OctoMom: Before and After

So it seems that Octomom has signed a deal for a reality show. I know, I know, Octomom is old news now, she's been done to death, why am I just talking about her now? Well...procratination. And because it's taken me this time to get my heart and my words together because I want to talk to you about something important.

You're all familiar with my history: barren all my life, keenly aware of it for the last six years. Two miscarriages, too many years of trying and failing, too many doctors, too much heartbreak...and then finally the brilliant punctuation to our story, Sam. I've been a mother for a little over a year now and the feeling is exquisite. It's everything I desired and so much more. But...the barren woman remains. So when Octomom first hit the headlines, I hit the roof along with everyone else. I stood in the church nursery and banged on the changing table as I shouted to my friends about the wrongness of it all, how no doctor should EVER have transferred that many embryos to a woman of that age with those risk factors, it was pure negligence, it would destory reproductive medicine for the rest of us that were behaving responsibly. My friends, who had supported me through countless tears, all nodded vigorously and agreed. They were appalled too.

I was angry for a good long while. It felt good to be angry. I felt justified. Right. I wasn't just morally right, I was SCIENTIFICALLY right. I had the American Society for Reproductive Medicine and their guidelines on my side. I had America on my side! This woman was a menace.

But then I came home one day to find my Gospel Transformation book lying on my desk. I'm sure it had been there for weeks; I use it for reference once in a while. It's green and white cover stared gently back at me, asking me that fundamental question: "Linda, do you need the gospel? Do you still need Jesus in your life?" Yes. Of course. Yes.

That was the beginning of my softening, the first brick in the wall to fall out and down and crumble to dust at my feet.

Here's what you may not know about me: Nadya Suleman ("Octomom") and I, we're the same. Our hearts are in the same condition; needy. When I moved out of my parents' house, I needed to find out who I was apart from them. I was eager to experiment with the world. When my first tastes left me even thirstier, I drank even more deeply. I left old friends behind, got newer, edgier, more dangerous ones to hang out with. I thought them intelligent, sophisticated, cool. I drank a lot. I dated wildly inappropriate men. I turned my mother's hair grey and caused my father's to fall out. I went wild. And I felt awful. Awful. So insecure. I was the thinnest I'd ever been, so thin that I actually modelled for a while. What girl doesn't want to be a model?! I should have felt awesome! But I wondered if my new friends really liked me (no) and if I'd ever really "make" it in their circle (also no.) I wondered what it would take to be accepted. I was already so far outside the boundaries, how much farther would I have to go?

I hit rock bottom, as people sometimes do. It was a long way up. One Sunday, two months into my recovery, I recieved a call from the old crowd that I'd severed ties with. I got to hear what they were calling me, what the rumors were, all the nasty stuff that was being said. I felt the filth of my old life return and I knew in my heart that it had never been gone. I was defiled. I had always been defiled. I would never be clean of it. I stood in front of my pastor's wife the next morning, unable to do anything but weep and say "I want my past to stop following me."

She had the remedy: Jesus. Here was the thing that I'd heard all my life but never understood at the heart level: grace. It was easy for me to accept that I was a sinner; I could clearly see all the wrong things I'd done and I felt the weight of them bowing my shoulders down. I knew I couldn't make that go away on my own; it was going to take something supernaturally strong to erase that feeling of defiled worthlessness away from me. I had no confidence that Jesus could do it but lucky for me, Jesus simply asks that we ask. So I did, I asked. And He showed up. He's shown up every day, for everything since. When the worthlessness comes knocking, He's there saying "You're my daughter. I've forgiven you. Put down your sins and stop carrying them around. I died so that you could be free of that burden."

All that came back to me in a moment, staring at my GT book. Do I still need Jesus? Yes. Does Nadya Suleman need Jesus? Yes. Yes. Her heart and my heart are in the same condition. She is trying to fill her heart-hole with babies, media attention, free stuff. She's trying hard to be a good mom, to live up to a standard she's set for herself; a standard she can't meet. What she needs is someone to lift the burden, to tell her about a Friend that never fails. One day I hope to stand with Nadya at the foot of the throne of Heaven and clasp her hand and know her as a sister. I hope we turn to each other, faces alight with grace, worship and wonder and say to each other "I never imagined He was so good!"

There are a million Nadyas, a million Lindas out there and I see them each day. When I'm tempted to trot out my dogma and righteousness, I think about that green GT book and I think about the barren hillside where Jesus died. I picture myself there at the foot of an empty cross...needy again.

For the record

I just want to say that Jackie Chan is a machine and also a thing of beauty. Love to watch that man move.

This is what happens when you grow up with boys.