This. This moment when the last of summer is blowing through my twilit house, this moment when my baby is slumbering peacefully upstairs, when my husband is kissing me and telling me again how he loves me, this moment when the voices of children echo down the street, chasing each other toward home, this moment when the moon is just beginning to shine through our living room window, this moment is what I dreamed my grown-up life would be when I was still a little girl.
I breathe it in and smile at the shadow of my smaller self. My life is rich with fulfilled dreams.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
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.
This is what happens when you grow up with boys.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
One Year
From this:
to this:
Everything I want to say seems so cliched so I'll simply say that tonight my tears are infinitely sweeter than they were a year and a day ago.
to this:
Everything I want to say seems so cliched so I'll simply say that tonight my tears are infinitely sweeter than they were a year and a day ago.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
A more beautiful me
They swirl and flutter around me, bright as birds, their words coming at me from every direction. My nickname echoes down the hallway, shouted exuberantly.
"Lindiebooooo!"
"You look hot, Lin!"
"I love that skirt! You made it? That's awesome!"
"You're so talented."
I watch them, fascinated. They are tall and small, short hair and long, curls and heavy flowing strands, pale skin with blue eyes, darker with glowing brown, and a fascinating green thrown into the mix. Every one of them captures me, takes my breath away. That they love me, that they want to hang out with me and run to hug me and love my baby makes me astonished. My girls, that's how I think of them.
I'm not a natural with teenagers, ask anyone. I wasn't a graceful teen myself, in any sense of the word. I grew too fast to achieve any sort of comfort with my body; for years I was all gangly arms and legs, forever tripping over any random thing. My figure developed fast but late. And my beliefs were never compatible with a high school environment. So, scarred by high school, I found myself intimidated by teenagers for years regardless of the fact that I was older, more confident in my identity and had fought much bigger battles.
Until now. Until these girls. I don't know how it happened, exactly. Suddenly one day they were there, a beautiful part of my life. Suddenly I was privileged to hear their secrets and dreams, share in their hopes for the future. Suddenly their parents were thanking me for "spending time" with their kids. I always find myself mumbling something about "my pleasure" when that happens but what I really want to say is:
"Are you kidding me? I am SO getting the better end of the deal here."
"Your daughter is a treasure."
"Her heart is amazing. I am humbled."
"I love every minute of time I spend with her."
I can never get myself together enough to articulate that but that's what I want to say.
I often fall asleep at night with my girls on my mind. I think of all the challenges they face in life. Being a teen girl is different now than it was when I was younger. Some of these girls are handling things that blow my mind. I have no idea what to say to them half the time and I pray for wisdom on the fly, that what I say would build them up, that I would root them in a foundation that is firm, that they would know their incredible value, worth and beauty. Because this is what I hear from their lips, the regugurgitation of what the world is telling them:
"I'm too thin. I don't have enough of a shape."
"I need to lose weight. But at least I know if a guy likes me now, before I change, he likes me for who I am and not how I look."
"My hair is too curly. I wish it was straight."
"I'm too short."
"I'm a giant!"
It makes me want to cry. I wish I could show them how I see them in my mind, peacock-bright, shining like stars, each of them unique and amazing. I see their beautiful hearts, each one so gifted in a different way. They are passionate and quiet, strong and gentle, caring and intelligent, clever and funny, and all of them are incredibly generous in spirit. They enrich the fabric of my life; I cannot remember how it was before I recieved random text messages from them throughout the day, before they saved my life some Sunday afternoons by helping me take care of Sam, before they barreled down the hallways Sunday morning, shouting my nickname, to hug me passionately.
If all that were not enough, they have given me one last gift, one which is truly priceless. I can finally look back and see myself at 13, 14, 15, 16 and se the girl I was then. We haven't ever been at peace, that girl and I. She said all the same things these girls say to me now. But here in the present I can be kinder to my teenage self and I can see her for who she was; a girl on the verge, someone just becoming. The seeds of Linda. I can see a more beautiful me. And I feel at peace.
"Lindiebooooo!"
"You look hot, Lin!"
"I love that skirt! You made it? That's awesome!"
"You're so talented."
I watch them, fascinated. They are tall and small, short hair and long, curls and heavy flowing strands, pale skin with blue eyes, darker with glowing brown, and a fascinating green thrown into the mix. Every one of them captures me, takes my breath away. That they love me, that they want to hang out with me and run to hug me and love my baby makes me astonished. My girls, that's how I think of them.
I'm not a natural with teenagers, ask anyone. I wasn't a graceful teen myself, in any sense of the word. I grew too fast to achieve any sort of comfort with my body; for years I was all gangly arms and legs, forever tripping over any random thing. My figure developed fast but late. And my beliefs were never compatible with a high school environment. So, scarred by high school, I found myself intimidated by teenagers for years regardless of the fact that I was older, more confident in my identity and had fought much bigger battles.
Until now. Until these girls. I don't know how it happened, exactly. Suddenly one day they were there, a beautiful part of my life. Suddenly I was privileged to hear their secrets and dreams, share in their hopes for the future. Suddenly their parents were thanking me for "spending time" with their kids. I always find myself mumbling something about "my pleasure" when that happens but what I really want to say is:
"Are you kidding me? I am SO getting the better end of the deal here."
"Your daughter is a treasure."
"Her heart is amazing. I am humbled."
"I love every minute of time I spend with her."
I can never get myself together enough to articulate that but that's what I want to say.
I often fall asleep at night with my girls on my mind. I think of all the challenges they face in life. Being a teen girl is different now than it was when I was younger. Some of these girls are handling things that blow my mind. I have no idea what to say to them half the time and I pray for wisdom on the fly, that what I say would build them up, that I would root them in a foundation that is firm, that they would know their incredible value, worth and beauty. Because this is what I hear from their lips, the regugurgitation of what the world is telling them:
"I'm too thin. I don't have enough of a shape."
"I need to lose weight. But at least I know if a guy likes me now, before I change, he likes me for who I am and not how I look."
"My hair is too curly. I wish it was straight."
"I'm too short."
"I'm a giant!"
It makes me want to cry. I wish I could show them how I see them in my mind, peacock-bright, shining like stars, each of them unique and amazing. I see their beautiful hearts, each one so gifted in a different way. They are passionate and quiet, strong and gentle, caring and intelligent, clever and funny, and all of them are incredibly generous in spirit. They enrich the fabric of my life; I cannot remember how it was before I recieved random text messages from them throughout the day, before they saved my life some Sunday afternoons by helping me take care of Sam, before they barreled down the hallways Sunday morning, shouting my nickname, to hug me passionately.
If all that were not enough, they have given me one last gift, one which is truly priceless. I can finally look back and see myself at 13, 14, 15, 16 and se the girl I was then. We haven't ever been at peace, that girl and I. She said all the same things these girls say to me now. But here in the present I can be kinder to my teenage self and I can see her for who she was; a girl on the verge, someone just becoming. The seeds of Linda. I can see a more beautiful me. And I feel at peace.
Friday, June 5, 2009
One year ago today...
...we got the call that we had been selected to be the parents of a little boy, due to be born on June 25th. And life has not been the same since!
Thank God.
I love you, Samster Hamster.
Thank God.
I love you, Samster Hamster.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Feeling so small
Sometimes I'm reminded of how small my own issues are these days.
This morning Jeff read this article. Go read it, it's short and I can wait. Because of his memory issues, he didn't immediately recognize the name of the surviving crewmember. But later in the day I got this email from a longtime friend:
This morning Jeff read this article. Go read it, it's short and I can wait. Because of his memory issues, he didn't immediately recognize the name of the surviving crewmember. But later in the day I got this email from a longtime friend:
Mark was able to see Lee and Stacy this evening.
Mark said that Lee was unrecognizable. He's in the ICU and has had
multiple surgeries so far...he's extremely swollen...he has all sort of tubes coming in and out of his body...has had quite a few rods put in.
Apparently, the aircraft that Lee and the pilot were on became unstable at 20,000 ft - and they ejected.
At the time, a husband and wife were out in the middle of nowhere, and saw the plane and Lee parachuting down.
This couple was able drive out to where Lee landed and the wife was at Lee's side, while the husband was able to aid the rescuers in finding him.
This is a blessing - that helped arrived so quickly at such a critical time.
Mark met Lee's surgeon - he's prior airforce - and the surgeon's wife opened her house up for Stacy to stay...just a very nice couple. At the moment, they are in Bakersfield...which is about an 1 hr 1/2 from Edwards AFB.
Lee will be transported to a hospital in San Diego in a few days.
Lee's parents are on their way out as well.
Stacy has been given much support from the commander and his wife, neighbors, and the wives of Lee's test pilot program.
Lee is in really good spirits.
love to you all!
christina
I put my hand over my mouth after reading the first sentence and then crumpled into tears. This would be awful news for any family to recieve but the idea of my friends having to suffer this just breaks my heart.
This is what I want you to know about Stacy and Lee: they were an integral part of a group of people that kept me alive and functioning when Sarge was newly ill. During that whole horrible first year when he was in the hosital more than out, when he was trying to kill himself, when he'd go for days without speaking, when medication didn't work or when it wracked his body with side effects that landed him the ER and the ICU, Stacy and Lee were there.
They have this huge dog, a cross between an Irish Setter and a St. Bernard. He looks like Clifford the Big Red Dog. I'm a tall person but Napolean's head comes to the top of my hip. He's the size of a small pony; I could practically ride him. He's as gentle as can be, just a really lovely animal. Stacy and Lee let me use him as my therapy dog. There were days when I just showed up at their house, my heart so heavy I could barely walk and Stacy would open the door, park me on her couch, and call Napolean. There we'd sit, the dog with his head in my lap, and I'd just pet him and pet him and pet him. Some days we'd all go for a walk. If Stacy and Lee traveled, I took care of Napolean. I spoiled him rotten those days. I just needed the companionship.
Stacy taught me to scrapbook. I haven't done it since; the fun of doing it was being with her, parked at her sunny kitchen table, using her cutting tools and gabbing away. The best thing about Stacy was that she never talked too much. It was okay to be quiet with her, too. The silence was beautiful, never awkward. But even with that, she never hesitated to ask me questions about Sarge's health or how he was progressing. She asked about his voices, whether he'd get better, how the medical board process was going. Things that should have been awkward to discuss, weren't.
During the hardest times, Stacy (along with others in my special group) sent cards to encourage me. She brought a meal when I had to have surgery. She prayed with me. I thought of myself as a flimsy wall and Stacy as one of many sturdy beams that propped me up and kept me from falling. I know I couldn't have made it without her.
Lee was a friend to Sarge too, during a time when friendship was extremely difficult for him. Anyone in uniform was a reminder of all that he was losing and additionally, a goad to his spirit. He felt like a failure, as though he wasn't a good provider for me, among other things. Lee embodied so many things that Sarge would never get to accomplish in his career. At that time Sarge was also wrestling with the stigma of mental illness. I won't lie, it was tough for the guys of our group to reach past the natural reticence that men feel in the face of such things but they did. Lee prayed with Sarge, encouraged him, visited him. He asked me how I was doing. Later, when their daughter was born, he made it possible for Stacy to come out with me so that I in turn was refreshed enough to go home and serve my husband with a renewed heart.
And now this awful thing has happened to my friends. Time and geography have separated us but I have never forgotten the way they heaped blessing upon blessing over our small family. I think about Lee laying in the hospital and I wonder what sort of road lies before them now. I know they'll have great interim care; the military is good at that. What sort of disabilites will Lee have long term? I pray that he'll have none. I wonder what their future will hold. I don't want them to have to shoulder the burden we've borne, to have to wrestle the VA for benefits and treatment. I don't want them to know any of what we've known. I wish with all my heart that I was near enough to bring them meals and babysit their children and bless them the way they blessed us. My heart is broken into a million pieces for them. Please, if you pray, pray for my friends.
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