Peroxide God

"I mean, we can say no. We don't have to do this," I heard Daniel's voice say on the other end of the line.

"I don't want you to say no. I think... I think it will be an adventure."

Looking back, that was really what I focused on. In some ways, we were way too busy with preparing for the move and walking with Mama during the final months of her life that we rarely paused to let ourselves consider what moving to a foreign country might mean for us.

When I looked to our future living arrangements, I romanticized a lot of it. I saw rich history and a new culture. I saw mind expansion in seeing another side of the world. I saw cobblestones and bakeries with fresh bread and leisurely bike rides. I saw a new house to decorate and the possibility of my eyes taking in the sights of Europe.

While we have experienced all that and more, what I never expected was the loneliness. I never expected to feel isolated and confused most of the time. I didn't expect to grieve the life I knew, the life filled with the safety of community and the ease of the everyday tasks. I didn't expect to bury my Mama just 60 days after moving 4500 miles away. I didn't expect that a treasured friendship would end shortly after, and I didn't expect to say goodbye to yet another baby in early miscarriage.

But that's what happened.

I thought it would be an adventure. No, that's not exactly correct. I thought it would be a fun adventure. If I'm honest - no holding back, gut-wrenching, face-palm worthy honest: It has been mostly difficult and I've hated probably 75% of the past 10 months.

We said yes to the opportunity to come here, believing it would be good. Believing it would make us stronger and more sanctified. Believing it was a gift from God. It's felt more like a burden than a gift. More like "have to" instead of  "get to."

But the truth? No holding back, gut-wrenching truth?

Life's hellish circumstances don't dictate the character of God.

I fight daily to believe that. My emotions say that I've been led to the desert, wounded, thirsty, and alone. That I've been tossed around like a rag doll, given a promise that's been broken. That my life has been put on hold and I'm stuck out here. That faithful obedience brings me pain, loneliness, isolation. That grief will get the best of me and I won't survive this furnace that's getting hotter by the minute.

But my heart, the heart that's been loved by God screams louder that my emotions. His voice, speaking softly, reminds me of the truth.

My only fight is to believe that God is who He says He is: faithful, loving, steadfast, strong. Honest, perfect, holder of all things. He tells me that He's led me to a desert where I'll be thirsty so I can learn to drink from Him. He tells  me He is with me. He reminds me that promises are never more important than the One who gives them. He says that I am in motion, being shaped and molded by His hands that hold me. That the process is dirty and sometimes painful. That I must go into the refining fire, but that the flame will never overtake me. That faithful obedience will ultimately yield eternal perfection.

When I was six years old, I fell on our long gravel driveway and scraped my knee. My Mama pulled out the peroxide and ointment and went right to scrubbing my wound, taking care to remove the tiny bits of stone and dirt that were mixed into my exposed skin. It hurt. I screamed, cried, and tried my best to fight her. But she continued, speaking softly and calmly as she did, reminding me that it would only sting for a moment. It would begin to heal and before I knew it, the scrape would be gone and fresh skin would take it's place. My wound would be healed.

A life lived with Jesus is never perfect. Living out of obedience to Him doesn't always bring blessing and comfort and joy right away. It's quite the opposite. The process of sanctification is rarely without pain. The dirt must be cleaned and blemish stripped away.

The wound must be scrubbed in order for healing to take place.

Like peroxide on a fresh cut, bubbling and stinging, God cleanses our souls.

He cleanses my soul.


Thank you, Jesus, for the work You are doing. We praise You!

Precious Life

I hugged Camden a little tighter each time I picked her up that day.

I paid closer attention to her every move, soaking her being in just as I did on the day we brought her home from the hospital, so aware of the miracle she is.

We rocked a little longer before bed that night. I felt the rise and fall of her chest, her life breath. I felt the steady thump-thump of her heart, pumping her life force. "She's really here," I thought. "I can't believe she's here."

We still don't know how she's here. Well - we know, we took part in her creation - but we don't know exactly what circumstances allowed her once tiny, invisible-to-the-naked-eye life to progress. We don't know if it was the progesterone, or the endometrial biopsy, or the clomid. Or maybe just two of those things. Or maybe none of those things. Over two years later, we still don't know.

Three of her siblings couldn't hold on. We don't know why.

Three. 

I think of them, my first two, still. I think of our fourth now, reminded of the wounded heart that comes with this territory. I wonder of them. I wonder what their eternal forms look like. Will I recognize them when I step into eternity? Will I know they are my children? Will they know me?

Do they know how much they were wanted? I hope they know. Oh, how I hope they know.

Like all of them, we wanted this baby. 

We were so content in trying for you, so at peace with no worry or anxiety. I knew you existed before the test even told me so. I could feel the changes that your little life brought my body. I felt the holy work, the hands of the perfect One shaping you. I loved you, my fourth. In the few weeks of your existence on this Earth, you were loved and wanted every second.

We began telling people of you, the happiest news. We saw smiles and cheers and joyful tears. We weren't even given enough time to let everyone special to us know you were here. I wish there was more time.

I started planning for you. I knew how we would arrange your new room, and it didn't matter if you would be a boy or a girl. We just wanted you. We wanted to watch you grow inside, and then kiss your cheeks and forehead and hands and toes. We wanted to change your messy diapers, and lose sleep every night over you. We really wanted you.

I ordered Camden an outfit. The shirt read "Big Sister". It will arrive in a few weeks, now a harsh reminder that we'll never know you this side of eternity. She would have been the best big sister. You would have been so loved.

I know you are loved, even now. I know you are there, with your older siblings, and all those who lived numbered years on Earth but now reside eternally. I know you existed in God's heart first, and that existence is even more special than the days we had together. 

I'm really honored to be your Mother, holy being. I'm really humbled that I got you, even for such a short time. I will love you all my days, a piece of my heart continually aching for who you might have become. 

You are forever loved, forever wanted, forever cherished.

We will see you soon, precious life.