, and felt full and busy with three, and I loved life with three. But I never truly felt the “I’m done” feeling, even if I thought we were. I had spent much of the last year assuming I would just always wonder what it would have been like to have four kids, and that that feeling was ok. I know a lot of women who are done and will always wonder what one more child would have been like. I also know a lot of women who have never been given the blessing of a positive pregnancy test, or still have empty arms after many. Honestly, I can’t think of a more seemingly “unfair” system than pregnancy, and adding to our family is not ever something I have taken for granted.

But even with my desire for a fourth child, I knew we were not ready for one. Entering the foster care system, especially in the manner that we did, saying yes to a constant shuffle of social workers, visits, court dates, and paperwork confirmed that in one way. My actual reaction when the test was positive confirmed it in another.

I panicked. 

I couldn’t feel happiness or sadness for weeks, just shock. And then I couldn’t feel anything but nausea for another ten weeks, and that didn’t help matters. But mostly, I felt fear. 

Fear that my marriage would be pulled too far.

Fear that my children would be stretched too thin in their own little capacities. 

Fear that I would do something, eat something, take something, be around something that would cause autism in another one of our children.

Fear that our life had crossed from busy to unmanageable, unaffordable… all the “un” words one does not want to describe her life at all.

There is a popular song on Christian radio these days that repeats the line “fear is a liar” in the chorus. As much as I’d like to, I don’t think I agree with that. Fear can indicate something very valid to be concerned about, and it is not necessarily lying to you that proceeding with great caution is a good idea.

But while fear may not be a liar, it is rather bossy, and it fogs up your life so much that you can’t see through it to move forward. 

That’s where I lived for three months, being bossed around by fear – feelings that could have been turned around and taught me about the great care and stewardship we would need to move into this new season with, but instead they stopped me completely. I laid on our couch much of the day, sick and exhausted and pretty much the hardest person to live with, all because I couldn’t find God – I wasn’t even looking for Him – through the hazy fear that laid there with me.

The fog didn’t clear for me until I started to confess it. And started looking for truth again.

*****

We sat around our friend’s living room with our community group, and as we usually do, spent some time catching up with one another. It was the first time I had been at group since we picked up our foster baby and found out we were expecting – almost three months after both of those things had taken place. When it was my turn to share, I started out on the surface, laughing about going from three to four and possibly five kids, about how I would not be going anywhere for the next two years and the amount of laundry I already cannot stay on top of. And the more I spoke, the more the group laughed with me and nodded their heads as I shared, the deeper I went. One feeling, one sentence, one confession at a time. Finally, the two things that had truly been consuming my mind came out of my mouth, and they had little to do with laundry. 

“I am afraid of everything, you guys. Afraid of having another child with special needs. Afraid that our foster baby will have to go back to a situation that might be a tiny bit better but still is impossibly hard to let her go to. And mostly, I am afraid that if any of these things do happen, I’m not going to be able to believe that God is still good.”

It was the last sentence that broke the damn of tears that had been building for months. 

I wonder if fear really has two components: living with the anxiety and what-if scenarios of the thing we fear, and then trying to make sense of God, of what we believe to be true about Him, if that thing does happen. 

I looked down at the sweatshirts sleeves pulled over my hands and now covered in wiped tears and mascara, and I didn’t even have time to say another thing before tissues were in my hand and eight other people were around me and Alex with their hands on our shoulders, praying honest, earnest, sincere prayers for us. The kind of prayers I hadn’t been able to pray for months; the words of truth fear would not let me remember.

God, You are knitting this baby together in Katie’s womb… Psalm 139:13

You placed this little baby girl in this family, at this exact time, knowing exactly what they would be given right after you did… Psalm 139:16

You gave Alex and Katie one another years ago knowing full well what you would equip them to live, even knowing how unequipped they would feel… Philippians 2:13

You know Cannon’s heart and mind perfectly, you have beautiful purposes for his life, and know his parents’ heart for him... John 9:3

You know Harper and Jordi and can perfectly guide their understanding of the family they have who loves them so… Psalm 119:34

And God, You alone are good… Psalm 73:1

I realized as the tears continued to fall down my cheeks that my thoughts had spent all this time replacing “You” with “I” in that prayer. That’s when fear is the thickest and most impossible to see through, when you think everything depends on you. 

***** 

Today, I am 24 weeks pregnant with our third baby boy, an already wild man in my tummy – the final recruit in what we joke is Harper’s crew of soldiers. And we still get to steward, for now, the life of the sweetest baby girl on earth – one who sleeps through the night and spends the entire day smiling and wanting to be near the other kids. 

And I can’t believe we are here. 

It has not been easy to leave fear behind, and it still creeps in often. But our world is not nearly as foggy anymore. My husband fights hard to be an incredible leader for our family, our friends show up to clean our house, and our community still prays urgent, earnest prayers on our behalf. And every day, many times a day, we look at one another and remind ourselves that there is a God, I am not Him. 

Defender

Last spring, I gave two talks at a local Women’s Ministry event about speaking gospel language to our children. I truly poured my heart in to the preparation of these talks, made my husband listen to me rehearse them 38 times, and went up to that stage covered in the prayers of others and feeling ready to share. I used my 45-minute time slot to paint a picture of God’s goodness to us in the story of scripture, and gave examples from my own life how my husband and I explain this story to our children. 

As I walked the lobby of the church in between sessions, I looked around at all the women and truly felt like I had said what God asked me to say. When I was back at my table, a woman came from across the room and found me sitting there. “Are you the gal who just shared in that last session?” she asked.

“Yes, I am!” I responded with enthusiasm, honestly ready for her to say how much she enjoyed my talk and took away from it. Instead, she held her hand out and handed me a small piece of paper.

“You mentioned you have a son with autism,” she said with the most matter-of-fact, straight face. “Call this doctor, she can reverse all that, you know. She’s really good with clearing out the brain.”

I respectfully accepted her scribbled note, thanked her, and did my best to control the insecurity sweeping over me. I had another talk to give in 30 minutes, losing my composure was really not an option. So I sat there for a moment, looked down at the words “brain doctor”, and wondered if I was doing anything right at all – in the talk I was giving, but even more so, as a mom.

The mostly well-intentioned suggestions of others are really nothing new. We have been doing this to one another since the beginning of human history; I have without a doubt offered my unmerited thoughts at the worst possible time. When you are on the outside of a situation, it’s easy to think that you are outside of it because of something you know or something you have done, and you want to impart that wisdom to someone who is “in it.” 

A few years ago, when I was the ever-so-wise parent of a basically perfect, healthy, and easy 8-month old daughter, one whom was conceived on accident, I did something incredibly hurtful. I asked a sweet woman, one I did not know very well, who was three and half years in to her infertility struggle if she had tried a certain method to get pregnant. I meant it sincerely; I knew of a few friends who had some success with this particular method. She silently nodded at me, but I could tell there was a change in her countenance. Her kind husband swept in and graciously answered the question; I respect his politeness and protection of his wife more today than I could possibly have then. But over the months that followed, I noticed this person stop interacting with me at all on social media, and I couldn’t understand why. I was sincerely trying to offer something I heard had helped, had it offended her that much?

At the risk of speaking for someone else’s feelings, I can only guess a few years later that not only did my words offend her, they went much deeper. She had a wound I could not possibly empathize with, and I poked at it, aggravating it and sending the pain radiating through her body again; like hitting a bad bruise in the same spot over and over. She had to have wanted to allow the tears welling up behind her eyes to flood out as she yelled at me, “Do you honestly think we haven’t tried that? I have wanted a baby my entire life, we have tried everything!”

At least, that’s how I felt when the stranger handed me the brain doctor’s information.  

And the moments people suggest I follow someone on social media who has cured his or her child’s autism; they only charge $349.99 for their online course! And the times people have asked if I have read about broccoli sprout powder/chlorella/cilantro/frankincense oil/holding therapy. Or the comments like, “God doesn’t want your son to suffer; healing is possible.” 

Being a special needs mom, and having our particular journey include a diagnosis that is mysterious, unpredictable, and so incredibly varied, has brought the questions and suggestions to a level I was completely unprepared for. And over time, the sum of the suggestions takes its toll and every bit of me wants to go to battle to defend my parenting. I want to show the notebook where I have written down everything my son has put in his mouth for the last two years, completely free of gluten and dairy and food dyes. I want to produce the receipts from the specialist because insurance covered none of that, along with the list supplements and of course I tried that essential oil! I want people to see it, all of it.

Because what I hear with each suggestion is this: I am not trying hard enough. I’m not a good mom. 

What my old friend must have heard me say years ago: You are not trying hard enough. You’ll never be a good mom. 

Few things will pierce a gal like the thought that others secretly think she is failing at the one thing she wants to do well. 

The slope to self-justification is a slippery one. And it is all consuming. I can get obsessed with proving my efforts, answering every suggestion, making sure I am understood and my son is accepted, exhausting myself and losing all joy in the process.

Or, I can I heed the words a very wise friend offered to me years ago: “God is your defender, Katie. He’s the only audience that matters.”

Everything – really, every single thing in our lives – changes with an audience of one; and a perfect, sinless, all-powerful and all-knowing audience at that. When I think about the awe that will drip from every part of me when I stand before God at the end of this life, there is nothing in me that cares one bit about defending myself to people. I don’t say that flippantly; there is no “I could care less what you think about me” sentiment here at all, because if it isn’t obvious by now, I care deeply, probably far too much, what people think of me. But stopping to think about what the God who holds the oceans in his hands thinks of me, and thinks of my children, the weight of that grace erases all the justifying I could ever present on my own.  

He thinks so highly of us that he gave up his life. 

In the end, I am only going to answer to Jesus. In the meantime, I am going to steward each day to the best of my ability but I am also going to trust His sovereignty, knowing that He alone has the power and right to give and take away. I don’t pretend to believe I will never make a hurtful comment again, and I fully expect receiving plenty more in my lifetime. We are imperfect people, and the nuances of individual hardship make the words we might offer a very tricky thing to get right. But while I will fail a thousand times to remember this, I am going to keep going back to my Defender; because when I do, more than I want people to see the list of things I am doing to prove I’m a good mom, or a good Christian, or a good anything, I want people to see all that God is doing to capture a heart that would be stone without him, and all the miraculous things we have learned through a journey we would not have chosen but now cannot imagine our lives without. 

keep showing up

I remember every single first visit. The pediatric neurologist. The waiting room at St. Luke’s. The long hallways at the Early Intervention school. The small rooms at ABA therapy. I can tell you that the neurologist’s office was painfully quiet and smelled like antiseptic, and the waiting room at St. Luke’s had amazing acoustics – I could hear everything the providers were telling other parents, which in this context probably makes them terrible acoustics. The long hallways at the Early Intervention school were filled with children and a mixture of laughter and tears, depending on so many things. And the small rooms at ABA therapy were suffocating, too small for a two-year old who spent the entire first month trying to escape them. 

I remember these places so well, because every time we stepped foot in one of them for the first time, I remember feeling afraid. These are places where the hurting go: the disabled, the sick, the unexplainable. The struggling children and the angry or denying or devastated parents, we all gather in those places, but not one of us chose to be there. Reluctance makes for an awkward ambience at any gathering, and “waiting room parents” know that feeling well. 

I don’t want this life. That’s honestly what I thought for so many months. And I didn’t. I didn’t want to see so much hurting – some of it far, far more than we were experiencing. I didn’t like the mysterious sounds coming from children I didn’t know. I didn’t like seeing the tiny wheelchairs and walkers and weighted vests and helmets, each of them designed to help, but looking so incredibly ominous in such miniature proportions. And when the therapist working with the little boy who shared a therapy room with Cannon would spend five, ten, fifteen minutes patiently trying to get that precious one-year-old to physically pick up a cheerio with his own fingers, it was all I could do not to cry out loud. 

From where I was at that point, my heart and mind resisted the thought that this world would become our normal; that we would spend so much time every day in the hallways and the waiting rooms and the small offices, where the kids make strange noises and the visible struggles of everyone around you are so profound. So I resisted; with all my might I resisted. When you’re afraid, fear forces you to resist.

But God. (It always comes back to those two words, doesn’t it?) He is far too kind to leave us where we are. He cares too much about His name and His glory in the world to leave his followers in a perpetual state of resistance. So, He moves us forward, one fear, one embarrassment, one moment of surviving a runaway attempt or a meltdown or a really bad day at a time. 

The days go by. Then the months. We showed up again and again and learned when to push and when to rest. And at some point, resistance has given way to embrace. Not always, and not perfectly – I wrote just a few months ago about the days I still wish it was different, and I think I will always have those days. Still, even if it is not perfect, it is certain. It didn’t happen overnight, but I began walking those hallways and meeting the eyes of other parents in the waiting rooms and I didn’t feel the ‘I don’t want this life’ feelings anymore, but something different entirely. I felt certain of God, and certain of His Sovereignty, and certain of His ability to heal or take away, to give progress or allow a back step, but to sustain our days no matter what. It was as if God pried my clenched fists open, whispering, “Katie, you have no idea the profound gifts that await you on this journey,” as He did.

And He was right. He’s always right. 

Cannon’s autism is mysterious and difficult in so many ways, and I would be naïve to think that all of our hardest moments are behind is. He still has trouble with brand new things and we still live a lot of days on our toes ready for the worst at any time. To the outside observer, it may be hard to see anything other than a little boy who doesn’t talk much. But just like we are not the parents who walked those once scary hallways two years ago, he is not the little boy who hated them two years ago. He’s incredible: finding his bravery a little more all the time, embracing his siblings, having sleepovers with his sister and laughing in the bathtub with them rather than getting out as soon as they hop in. On a July weekend with friends two years ago he would not go near the water if others were in it, and Alex and I took turns following our little wanderer around because we didn’t know what else to possibly do. This week he swam in the pool for over an hour surrounded by kids, getting out only to grab Alex or me by the hand and bring us toward the pool, signaling that we were to get in the water so he could jump to us. 

If you want to know whether or not I believe in miracles, I do.

*****

The summertime always makes me nostalgic about our journey, because it was the summer two years ago that wrecked me. I’ve been up and down, hopeful and completely out of hope. I’ve felt like a million dollars on good days and cried my eyes out on others. I’ve grabbed my husband around the neck and squealed with delight, “can you believe these kids are ours?”, and I’ve fought with him irrationally about how we should handle something the very next day. My emotions could be described in a lot of ways, but reliable is not one of them. There has never been a season of life when I’ve understood my need for a God who doesn’t change like the last two years, when I have done nothing but change – and still do. But one thing I know today that I didn’t know two years ago: you won’t stay where you are. You’ll get stronger, and braver. You’ll have more peace than anxiety. You’ll be able to talk without crying – really, you will. And then you’ll still cry a lot because the reminders that life will not be easy for your little one are everywhere, and it’s perfectly ok to do that. But the fear will abate, and the hard work founded on faith in a big God will take over. And you’ll look at your life that can feel so different from everyone around you, but you’ll get humble and realize we all have the same trajectory: get smaller, let God get bigger. 

And then, you'll keep showing up.      

when you wish it was different

Cannon turned four years old this week. We celebrated with a family dinner, and his therapist decorated his room with a banner and a few balloons. It was all low-key and simple. He would not have wanted, nor would he have really understood, any more fanfare than that. But from start to finish, the whole day had me guarding tears and hiding my red eyes under a hat.

He did not really like when we sang ‘Happy Birthday' to him. He refused the gluten and dairy free cookies I made just for the occasion. He still has no idea what to do with a present put in front of him and we worked all day on getting him to answer one question: “Cannon, how old are you?” He still responds with, “I’m Cannon,” a response I know I should not scoff at, because “What’s your name?” took the better part of a year to get to. But still, “I’m four” is an elusive concept and as much as I want to, I cannot will it to come from his mouth. 

I woke up that day wanting his birthday to resemble, even in the smallest ways, the birthday of a neuro-typical four-year-old: enjoying a few new toys and smiling as we brought out a special birthday treat, feeling loved and celebrated in the way birthdays should make you feel. For Cannon it was just another day: therapy in the morning, school after lunch, play in the backyard until we make him come inside. For me, the whole day was reminder after reminder of what isn’t. 

And I couldn’t help but feel one thing: I just wish it was different.  

I don’t always feel that way about this journey. In fact, most days I feel confidence. While he is not even on most neurological development bell curves, this little guy has come so far since his diagnosis. On his second birthday I remember trying to get him to look over at me when I called his name so I could just take a picture of him, and the closest we could get was when Alex finally got a smirk after practically standing on his own head to get Cannon’s attention. Today, he can say “cheese” when I tell him to smile. On his third birthday he had a few words, but today he has lots of words, hundreds of them. Mostly nouns, a few high frequency requests, and with a little bit of guiding he can sing “The Wheels on the Bus” and knows most of the songs from Daniel Tiger, often surprising us with sweet sentences like “You can choose to be kind!” Watching him learn and grow is one of the greatest delights of my life; it is hard to put words to the feeling of seeing your son do something you really wondered if he would ever be able to do.

But it’s also hard to put words to the feeling of longing for something he might never do. 

Those are the two lanes that special needs parents travel this journey in: sheer joy and complete uncertainty. One has the scenic view of patience and hope and gratitude for the littlest things – and all of those sentiments are so real and genuine, you never want to leave that lane. But it’s so easy to drift, too easy; and often without warning you can find yourself traveling down the road littered with potholes of bitterness and unending questions – there are just so many questions– and your journey goes from pointing out the beauty around you to gripping the wheel in silent anger. It’s usually when my hands are clenched tight that I start to wonder again why we are on this road at all, and that’s when I wish it was different. 

And then, in the very next moment, I feel guilty for wishing it was different, as if I do not love my son fully and completely as the exact little boy he is. But then I want him to have a friend to celebrate his birthday with him so badly the tears can barely be held in. Pretty quickly I am back to feeling grateful for how healthy he truly is – in the special needs world you do not take for granted when your children can walk and jump and speak at all, and one visit to the pick-up line at Cannon’s preschool will remind you of that. But then I land back over in sadness, because we’ve been to a half dozen different four-year-olds’ birthday parties in the last few months, with lots of friends and presents and cake, and I am not even sure my little guy understands what a birthday party is. Back and forth, drifting between the emotions that are opposite one another, but both completely true. 

If you’re wondering if you can feel gratitude and sadness at the same time, ask a mother - she’ll tell you that you can. 

I think there are going to be many more days in our lives that I will wish things were different, but I take heart knowing that, for one brief moment, as he waited for the whole purpose of his life’s story to unfold, Jesus did too. 

“Father, if you’re willing, take this cup from me.”*

God, if there is any other way, please do it. If your plan can be different than this one, I’m asking you one last time to consider it. You are the Creator and Sustainer of all, you could change this! You could make another way!

“Yet not my will, but yours be done.”

And it was. And the one thing Jesus begged God to do differently became the best thing that ever happened to any of us.

At this juncture, there are many days when it is hard to imagine how the struggles of a little boy could lead to something good. But then again, we are still waiting for the rest of the story, too. 

I don’t know what Cannon will be like on his fifth birthday. I dream of one day celebrating the incredible progress that every special needs mama holds a sliver of a vision of, but I live mostly in the day to day, because there’s enough to both celebrate and cry over on any given one. But I do know this, on the days I want something different, I remember that one day, everything will be different. We live with the promise of Heaven, sealed by the one thing God did not take from his son.

Until then, I’ll keep counting the ways that being Cannon’s mom became one of the best things that ever happened to me.

*Luke 22:42

mise en place - some thoughts for the writer

I don’t pretend to know what I am doing in the kitchen. My culinary accomplishments max out at chocolate chip cookies that are not flat or overcooked, an achievement that is still one I pat myself on the back for. And while I have yet to put much in to practice, I do love a good cooking show and have watched enough Top Chef to learn a few things about the basics of culinary excellence, my favorite among those tenants being the concept of mise en place.

‘Mise en place’ is a French phrase that means “everything in its place.” It refers to the setup required before cooking: chopping all the vegetables, measuring out all the spices, preparing the cuts of meat or any other ingredient needed for the dish. It means all of the necessary utensils are ready, the pots and pans are out, and the oven is preheated. For the chef, mise en place is all about being prepared. Having ‘everything in its place’ helps ensures that when the cooking begins there are fewer errors, interruptions, forgotten ingredients or time wasted. And as I watch the seasoned chefs on television take their craft so seriously, from the setup to the plating and presentation, I can’t help but think about how mise en place works in my writing, too.

The image that first comes to my mind is my big white desk. I love this desk. It is beat up and scratched, the middle drawer is broken and the whole thing needs to be sanded and re-painted, but this desk has been good to me. It’s seen me cry more than my husband, it knows how much time I’ve wasted on social media when I should have been working, and it’s given me a place big enough for my Bible and books and all the bills, too. This desk would be the first thing that goes on my mise en place list. Next would be my coffee. Cold brew coffee, that is, and maybe French press if we are out, because I’m rather picky and I cannot drink just any ole kind of coffee if I’m going to be productive. Then I would probably light a candle, because I write mostly early in the morning, and those pre-dawn hours are complimented so beautifully by the company of a pretty candle. I’d certainly have my journal and my sharpie pens out, and likely the book I am currently reading in case I remember a sentence that had given me an idea while I read. And finally my computer, placed gently in the middle of it all. Of course the house would have to be quiet, because I tend to need total silence to write anything decent. And as mentioned, it would be about 5:30am, before anyone is awake and any events of the day have stolen my mental margin for creating. Yes, this is a good mise en place.

The problem is, I hardly ever write like that.

And I think one of the biggest problems plaguing writers and creators of all kinds, is that we think we need that in order to write.

I have spent so much time pinning pictures of writing spaces or researching the best planners, hoping that if I can just organize what writing looks like it will somehow inspire the words in a new way. And I don’t think I am alone in this, as I have seen a whole lot of great flat lay pictures  of hands around a coffee cup with an open computer on someone’s lap. They are usually in bed, often with a decorative throw blanket nearby for some color and if they are really spiritual, an open Bible, too.

(I meant no offense if you have recently taken that very picture. I’m all about the pretty flat lays and I would totally open my Bible for a picture, too. I am that girl.)

I can get so caught up in thinking I need everything in its place to write that I don’t have any time left to do the actual work of writing. I want to create, but I’m stalling. I love the mental image of a writer and I sure love the finished product, but that space in between –  when it is just me and my words, battling for territory in the most true and honest places – that’s not always an easy place to be.

It is so much easier to just take the pretty picture, and in the meantime, see what everyone else is doing with what was supposed to be my writing time.

I would love to simplify writing down to a three-step formula, or the ever-popular five-point list of ‘things you need to write, and write well’. But like so much of life, writing has proven to me again and again how low-maintenance its friendship is, and that it simply does not need all that much in place. Sure, a big desk and a nice candle are luxuries, but I’ve written some of the most profound and honest words of my life in the most unlikely of places: on the small screen of my phone in the waiting room at the hospital; in the basement of my parents’ house while we lived with them in the middle of our move; short sentences that inspired entire essays while I waited for coffee or in the carpool line at preschool; at the kitchen table with Daniel Tiger in the background – because the idea came and I knew it was fleeting, and I needed thirty more minutes of help from the screen to occupy my kids before that idea left for good.

When I think about all of the writing I have done for the last eight years, I would have completed virtually none of it if I had waited until everything was in its perfect place. Because inspiration rarely waits for you to get ready; if you’re going to write, you need to be ready. Thinking that I need more than I already have in order to write is writing from a place of scarcity. But knowing, believing, and being confident that I already have far more than I need is looking at what is right in front of me and seeing the generosity of it all, and then writing from a place of abundance. And it’s a reminder I preach to myself every single day.

For me, the creative process has been so generous and so forgiving, and also so unpredictable. Our hearts don’t follow a schedule as much as they capitalize on a mind that has been searching for that inspiration all along. When I am constantly looking, always learning, and disciplined enough to be writing in as many margins as I can find, that is usually when the best words come to life.

Mise en place is an ethic, a mindset, that I love. But when it comes to creating, there are truly only a few things I need in place – and they aren’t really things at all: a love of writing and a desire to keep at it no matter what, and a belief that God, our creator, delights in creation. I do my best to live, learn, pray, write, and repeat. And I keep at it, wanting all the stories I tell to point back to One who gave them to me.

our story of rescue

Parenting is going to leave all of us speechless at some point: another school shooting that we have to explain, another poor example of once-trusted leadership, another death or sickness or fight that, one at a time, teach and show our children that the world is truly a fallen place.

In our home, some of the harder questions started coming about six months ago, when our 18-month old son surpassed our three-year-old son by a noticeable margin in speech and development. As that margin grew and grew, Harper noticed, too. “Mommy,” she asked matter-of-factly, “Jordi talks and Cannon doesn’t. Why?”

“Well Harper,” I started to explain, “Cannon learns differently than Jordi. Everyone in the whole world learns differently. Some people learn really fast and some people take a bit longer.” And in my typical ‘let’s be positive’ demeanor, I ended with the upside. “Cannon is learning some words though! He’s getting there.”

“Hmm,” she responded, as if that explanation would do for now. But I think we both felt the incompleteness.

It’s not that what I said was untrue – people do all learn at different paces and at different abilities, and it’s so important that Harper understands that at a young age. But why is everything so much harder for Cannon? The why question has had its way with me in the last two years. I’ve cried over it, gotten angry with it, and felt intensely defensive about it. But so much of that – the many things the world might tell me is the reason why Cannon struggles – is not really what I’m talking about.

I’m talking the big why - why does he have to struggle in ways that others his age do not? Why is there pain, disability, sickness, and death in the world at all? Harper may not have been asking at that philosophical level, but she will be soon, whether it be about her brother, her own sin, or something else that she sees, hears, or experiences.

After much searching and reading and praying and talking to people far wiser than me, hoping for an eloquent explanation, for words that would ease the tension I constantly felt, the answer is actually as simple as it has always been: it’s sin. It’s my sin and your sin and our sin, and the fact that at the Fall of Man in Genesis 3, evil came in to the world and everything has been hard since then (Romans 5:12). That is the why.

It turns out that it is as straightforward - and yet lived out as incredibly complicated - as that.

*****

One of the things I’ve learned in five years of parenthood is that children, with their near constant inquisitiveness and very pragmatic questions, actually become our best teachers. If we cannot explain something at the level a five-year-old can understand it, there’s a good chance we don’t have a good grasp on the topic at all. And this is most certainly what God has showed me in the last two years.

I knew about life in a fallen world. We've all seen and experienced the pain that comes from original sin. But I was having an exceptionally hard time finding the words to explain it. And that’s when we went back to the very basics of our faith, the big story of our rescue that God has been writing through all of history - the Biblical Narrative. These four commonly used points became so helpful – it gave me a language for what I have always known but could not find the words for. It reminded me that our small stories truly are written in the scope of God’s big story, and all of our lives can be understood within the arc of these truths.

The Biblical Narrative is the big story of the Bible – a (very short) summary of Genesis to Revelation – and it is a tool that can help you use gospel language with your kids every day. In our home, the conversations often begin with a question or hard topic that we have to explain to our children: Why did Granpda die? Why does my brother have a disability? Why did that friend leave me out? Why do we yell at one another? We frame all of these conversations by starting with creation: God’s perfect plan for the world and how in the beginning everything was good and at peace. Then we talk about the fall, and how sin entering the world changed everything. Sin is why life is hard, sin is why we can be terrible to one another, and sin is why we need a Savior. Then we bring in the good news that Jesus redeemed us, and that is why we can have hope in this world in spite of the sin in our hearts and the hard things that might happen to us. We end with restoration, because God’s Word tells us that the Holy Spirit is still very much at work in the hearts of men and women, boys and girls, all over the world, making us more like him all the time – using our gifts, our success, our weakness and our failures for his glory and pointing us to the day we are ultimately and forever restored in Him.

In his book Parenting, Paul David tripp said this: “Tell the story of the person and work of Jesus to your children again and again and again. Tell them how God could have condemned us all to our foolishness and its results, but instead how he sent his Son so that instead of being condemned, we’d be forgiven and rescued from ourselves. You simply cannot tell this story to your children enough. Talk about how God exercised his power to control history so that at just the right time Jesus would come and extend his sacrificial love to fools who didn’t even recognize his existence. Talk to them about how Wisdom came to rescue fools so that fools would become wise. Start telling this story when they are toddlers and don’t stop telling this story until your young adult children have left your home.” The Biblical Narrative cards are designed to help you do just that. I hope we can tuck them in our Bibles or tape them on our refrigerators, and find every opportunity possible to tell our kids, and tell ourselves in the process, our story of rescue, again and again and again.

loving what must be done

The envelope sat on my desk for three weeks before I opened it. I had seen the return address right when I pulled it out of the mailbox, The Department of Health and Social Services logo with the name of our assigned social worker from the Developmental Disabilities Administration.

Why I still flinch just a little bit when I see that logo in the mail, I do not know.

She had called me the week before to remind me of our son’s upcoming fourth birthday, and that his status with Early Intervention Services through DDA would officially be terminated unless I reapplied for eligibility.

“Was he ever officially diagnosed or were his delays compensated through services?” she asked.

“No ma’am, he was diagnosed with Autism-II in October of 2016.”

“Ok, he will remain eligible for DDA services then, as long as his diagnosis came from an appropriate specialist.”

“Yes, it did.” I responded. (He was also not very kind, that specialist, but I leave that part out).

“I will need a copy of all of his paperwork, and I am sending you the application packet for ages 4-21 today. I’ll need it back no later than 90 days before your son’s fourth birthday.”

“Thank you.” I said. I think I meant it as a question though. 

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Blackburn. Happy Holidays!”

Three weeks later, with a post-it note on the refrigerator daily reminding me to “Renew DDA for Cannon!” I was still ignoring it. The truth is, I don’t like going back. The diagnosis paperwork is 11 pages of hard for me, line after line of quantification and qualification of a sweet little boy that I think falls far short of capturing him, but to any objective observer is frustratingly accurate.

But I don’t love looking forward too much, either, and getting mail from the Developmental Disabilities Administration with flyers reminding me of our legal rights, tips for starting school, and programs around our city for those with developmental disabilities is exactly that – a monthly notice that will not let us forget Cannon’s future will be unchartered territory for all of us.

None of this is what I pictured four years ago, when we opened a gift on Christmas day and saw a little blue blanket inside. “It’s a boy!” we all yelled, followed by tears of joy and an immediate image of a big sister squeezing her little brother on the next Christmas card. And when life gives us a story that we’re not prepared to live out, our immediate reaction is to resist it. I think maybe that is why I cried for most of that first year, because when reality keeps running head first into a hard heart, it hurts. Reality needs a soft place to land and I would not, could not, give it one.

So God had to completely change what I couldn’t.

There is a popular tale among special needs parents called ‘Welcome to Holland’ – a metaphoric story about planning a trip to Italy, learning the Italian language and studying the maps of the cities you’ll visit, even getting on the flight to meet all of your friends there and then hearing upon arrival, “Welcome to Holland.”

Holland? But you’ve been planning to go to Italy. You got familiar with Italy. All of your friends are sharing beautiful pictures from Italy and you really want to be in Italy.

You want to hear your little boy sing in the preschool Christmas program with other three year olds, not fill out DDA paperwork.

You want to sign him up for Tiny Tots soccer, not a one-to-one aide for group settings.

There is a list 100 items long that you would rather be doing than the work in front of you, and I think it is ok to acknowledge that. It’s not, however, ok to stay there. 

God’s story of his chosen people is one story after another of someone not getting what they want, but getting something only God could do. Sarah wanted children in her youth, God gave her Isaac when she was 100 years old. Jeremiah wanted anything but the work of a prophet, God gave him words that would be cherished and studied by believers for the rest of earthly history. Paul wanted to go with Silas to Asia to share the gospel, God re-directed him to Greece and brought the gospel to Europe for the first time.

If I am learning anything from God’s narrative and history of redeeming a broken people in a broken world, it is that what we want is not always a great indicator of God’s perfect plan, for our lives and for His glory. And at some point we have to decide what gets our time, our energy, and our prayers: what we want, or what God is actually doing. How we answer that with our lives will change everything – perhaps most importantly it will change how you see what must be done. To borrow from Goethe, you’ll learn to love it. It may be impossible to see right now, but one day at a time, regardless of what you are carrying and even when it is so hard the tears far outweigh hope, you’ll still be so thankful God chose you for something you could never do on your own. 

consistent

I’ll admit it, I am a sucker for resolutions. It could be a lifetime of sports and goal-setting drilled in to me, it could be the “help me help you” tendencies of my INFJ-ness, or it could very well be that I came out of the womb leaning a bit too far to the people-pleasing side and being an achiever helped me accomplish just that (and yes, I’m working hard on the shadow-side of all that neediness). But taken all together, I love having a list of things to set my eyes on, and I super love checking things off of those lists.

I am in full agreement with Socrates when he said that “the unexamined life is not worth living.” The discipline of introspection, and then the conviction and repentance that follows for me, has been such a big piece of my life in the last decade – as a writer in the last seven years, but much more so as a wife, a mom, and a follower of Christ. My days begin with the space to think. They just have to for me – in the quiet, before anyone else is up, working around thoughts in my head about scripture, about Jesus, about words and meanings, about my children and my husband and whether or not I am stewarding these things in a manner that is honoring to God and reflective of who this is all for anyway. Examining who I actually am and how I actually live, holding that up to who I want to be, and then submitting that to the guidance and direction of God’s Word is a pattern of sanctification that I want on repeat in the cadence of my days.

Because usually, when that’s happening, I see how badly I am missing the mark.

The gospel becomes even more beautiful when you really see that.

*****

I have been going through this goal-planner again this year, and one of the things you are asked to do is choose a word for the year. I wrote down about a dozen to start with, things like diligence, joy, learn, family, and trustworthy. And then the word consistent came to mind, and I could not let it go.

Consistent means to be marked by harmony, regularity or steady continuity. It is a characteristic given to someone or something that is free from variation or contradiction, showing steady conformity to character, profession, belief, or custom. And consistent is everything I want to be.

When I get real introspective, and real honest, and I take apart the big pieces of my life, I can see just how in-consistent I really am. My mood - and my actions to follow - can shift and change a few dozen times a day based on things like social media (do people like me?), how Cannon did at therapy (do people see how hard we are working?), whether or not a friend got back to me (am I important to her?), and other big, life-altering (ha!) things like that. I love my husband inconsistently, usually showing him respect and displaying affection well for him when I am having a particularly good day myself. I parent my children inconsistently, again, usually doing the hard work of teaching and disciplining well and getting on the floor to play with them when I am having a particularly good day myself. And I celebrate others inconsistently –  would it shock you to know that I usually do that much better when I am having a particularly good day myself?

I’m seeing the pattern, and here is what it is teaching me: when my consistency is built around me and my day, it will be anything but marked by steady continuity.

But if the consistency of my life is built around the only One that never changes, I think I’ll have a fighting chance. Jesus has to be my steady. And the gospel has to be the thermostat of my marriage, my parenting, and the way I love others.

Consistent means to me that I am not a walking contradiction, saying one thing but living out another. It means that I am the same person to everyone; whether she is like me or not, whether he is easy to love or not, whether she can give me anything in return or not. The partiality of the world we live in is feeling further and further from a kingdom-mindset to me all the time – perhaps that is because it is? It means that what someone sees on social media is what they will see in real life. It means that my husband will not have to guess how loved he is going to be on a particular day. It means that my children will remember their mom as someone who was the same to them in the public eyes of the church lobby and the private hallways of our home at night. And it means the work I do in this world will reflect the only investments that will always, always bring a good return: God’s Word, and God’s people.

So this year, my prayer and goal is that the mark of my life is consistency. That my joy is contingent on the unchanging good news of the gospel and not the trending good or bad news of any particular day. That others know what they can expect from me. That my heart never loses the awe that I am saved by grace and not by merit. And that I am unwavering in my pursuit of seeing and savoring the goodness and glory of God in my every day, walking around, mothering and errand-running, cleaning and writing, bill-paying and diaper-changing life. 

I don't know, maybe, no: how I think about autism

(and maybe a helpful way for you to, too).

“Everywhere we go, it’s work.” Alex confessed his thoughts to me as we wrangled wet swimsuits off our kids and searched the oversized bag for the dry undies.

I stared back at him, unsure of what he really meant and how to take it. My silence was enough. Sometimes parenting leaves all kinds of room for misunderstandings and taking offense.

“Babe, don’t be mad at that statement. I’m just processing. I’m telling you what I see and how I feel, and I have to be able to tell you that.”

“I know,” I said in return. “But I thought we had a great time swimming. I thought the kids did awesome, and I thought Cannon had a blast.”

“He did! We did! It was a great time. I’m just admitting to you what I feel, that it never gets easier to do things that are ‘normal’. That we have to always be prepared to work.”

Of course, Alex was right. He had just spent the better part of an hour micro-managing almost every aspect of our trip to the pool. “Cannon, walk buddy!” he would yell from the water, no less than two dozen times. And each time, Cannon would only pick up speed and continue sprinting from the concrete to the shallow entrance, with a smile across his face a mile wide.

Does he not hear us? I don’t know.

Do his receptive language deficiencies inhibit the understanding of the words “do not” and “run”? Maybe.

Is he just bad? No.

Nonetheless, it was work. When Cannon would not walk on the slippery pool edge, Alex would get out with him, grab the buckle strap of his water wings, and force him to slow down all the while repeating the command: “walk, walk, walk.” Over and over and over. Cannon never seemed distressed, he never threw a fit about being held back. That sweet boy was having the time of his life at the pool, and we loved seeing the joy on his face. But when all around you other parents are warning their young children to slow down and walk, and those kids forcefully slow their steps even when everything in them wants to run, you see it – you see the autism. And you feel it. You feel the autism. And you wonder, will we ever get there? To that place when you tell your child to do something, and they just… do it?

*****

I saw an article a few weeks ago that a friend had shared, something about a new thing called ‘virtual autism’ and how too much screen time could be the cause of the rise in autism. Of course they still had to actually study it, but whoever the authors were felt confident enough in their guesses that it was worth sufficiently scaring parents everywhere about the iPad. I also recently heard that there is a new wave of thinking about autism – that it is perhaps the newest form of “evolution” in human history: since a very small percentage of autistic men and women also can be savants in certain categories, and since we need those highly articulate thinkers in an increasingly complex and technological world, natural selection is just one step ahead of medicine and is ‘creating’ them for us. And there is one of the latest P.E.T.A. campaigns, landing blame for autism squarely on the dairy industry and all the mothers who did exactly what they were told when transitioning their twelve-month old from the breast to whole milk.

And of course there are the less stretching potential causes: vaccines, a toxic environment, maternal age, too many medical interventions, genetics.

I don’t know.

Or an unnamed second trimester abnormality that causes essential cells in brain development to “lose their way” to their proper place.

Maybe.

I am not sure who or what to blame for autism. But I also don’t stay in the blame place, because it is crippling. The far more important question for us to ask is this: did God forget about Cannon and the millions of children and adults, some stumbling and some making their way alright in this world, with a brain that sees and takes it all in so very differently?

No.

*****

Our first red flag with Cannon was his speech. He was always quiet, and he has remained quiet. Our little guy never really developed words: once or twice he said “buh-buh” (bye-bye) and a rare “mom” or “dad” or “doo-doo” (thank you), but Cannon’s story is not one of normal verbal development and then regression. He did go through a few months where he stopped saying even the four or five sounds he did have, but the regression was minor compared to the level he had ever initially attained. He started speech therapy at nineteen months old (he hated it), we moved to the Early Intervention Services and added occupational therapy to his repertoire (he tolerated it) and by two years old we knew what we were looking at. He was rarely responding to his name. He wasn’t too interested in other people. He could not follow simple commands.

There are so many moments in those months that stick out in my mind. Like just before his second birthday when I had him on my hip at the refrigerator. I knew what he wanted, he had pulled me over to the door which was his clear indication for milk. So I picked him up and said, “Cannon, say please.” I knew he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, but I persisted. “Cannon, say p-p-p-please.” Silence. “CANNON, say p-p-p-lease!” He reached harder for the door, I forcefully grabbed his tiny hand and rubbed it on his chest to mimic the sign language. “SAY PLEASE!” He whined, I commanded louder. After a dozen requests, I started to cry. Why won’t he just say “PLEASE?” I put him down without the milk, thinking my hardline parenting would help force him to talk, but it only caused him to fall apart.

Is he even able to say ‘please’? I don’t know.

Will he ever talk? Maybe.

Can I just quit, because this is too hard? No.

It was all so painful, to say that A-word out loud and know it belongs to your child. It’s not anymore - but oh, it was back then. I was living on the brink of tears every single day.

*****

Autism falls under the broad category of Pervasive Development Disorders. This is how I very un-scientifically define it:

Pervasive – all over the place

Development – how things should grow

Disorder – something went wrong

Pretty simple: something went wrong with how Cannon should have been growing in several ways. If we think of the brain like a map, directing information, feelings, language and emotions to their correct places, I think of the autistic brain like a map with holes in it. The information may start where it is supposed to, but pretty quickly runs into a big hole and has no idea where to go next, so it either falls into the hole and disappears, or it takes a wrong turn and ends up in the wrong place. This is not science*, but it’s how my mind makes sense of it.

But here’s the thing: every single brain with autism has holes in different places. And every single brain with autism has holes of different sizes. And all this means that sometimes the holes are not at all in the way of where you're going, and other times they mean you cannot get there at all.

The map might have a hole where the information is actually supposed to start, so it never gets going. Like language: some kids have zero indication of autism in the language category – there are no holes there. Some kids have no words and not even any sounds, so there is very likely a large hole right where language was supposed to begin. They just can’t get going, no matter how hard they work. Or emotional attachment: some children cannot be touched without anxiety and others snuggle in and want their back rubbed with no issues at all.

Maybe the holes are in emotional regulation. Maybe they are in sensory processing. And maybe the holes are two steps in to the journey or maybe they are further down the road, allowing the child to start without any issues, but then running into a hard stop at an unpredictable moment. He used to talk quite a bit, why did he stop? We arrived at our friend’s house just fine, why did he fall apart once we walked through the door? And how big these holes are may indicate how long it takes to recover from getting lost or falling in. For some, it’s a fairly quick rebound. For others, the whole afternoon might be lost to a meltdown, or months of progress derailed.

So what do we do? Well, we do every single thing we can to fill the holes in the map, even though we don’t know how big or exactly where they all are. We watch. We listen. We make a hundred mistakes and try again. We commit to therapies and healthy diets and giving the brain and the body the best fuel we possibly can. And when our son simply cannot hear/understand/process what we mean when we yell “walk, please!” … we get out of the pool two dozen times and show him.

And do you want to know something? That night at the pool, just before we left, Cannon started to get out of the water one last time so he could run his short lap around again. But Alex kept at his persistent teaching, and yelled one more time, “Cannon, walk buddy.”

And finally, Cannon turned around to Alex, stopped in his tracks and said back to his daddy as if he was so proud of himself for finally getting it, “Good job!”

Yes, good job indeed, Cannon.

The holes can be made smaller, friends. And I also believe many – in some cases a lot of them – can be filled completely. And yes, it is a lot of work. Like Alex was honest enough to say out loud, everywhere we go, it’s work. Still, long gone are the days I stood at the refrigerator with a silent little boy on my hip. Cannon’s language is still very far behind and we still have to work hard to pull it out of him, but he can repeat and say virtually everything we ask him to. And more and more, he is putting meaning to those words his mouth can finally say. The road ahead is long, but when you look behind to see all the patches covering the holes and all the places he used to get lost that he’s not anymore, you look ahead and say “ok, let’s find the next one.”

*****

I don’t know. Maybe. No. Three phrases that have defined our journey with special needs more than any other. But while they may be the most used, they don’t carry the most weight. With every step of the journey, we remind ourselves of this:

God is sovereign. This, I know.

Is God working in all things – even disability – for one incredible purpose: to make His name and glory known? Absolutely.

Is He good? Yes.

*****

*I want to be sure I note that research and brain MRI’s do not show any visible “holes” in the brain of a person with autism. For the sake of both storytelling and understanding, that is an image made up entirely on my own. Like most metaphors, it both over-simplifies and falls short of capturing autism perfectly, but it has been a very helpful framework for us as parents to understand the work before us in loving and teaching our incredibly sweet boy.

self care

Harper had quietly snuck down the stairs earlier than usual, and surprised me with her little voice at the office door. “Hi mommy.”

Startled, I turned around from my chair. “Hi love. Good morning! You’re up early, did you sleep well?”

“I think so,” she said as she rubbed her eyes. With her blanket and stuffy still in her hands, she came and sat on my lap, looking at all that was on the desk in front of us: my Bible, an open computer screen, an assortment of colored pens and stray pieces of paper with all manner of verses and quotes and ideas I’m still trying to organize. Taking it all in, she asked the simplest question. “Mommy, what are you doing?”

*****

“You have to take care of yourself first,” the speech therapist kindly, but firmly, told me. “There are support groups, and they can help you find qualified babysitters if you don’t have someone who can watch your kids while you get out.” She handed me the pamphlet for one of the local gatherings of special needs parents. "You'll be a better mom to all of your kids when you practice some good self care."

“Thank you,” I smiled back. As I glanced down at the information, all still too new and too raw for me to read without tears in my eyes, the theme was clear: We will not have it in us to raise a child with special needs alone. And the resolution to that was being offered right back to me: you have to take care of yourself first.

And you know what, more than a year later, I agree.

*****

When I look back at the first five years of my own motherhood, it’s marked with both incredible memories, and a sufficient amount of fear. I remember holding my 8-day old baby girl when the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting happened, and with so much of the nation, sat on the rocking chair sobbing uncontrollably at even the thought that something like that could happen to a classroom of kindergartners. Cannon was just over a year old when the Syrian refugee crisis finally grabbed our attention, with the image of a little boy’s body washed up on the shores of a Turkish beach. I was weeks away from giving birth to Jordi when the terrorists chose Paris as their target, and there have been countless others since then. I spent many nights awake and anxious and wondering what kind of a world I was raising children in. And all of this was before autism, which brought an entirely new set of anxieties and inconveniences.  

Being a mom has surprised me in so many ways - the highs of irreplaceable joy and lows of sleep-deprived fighting with whoever catches me off guard first. But it is not a stretch for me to say that the most surprising thing it it has shown me is how ugly my heart can be. When fear and frustration and exhaustion and the completely unexplainable descend on my home, the person that has showed up is not the one I am most proud to be. I’m irritable, impatient, arguing with my husband, and oh yes I did yell at my daughter for spilling three cups of water that she was bringing to me on a tray. To serve me. It still hurts to remember that convicting moment.  

So when it came to self-care, it was becoming painfully obvious that a little time away and a pedicure, while wonderful, were going to fall short.

The sirens were going off around me: the fear, the what-ifs, the “how do I talk to my children about this” and the diagnoses –  and it was only then that I started looking for safety.

What motherhood has taught me more than anything else can be summed up in one simple lesson, the same thing that pamphlet the therapist gave me said: I cannot do this alone. The problem with the solutions, with the ‘take care of yourself first’ mentality, is that it encourages escapes, not healing. As wonderful as escapes are (I don’t even need to tell you how much I love a good spa day), they make the surface look pretty, they don’t sustain you from day to day. There isn’t a wrinkle cream, injection, nail polish, aromatherapy, essential oil, or massage strong enough to do what my heart constantly needs: to be examined, and then healed.

God’s Word, however, has an exceptional way of doing both.

Time and life and motherhood and the reality that life is an unpredictable dance of truly beautiful and remarkably hard has taught me that self-care is less about what I do and more about who and what I am consistently with. When God’s Word is churning in my heart before the tasks of the day and three little people ask me to consistently adjust what I had in mind, everything changes. I’m humbled by this work, not inconvenienced by it. I’m heartbroken by the reality of sin and evil in a broken world, not paralyzed by it. I’m patient with autism, not bitter about it. I’m rejoicing about the work God saw fit to give us, not comparing it to the work he gave others.  And I remember that no matter what changes around us, we have “the promise of the unchangeable character of His purpose,” which is to make His name and glory known in all things and to all people. The way I live in this world, with every victory and every challenge, is either going to do that, or it's not. 

And more than anything, I want it to. 

So yes, I had better take care of myself first.

*****

When Harper asked me that simple question, “Mommy, what are you doing?” I thought about the many ways I could answer her: I’m studying the Bible, I’m writing, I’m praying, I'm asking God to show me who He is through this book He left us, or simply that I am just spending time with Jesus. All of those are good answers, and all things I think she would understand. But in that moment, I told her exactly what I was thinking.

“Mommy is just taking care of herself this morning, sweetie.”