I Hate to Complain, But . . . - August 18, 2010

Do you ever have one of those days, the ones where all you want to do is curl up in bed and shut the world outside, but then when you do, nothing seems to get any better? That's my day today.
It all started last night when I essentially didn't sleep. I'm having a lot of trouble sleeping these days. I'm getting more and more uncomfortable as the days go by, and getting discouraged right along with it because I there are three more months of this. Waking up every hour is frustrating, having to switch positions every time I wake up leaves me cranky and feeling like I'm a bother to my husband, and in those moments when I actually do drift off to sleep, I find myself in the middle of the strangest dreams I've ever had, dreams that are usually disturbing or horrifying. It makes for a terrible night sleep and a very sleepy me in the morning.

Last night was worse because my throat felt like it was on fire all night. No amount of water would quell this burn; I thought it was all because we had a fan on last night, but we always have a fan on and this doesn't happen. After I (finally) got up this morning, nothing seemed to help, and my body just felt "off." I've spent my day doing just about nothing, except sleeping, reading, and watching just a little bit of tv. I wish I could say I felt better now that the day's almost over, but I don't. On top of feeling physically crummy, I'm feeling emotionally crummy as well. It's as if I've lost all strength.

I think today I just want to complain, not because it makes anything better, but because sometimes complaining is the only thing that seems to validate my feelings. Does that ever happen to you?
And yet I know that complaining isn't exactly the "right" thing to do. I know deep down (well, not even all that deep down) that complaining often just makes things worse. The problem is, today I can't figure out what would make me feel better.

On top of feeling sick, I feel stuck in so many ways, like I know what I want to do, but am unable to do any of it. I feel like my life is at a standstill.

Oh, it's not all bad. There are lots of good things about life right now. My attitude, however, is what is bad today, and feeling sick makes it all worse. I'm over our life right now. I'm not over Joey, nor am I over the idea that we're going to be parents in three short months. But there are aspects of life I'm over. I'm over being at my parents' house (even though they are being incredibly gracious and generous), I'm over feeling like we are always just barely scraping by financially, I'm over feeling like we're not making any headway whatsoever in our quest to pay down our debt (oh, how I loathe you, student loans!). I'm over being frustrated with where we are in life, I guess.

Most days my attitude is better. Most days I can easily see all the good in our lives and every blessing the Lord has graciously given us. But today, all I want to do is feel normal again. I just don't feel like myself and I'm at a loss to know how to get back to that girl I used to know. I liked her. But this girl? She's sort of a mess.

But I guess in our own ways, we're all messes, aren't we? The encouraging thing is that God loves us in our messiness. He digs it when we tell him how much we need him, doesn't he? And that's the point: we need him. We can't go this alone. Life doesn't work without him. After all, the joy of the Lord is our strength, right? And today, when I feel devoid of all my reserves of the stuff, I need to go back to the source.

The Art of Saying Thank You - August 10, 2010

Last week some very generous people from our church gave us a beautiful crib set, the kind that we’d only dream of purchasing ourselves but never would. It was an answer to prayer, a smile from God straight down upon us, the kind of moment that made me realize that not only was this baby not a mistake, she is purposeful in more ways than one. God is using her to teach Joey and I something about gratitude and humility. 

Saying thank you is pretty easy, right? Someone gives you something, does a kind favor, treats you well, sheesh, even opens the door for you and the automatic polite response is “Thank you.” It’s proper, it’s expected, and sure, it is nice to hear someone say it. But how often do those words really capture just how grateful a person is?

For me, saying thank you can be difficult for a variety of reasons, really. For one, I usually forget to do it in a meaningful way. I’ll usually just say the obligatory “thank you,” fully intending to do something more, and then not following through with my plan. Why? Well, because I get busy and forget to write the thank you cards, or when I do remember them, everything that I can think of to say sounds trite and seems to defeat the whole purpose. But the truth is that my heart deeply feels the thanks that I am trying to express. Those words—thank you—sometimes don’t capture just how thankful I am. Like when these people gave us the crib set. Eeking out a thank you on the phone seemed like it wasn’t enough. Like it couldn’t possibly express to them how profoundly appreciated their generosity is in our lives.

Then there’s another reason why thank you can be difficult for me. Learning to live within the confines of a strict budget makes other people’s generosity all that much more meaningful. When I can’t pay for something on my own, or aren’t sure how I’ll pay for something on my own, I pray that the Lord will provide for whatever my need is (doesn’t everyone?) and I sit and wait to see what God will do. And when he does something, I’m never surprised (because that’s just who God is, right?), but I’m always taken aback at the way he does it. I’m always humbled, reminded that God sees my needs. All of them—even the needs that seem so small and insignificant. But not only does he see them, he knows my heart, too. He knows my desires.

By having this baby, we’ve set a ball in motion. Our family is started, and knowing that we want more than one child, we’ve been thinking about how we can borrow things from our generous friends without needing to go through the cycle of needing baby stuff the next time around (because of course, our friends could be needing their baby things back by then…).  So we held off making a decision on whose “stuff” to borrow. We’d think we made a decision, but then we’d go back on it. It happened a few times. In the end, we decided that we really wanted to have our own baby furniture so that we didn’t have to worry about giving it back. We looked on Craigslist, we scoured sales, and we finally chose something we liked. It was dark wood, which we love, but simple and affordable. It was like the Kia or the Hyundai of the crib industry. Totally functional, but not what we’d have chosen had money not been an issue. Still, we were content with it and thankful we were able to get the money together to purchase it.

The day after we placed the order, I received a call from some people at our church who were moving out of state. They just happened to be going through their storage unit and stumbled upon their daughter’s nursery furniture. They wanted to just get rid of it, so they were curious if we wanted to take it off their hands. As the woman described it to me, my heart began to beat so hard I was convinced I was going to fall over. She described a dark wood sleigh bed-style crib with a matching changing table. These people aren’t the sort that need to spare any expense, so I knew it would be the Mercedes of the crib world—and they wanted to give it to us, free and clear.

Long story short, we cancelled our crib order and accepted their gift. There was a small part of me that felt a bit humbled, like “great, how wonderful to be that couple that needs to rely on the generosity of others to make ends meet…” but then that thought was washed away in a moment when I realized how God not only saw our need, but he saw our desires, too. A crib that is completely ours in the style that we loved. For free.

And that’s just one of the many times God has answered our prayers through the generosity of our friends lately. My best friend Christy stumbled upon a family who was selling infant girls’ clothes for .25 cents a piece—and she got us a big box full! She also gave us some other things from her own stash of baby gear and never thought twice about it. My friend Molly networked with some of her friends and put the word out that we’d be happy to inherit anything baby they were getting rid of, and a good friend of hers who I’ve never even met gave us a bag full of all sorts of things, from a changing table pad to bath towels.

How do I say thank you to these families? A thank you card seems trivial. A simple thank you over the phone is simply not enough. Expressing how I really feel takes more than that, doesn’t it? Saying thank you to the Lord is much easier for me, I think, because he knows my heart. I don’t have to say much at all for him to know how I feel. But making sure people know how God used them, that their perhaps seemingly small gesture was actually something very big and meaningful, that’s something that I want to make sure they understand. Not because I want to be known as someone who gives the best thank you’s, but because it’s important to me for people to know when and how God has used them. So often we go through life wanting God to use us to touch other people’s lives, but very rarely do we know when we actually are being used.

I’m learning that trusting God to provide usually means learning to graciously accept the kindness of others. Sometimes it’s humbling, sometimes it’s exciting, and sometimes (I admit) I don’t recognize it for what it is. In the end, though, I know that God is teaching me that he sees every need and every desire and is always faithful to me, just like he said he would be. It’s a gift to know people who have the heart and generosity of Jesus. My prayer is that I would have those things, too.

An Early Morning Confession - August 6, 2010

It's after four o'clock in the morning and I'm wide awake.  You'd think something profound would be on my mind, or that I was plagued with a bad stomach ache or some sort of miserable something that was preventing me from sleeping. I'm feeling ok-ish...I do have a bit of acid reflux, but it's nothing abnormal these days. No, I'm just awake. And since I'm awake, my mind wanders. And then It starts to play tricks on itself. And then I start to think of things that are absolutely untrue (but are based on some semblance of reality).

Being pregnant makes me feel crazy sometimes. I know it's nothing new and that most women feel that their losing their minds at some point in the process (right?), so I don't pretend to have stumbled upon a new idea here. What I didn't realize was just how "not myself" pregnancy would make me feel. There are certain things, certain convictions, certain choices I made a long time ago about myself, my body, my health that slowly seem to be being laid by the wayside for some reason, like my brain doesn't care what I've chosen before--it's going to take over and reverse all the good I've done for so long. Being healthy, living healthy, are things that have been an integral part of my life for several years now, so much so that it was simply a lifestyle for me. It wasn't a battle--it just was life for me. Making good choices and balancing my nutrient intake was not a problem (most of the time, at least). Sure, I'd have the occasional splurge, but that's just it: it was a splurge.

Today, I splurged. But it's more than that. I mean, I ate crap. Twice. The only veggie I had today was a pathetic little tomato on my burger for dinner. I didn't even have a scrap of fruit. And... I had two servings of french fries today (over the course of two meals, but still...). And you know what? It all tasted great. I didn't regret it after I ate it at first--it felt fine, like "ok, big deal--it's just one day out of life." Sometimes I feel like I need to give myself a break and just eat what sounds good and enjoy the process of being pregnant, not having to worry about every last calorie that passes over my lips. And yet tonight? Now all I can think about is how guilty I feel. How unattractive I suddenly am convinced that I am. How I'm gaining too much weight. How making once in awhile "exceptions" to the way that I typically live adds up, and I'm worried that the consequences will toy with my self-worth.

Awhile ago, Joey and I spoke very candidly about our big life struggles, the things that make us stumble, and how we are working toward wholeness every day. Our battles are very different and for the most part, I think we could have easily told ourselves that they are unrelated. The thing is, they are interdependent. What he struggles with is related to what I struggle with. Our struggles, unchecked, will feed the others' struggle and perhaps even make it worse.

While Joey's struggle is very typical of many men (perhaps even most men), I struggle with something common to women, perhaps even most women. Insecurity, self-image, weight--you know the toxic combination. The bottom line is that so often I don't feel "ok" with who I am. It all goes back to when I was in 5th grade and my mom took me down to our church where they had one of those huge clunky scales like they have in the doctor's office. When I stepped on, she said, "115. Alright, now if you can just stay here, you'll be ok." Ever since then, 115 has been that elusive dream that would mark me as "ok." I wasn't aware of my body or my weight before that point, but have been hyper-aware of it ever since.

It wasn't until I was about 22 that I started making the choice to be healthy, to not worry about my weight while hiding and eating my emotions. Instead, I learned about nutrition, about exercise, about making a lifestyle change, and I had success. I became disciplined and enjoyed the pay off of my efforts. It became so natural to me that it was like breathing. Weight wasn't an issue for me anymore. But I still struggled with insecurity, with feeling like I wasn't "ok" because despite the fact that I was fit, I never hit that coveted 115 mark again.

And now pregnancy is putting me out of control of my ever-expanding waistline. There is nothing I can do to prevent getting bigger. Nothing. And I wouldn't want to not gain weight--hello, I'm not crazy; I know that a woman must gain weight (at least a little) to have a baby. But, well, I don't like gaining weight. I don't like the way it makes me feel. To complicate things more, I don't like the way I feel after giving in to one of my cravings (even though multiple people have assured me that once in awhile is not a big deal...). I know that, in theory. But it's like my mind is split on this: on the one hand, I know I'll be ok, that even if I do get a little chubby during pregnancy, I will be able to lose the weight after the baby is born. On the other hand, I'm afraid to get chubby in the first place. I want to be one of those women who doesn't look pregnant, who doesn't gain anything "extra," and yet, my behavior doesn't always match that. It's like I have a split personality.
So back to where this fits in with Joey's struggle. I learned that our struggles really are fairly similar. It's about lust, in a way. About being drawn to something that we intuitively know is not good for us, a weakness that can take over if we give it an inch. Just like he would naturally want to hide it from me if he "fell" and looked at some image he knew wasn't good for him to look at, I want to hide it from him when I stumble and have a burger & fries. I'm afraid he'll judge me, make me think I'm unattractive, and basically be disgusted with me and surprised by my behavior, like he'd wonder "who is this person--you're not who I married."

And yet, in those moments when he's tempted or has had a close call, he does tell me. Sometimes it takes him a little bit of time, but he still tells me because it's important to him not to hide it from me. No, he doesn't seek the stuff out, but sometimes there are things that pop up on the computer and his eyes linger a little longer than they should. But do I tell him when I stumble? Sometimes. Most of the time I don't because I don't equate food with lust. To me, food is just food, and having something not all that healthy is ok once in awhile, whereas lingering eyes on another female form is never ok, so to speak.

So what do I do with this? I'm not sure. I'm sitting here at (now) 4:30 am pondering this while all I want to do is drown my sorrows in a box of cookies and a glass of milk. And there's a part of me that thinks "Who cares? It's just a cookie. It won't hurt you." And then there's another part of me that knows that I won't feel any better after having eaten the cookies. Not even if it's just one.
Here's the thing that's getting me down tonight: if I'm comfortable enough to spill my guts out to the world at large, I should be comfortable enough to let my own husband know about it, shouldn't I? One would think. And yet being vulnerable with him about stuff like this is harder than writing about it here because he's really the one whose opinion I care about most. And yet, isn't he also the one whose love for me is most secure? He's the one who thinks I'm beautiful, the one who chose me, who is proud of who I am...and he's the one whose disappointment would be the hardest to handle (which is why it's so difficult...).

So I guess what I do is start fresh in the morning, choosing to make the wise choices (including telling my husband about how I'm feeling) and not beat myself up about not reaching that level of perfection that just isn't reality. 

Clarity from a Pair of Swollen Ankles

Before I was pregnant, I hated my ankles. Loathed them. Cursed them, tried to hide them, wished I could change them (tried several times), and eventually gave up on them and resigned myself to the fact that they'd be one of my "problem areas" forever. But then they got worse. Much worse.

Pregnancy has been full of many surprises, mainly in the way my body has changed, but the one thing that caught me the most by surprise was how swollen ankles could actually make me thankful for (and actually miss) my normal, pre-pregnancy ankles.

It was hot a few weeks ago--incredibly hot--106 degrees, in fact. And no, I don't have air conditioning. To say I was miserable would be an understatement, and I know that you ladies who've been pregnant through heat waves will understand. One day, I got home from work, sat on the couch and put my feet up because they were aching after having been on them all day. When I glanced down at them, I was shocked to see they'd tripled in size. Tripled. It reminded me of the scene in Hitch when Will Smith's character has an allergic reaction to seafood and his face swells up to the point where he's virtually unrecognizable. My ankles did the same sort of thing.

When Joey got home that evening, he asked me how I was surviving the heat. All I had to do was show him my ankles--they spoke for themselves. From that moment on, I decided that I had to laugh at them (they were comical, after all), otherwise I would cry. I cried anyway, though. Those things stuck around for several days; they were there so often that they became the new normal, and I started forgetting what my normal ankles looked like.

Then one morning when I got out of bed, I looked in the mirror (as I often do), and noticed something incredible--my ankles. They were beautiful! They were slender and dainty and made my feet feel pretty again. And then a strange thought struck me: they were back to their normal selves. I hadn't had to work hard for them or put up a huge fight--nope, all I had to do was recognize the beauty that had always been there, the beauty that I failed to see before. I wished I had a short skirt and high heels that were made for 8 month pregnant ladies, but alas, I settled for my regular work pants and flats that day. And of course, when I got home, those ankles were swollen to high heaven again, and the little ankles I used to know were again obscured by the new puffier ones. But I went to sleep that night with a strange feeling--contentment with the ankles that I have. Happy that they were swollen, because had they not been, I would not have had that moment in which I realized how lovely my ankles are. And through that, I realized that my body is just that: a body. It's not my spirit, it's not my soul, it's not my intelligence and it's not my heart. Those things have remained constant even though my body has not. And while realizing that my ankles weren't half bad was a big deal for me, realizing that who I am is pretty fantastic despite how I look was even more important. Lord help me to hang on to that.

I admit that I've wavered between being angry and being resigned to the fact that my body is changing during the past few months. At the same time, though, I've been in awe of my body, realizing that it's capable of so much more than I've given it credit for in the past. I used to chastise this body of mine, I would look at it with contempt and think that I had to control every little thing in order for it to be even remotely close to being "ok." But I guess that's another story. For now, saying I'm thankful for my swollen ankles is enough. The puffiness reminds me of the truth, and the truth is that my body is just one aspect of who I am, and though it may change one way or another during different seasons of my life, the truth of who I am won't change. And I got all that from a pair of swollen ankles.