Thank you, from the bottom of our (mending) hearts

Redolent roses from M, a gorgeous gerber daisy from the H's,
and a beautiful bouquet from S. 

The other day, when I expressed how overwhelmed I felt by the incredible outpouring of love and support from friends and family, a good friend reminded me that it wasn't necessary to respond to each note, bouquet, email, or package; we simply have to rest in the knowledge that people want to care for us right now, no strings attached. That goes against everything in me; my mum trained me well to write thank you notes and make calls when packages arrive, so it's hard to just rest in the arms of our friends. Yet, I think I'm starting to learn why that's so important: because their arms are extensions of our Father's, and He invites us to "come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls" (Matthew 11:28-29). And rest is what we so desperately need.

Our "Beanster" (and "Blueberry") ornament, a gift from a beloved friend I've never met,
and the only thing we own to commemorate the tiny lives of our much-loved angels.

And so, in some small way, I hope this post serves as a small thank you--to all of you who have come alongside us to grieve in ways big and small. Beautiful, brightly colored flowers bloom all over our living room mantle, reminding us of hope and life in a time of dark sadness. Not a day goes by when I don't receive a text or an email from a member of our RCC church family, just letting us know that prayers are being lifted on our behalf without ceasing and reminding us--again and again--that we do not grieve our Beanster alone, that he is remembered and loved by so many more than just us two. Two couples from our small group arrived with meals last week, one the night before surgery and one the night of surgery. Neither couple gave us an option to refuse their offers to cook; they simply announced when they'd be coming, told us how to reheat delicious pasta e fagioli soup and a "Mexico meets Midwest" taco pie, and brought with them movies to distract us and conversation to nourish us.

B's extraordinary package.
(Her words in the card are really the most remarkable gifts of all.)

And then there are the letters, emails, and even a package that have arrived from women I've never met in person, women who share our grief because they, too, have felt it. As I've referenced many times in this blog, the women of my online support group are rocks who provide love, comfort, encouragement, and understanding. One in particular, B, has blessed Jeff and me in ways beyond our imagination; she has prayed for us throughout our journey, and she was the angel who sent us the "B" ornament and package contents pictured above. I've never met B, but that doesn't shake my certainty that God has connected us in ways that mere human contact never could.

And so this week draws to a close, and we prepare to celebrate a birth--that of our Christ--next week. Celebrating life seems paradoxical right now, yet it's the only thing that could possibly give us hope in a future unseen, so celebrate we will. And, with gratitude beyond words to each and every one of you, I'll celebrate with a smile on my face.

More incredible friends got us out of the house last night,
and B's beautiful scarf kept me warm along the way!

When Hearts Break, Again.

As the two new posts below reveal, Jeff and I learned I was pregnant again at Thanksgiving, blessed with a new little life after our second round of injections and IUI.

Turns out that 2012 wasn't our year after all. It's been bookended by the losses of our two sweet July babies, Blueberry and Beanster. Today feels both eerily similar to and strangely different from January 13, 2012. Our D&C will be performed in the Maryland headquarter offices of our capable and gentle RE, not in a hospital. This time, extensive genetic testing will be performed, both on our little Beanster and on me. Jeff will not sit alone in the waiting room as I go through surgery; our beloved friend, M, will sit by his side. And we won't come home to an empty house; friends will come to distract us with silly movies, and our church family will bring dinner.

In some ways, this time is so much less lonely. We'd shared our joy--very intentionally--with so many, and so they are wrapping us in prayer and home-cooked meals and constant texts and emails of encouragement. And that is so nourishing and good, and it holds the grief at bay for whole hours at a time.

But, in other ways, this time is so much scarier. We've now lost two sweet angels, both in the seventh week of their brief lives inside me. We know, with this one, that a tiny heart actually stopped beating, which puts our type of miscarriage in a very small minority. It seems the issue isn't just getting me pregnant (as we thought) but keeping me pregnant. And so I am overwhelmed with fear and guilt and doubt. Why can't my body keep my babies alive? What if all the testing reveals nothing we can fix? How do I watch the man I adore and would do anything for grieve again for a lost opportunity at fatherhood?

I trust my heavenly Father has a Plan, and I don't even need to know what it is today. Right now, I just need to make it through today.

Happy Tears

Our little Beanster, measuring 6 weeks, 2 days, with a perfect little heartbeat of 111 bpm!

That's my uterus! That's our Beanster!

Yesterday morning was the appointment I feared so much. As we waited to be called into the ultrasound room, I focused on a verse a good friend had given to me: "The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged" (Deuteronomy 31:8). The more I prayed, the more I heard "do not be discouraged" reverberating in my head. I was anticipating disappointment, but why?

When our doctor and ultrasound tech walked into the room to greet us, both said "Congratulations!" For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why. There was nothing to congratulate, as far as I could tell. With a quick assessment, they started right in on the ultrasound, gently explaining what they were seeing. The only word I cared about was "heartbeat," though, so it took me a moment when our tech said "and there's the cardiac activity!" A second of comprehension later, the tears started.

Cardiac Activity.
Heartbeat.
Little Life.

When talking with the women in my RCC small group in the waiting period between our IUI and positive bloodwork, I tearfully confessed that I knew it would take a miracle to get me pregnant, and I just wasn't sure those were possible any longer. Those women, who love me so dearly, were the strong rocks they always are as they reassured me that it was alright to be naked and humbled before our Father, to admit that my faith was failing me. That night, they prayed for a miracle on my behalf, as I quietly cried and soaked first my sleeve and then a Kleenex.

So this is our tiny miracle, with a tiny, beating heart. And, Father, we are humbled before you.

A Peace That Passes All Understanding.

As I sit at the dining room table tonight, waiting for a friend to come over, I find myself needing to write this post. It's one I hope won't appear on the blog for another 6 weeks or so, but it's on my heart tonight, so it will come out on the "page."

Tomorrow morning at 10AM, Jeff and I will head to the RE's office for a very different kind of ultrasound than we've had the past few months. Unlike my numerous monitoring appointments, this time, we're looking for our little Baby Beanster. The last time we saw him, he was just a tiny little 20mm follicle, one that I prayed about before he began a long journey that Sunday night. Tomorrow, he should be a little bigger and happily snuggled up in his new home for the next seven and a half months or so.

Before our ultrasound last January--the one that revealed our lost Blueberry--I was filled with a sense of joyful anticipation. Sure, I knew that miscarriages happened, but I was still getting very dark lines on home pregnancy tests, I hadn't had a spot of bleeding, and I had no cramping. I was one of the lucky ones without nausea or overly sore breasts, but that just meant God was blessing us even more, right? And so, when the ultrasound screen revealed a picture no father or mother should ever have to see, I was devastated.

But that's not the room I'm living in tonight. Tonight, I am surrounding with an army of prayer warriors, men and women who have loyally walked every step of the last 11 months with us, who have rejoiced in the last two weeks as we shared the news of our pregnancy, who have been sending emails and texts full of encouragement and wisdom throughout the day today.

Today, I'm more than aware that I'm just a temporary home--and we are just temporary parents--to this miraculous little Beanster. And we can do nothing more than pray that God grants us as much time as possible with him.

Pen Pals

Cards from two dear Canadian friends.

When he was in third grade, Jeff had a pen pal named David who was a soldier in Operation Desert Storm. Unlike my students today, Jeff didn't text or email David, he wrote to him by putting ink to paper. Though we don't know where David is or what he is doing today, I'm certain that he remembers the letters from the little eight-year-old boy in Connecticut who painstakingly wrote out his daily activities.

Spring treats from a woman who
indulged my love of lotions and lip balm!

Today, pen pals are almost entirely a thing of the past. It's rare to receive a handwritten card in the midst of piles of coupons, bills, and notices. Of course, I write the appropriate thank you notes and Christmas cards, but, with the singular exception of my mum--who lovingly and regularly sends me little missives--I don't really have any pen pals anymore. Or I didn't--not until our little Blueberry brought a few into my life.

A summer care package from a woman
who has prayed Psalm 37:4 for me daily.

The pen pals I have today are both traditional and contemporary--some send cards and packages while others check in daily on message boards and via email. They're spread all over the continent--from North Carolina to Canada and beyond--and I haven't met a single one of them. Rather, we are united by a shared bond that blessedly few other women in my life understand, and our frustration and heartache and laughter and tears bind us together despite space and time. They are some of the strongest women I know, women who I admire and strive to emulate. And as they follow my journey, I follow theirs.

As a result, today's post is--very simply--dedicated to all of you who read this blog without seeing me every day. Those of you who check in on us, who follow our story, who grieve and cheer with us, who find ways to provide intangible support and love. I'm honored to call you my pen pals.




Want to get to know some of the amazing women I admire? Here are some links to their blogs:

http://the-canadian-housewife.blogspot.com/ "Learning how to live, laugh and love after loss" (with some seriously adorable, affordable, and easy home projects and kitchen experiments care of Jenn and her husband, Dan)
http://growbabysmithgrow.blogspot.com/ "Our story of hope and faith through three miscarriages, an ectopic pregnancy, IUI, and now IVF!" (now featuring some awesome news as we cheer on the little rockstar Laura is growing!)
http://booksanddancing.blogspot.com/ "Dancing my way through life, loss, and books" (Need a book to read? Stasy has many recommendations, beautifully interwoven with her own story.)
http://oneemerald.blogspot.com/ Celebrating Megan and Daniel's faith that has led them through loss and into new life

Happy Engage-a-versary!

(Sinatra Drive in Hoboken, NJ, November 19, 2008)

Four years ago tonight, the moment above occurred. Miraculously, Jeff managed to stun me into speechless surprise; the look on my face is no trick of the camera or well-acted choice--it's complete and total shock as a tiny ring box opens.

It's actually a miracle we even got to the point of the ring box, to tell you the truth. Not knowing any possible reason why Wednesday, November 19, might be a significant day, I had already canceled my own engagement by throwing a tantrum about how we couldn't afford to go out to eat. Once we got over that hurdle, friends set me up to pick the "right" restaurant for dinner (Trinity, the location of our first date), yet I chose Cuban for no apparent reason. The night of the actual engagement, a meeting ran late at work, and then the friend who was bringing me to Hoboken ran late, all resulting in a very anxious future fiance pacing the river. All that is to say nothing of my attempt to go directly into the restaurant--rather than to the bench where Jeff sat (it was cold!), or my three interruptions of the proposal-I-didn't-know-was-a-proposal.

Finally, Jeff got to the end of the words he'd planned for months: "You've swept me off my feet; I'd like to sweep you off yours for the rest of your life." And what did I do? Offered a "That's so sweet," followed by a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, followed by standing and stamping my cold feet. As a result, the moment above is the direct result of my endlessly patient husband sharply calling "Tory!" and opening the box I didn't even know he had.

Little has changed in four years. Jeff remains endlessly patient, and I continue to interrupt the majority of his important speeches. I still try to control where we go and when we go there, and he still beats me to the punch some days. And, no matter what, November 19 has always remained as our day--our own personal holiday. I somehow always manage to forget the exact date, but Jeff never does. There's always a card on my bedside table in the morning or flowers when I get home from work. This morning, there was a small pile on the butcher block in the kitchen: soft, fuzzy socks, portable hand warmers, and a card that read "Let these gifts warm you as you always warm me... or at least... warm those cold piggies [toes and fingers] of yours." This day--our day--marks the beginning of when we knew our life would be together always.

How honored I am to call this man my husband, the one I pledged to love forever and a couple of extra days.

Yup. I married ALL of that.

The man I love, prepared for anything Snor'eastercane 2012 might bring!

I adore my husband. I am awed by the way he cares for me, in the midst of the calm and the storms and everything in between. He knows when to ask the tough questions and how to prod me out of my comfort zone, but he's also well aware of when the right answer is Annie's mac 'n' cheese and a glass of chardonnay.

Not one of his home-bartending creations, but an equally delicious moment!

And he doesn't just care for me; instead, he has a long track record of nurturing my friends, too. He's sat through countless hours of chick flicks, through long nights of tears, and through being the only guy for a night out in the town center (which sounds enviable to some men, until they realize it's just four girls gossiping about fashion and work for several hours). He never complains, either; instead, he's quick to toss an extra (veggie) burger on the grill or whip up another round of cocktails.

The pumpkin-carving and fire Jeff prepared for my girlfriends and me the night of the hurricane.
(There were S'mores, too--we just didn't have enough time to get to them!)

And he makes me laugh--really laugh--at least once every day. He sends a fabulous Get Fuzzy cartoon to my phone or stalks Ozzy around our house, looking for all the world like a giant cat/child hybrid. He tells me stories of the things his first-grade students say in acting class and points out the kids in our neighborhood doing silly things. He agrees to watch a half-hour sitcom I love (in place of an hour of Discovery Channel) just because he hopes it will make me smile.

Sticking out our tongues (just 'cause) on top of Federal Hill, Baltimore.

The lists could go on and on, but I'll stop here (for now). Boo, you're right, we made a family the day we got married. I want to be silly and sappy and sentimental with you forever and a couple of days!

Of hair salons...

I'm currently sitting in the chair at the salon, waiting for my color to permeate my hair follicles while reading magazines, checking my phone, and sipping wine (it's a Reston salon--they don't mess around!). At one point, going to the stylist was fun; I loved coming out feeling EVEN fresher and younger than when I went in--but those days seem to be gone.

Now, I put off coming back to the salon for as long as possible, which really means until even wearing my hair curly won't cover the grey anymore. I hate making small talk with my (really lovely and sweet) stylist; I hate looking at all the beautiful, young, glamorous women around me; I hate looking at my pudgy chipmunk cheeks and double chin in the mirror when my hair is slicked back with color or water. Today, I particularly hate how bloated and sad I feel, thanks to the spot I'm in in our current cycle.

How is it that the thing that used to make me feel so beautiful now just makes me feel defeated? When did going to the salon become about covering up the perceived ugly instead of highlighting the present beauty? And how will I ever reclaim feeling beautiful and successful just because I'm me--not because I'm a good teacher or wife or friend?

I wish changing my mental state was as easy as changing the color of my hair.

1 + 1 = 2 (usually)

(A forewarning, family and friends: this one is raw and hurting.)

When I was little, my parents did their best to raise me in a world that was black and white. Taking my older brother's Lego was wrong; sharing my snack with him was right. Griping to get a higher grade was wrong; admitting I'd gotten extra, unwarranted points on a test was right. Things were simple: one + one = two, and the world made some logical sense. And that was okay by me--because I usually did what was "right."

In the last nine months, though, I've been proven wrong.

See, I've done everything "right." I made sure I was eating healthy and got well back within my "optimal" weight range. I cut out caffeine, alcohol, and sushi (per my RE's instructions), once we'd finished our IUI. I prayed daily for my delight in the Lord as he would grant the desires of my heart. And I offered support and love to those pregnant and with newborns as they faced new chapters of their lives.

So, isn't that supposed to equal a baby?

I suppose that, in the way the world works, it doesn't. It equals tears and heartbreak and angst and pain. But that just doesn't seem FAIR to me--I like it when I know what I'm supposed to do, and an expected result appears. I don't understand why other women are granted their hearts' desires and I am not--over and over again. I don't want to be a role model of optimism and joy--I just want to be a mom. And it seems, well, unfair.

As it turns out, 1 + 1 doesn't always = 2. And good behavior + an honest heart's desire doesn't = a pregnancy. That still seems unfair tonight, and it still hurts. And as much as I continue to trust and know that our Father has a hope and a plan for our future, it doesn't cease my anger or heal my heart.

So, friends, that's where I am, in a very raw place tonight. I love to offer you optimism and hope, but that's in short supply at the moment. Instead, I offer you honesty and truth, and I await the Lord's guidance on where that leads me.

Spoiling All the Fun

The spring of my junior year at Davidson College, I constantly begged my parents for my mom's former car. I came up with a thousand arguments why I surely needed a vehicle in North Carolina, but none of them were convincing enough. Going into the summer, I continued my barrage and finally met with success: the Volvo and I could go to the Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey for the summer acting apprenticeship program. Victory! However, I'll never forget what my father said to me, very quietly, the morning that he turned over the keys: "Tory, surprises are much more fun when the giver gets to joyfully surprise you." I didn't understand it at the time; I won the car, so what did the process matter? Today, though, despite not yet being a parent myself, I think I might finally understand my dad's words.

My mum sent me a note that arrived yesterday afternoon. It contained photocopies of two devotionals, one from Jesus Calling and one from Our Daily Bread. Both focused on the same set of verses from Psalm 37, and my mum was quick to remind me that Psalm 37:4 was my "birthday verse" the year I turned 25: "Take delight in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart." It's a hard verse for me to trust right now, when things don't seem to be going our way for this first medicated cycle in which I'd put so much hope and promise of future joys. But the verse doesn't command me to "pray" to the Lord or to "beseech" the Lord--it simply asks me to "take delight" in Him. That's not easy, but I'm trying.

I then turned to the October 10 Jesus Calling devotional my mum sent, and I was struck by the following words:

"Trust Me enough to let things happen without striving to predict or control them.

Relax, and refresh yourself in the Light of My everlasting Love.... When you project yourself into the future, rehearsing what you will do or say, you are seeking to be self-sufficient: to be adequate without My help. This is a subtle sin--so common that it usually slips by unnoticed.

The alternative is to live fully in the present, depending on Me each moment."

I love to predict and control things, to try to find out the outcome before I'm supposed to know the ending, to project myself into the future and pre-write emails or pre-rehearse conversations. I'd never thought of those acts as sinful ones before, but they are. As I try to learn the results of this cycle before I'm supposed to, as I plan how I will share news--good or bad--with family and friends, I spoil the joy God takes in giving me a gift. When we are blessed with a family, it will be His gift to us and His alone, and it's not fair of me to try to cut corners by projecting myself into the future.

Like my earthly father, my heavenly One delights in the good gifts that He has in store for me. Just as my dad wanted nothing more than to surprise me with a car I didn't expect, I truly believe that God wants to surprise Jeff and me with the joy of a new life, in His perfect timing, in His perfect way. I have to cling to that promise, that He will give us the desires of our hearts, because the world is just too discouraging some days.

So, Lord, here's me, trying my best not to spoil all the fun. Trying to be patient, trying not to predict or control Your timing. Be patient with me; this isn't my strong suit, but I trust the joyful surprise you have in store for us.

Growth

After I got home today, I looked out our kitchen windows and noticed this bird's nest on the ground. Surprised that it hadn't already been taken hostage by our neighborhood boys and considering that Jeff would likely love to examine the nest more closely, I headed outside to pick it up and bring it onto our back deck. It was in a fragile state, so, as I tried to figure out how to cradle it gently in my hands, I noticed the tiny cracked eggshell inside and another one on the ground nearby. As carefully as I could, I put the second egg back into the nest, gingerly lifted the whole bundle, and brought it onto the deck.

A few moments later, back inside, I began to think of the poor mama bird whose chicks hadn't made it out of their shells. My thoughts drifted to the waiting period we're in right now. Was this a sign that our current cycle won't result in pregnancy? Was it going to bring me to tears as I focused on our own loss? I tentatively checked in with myself only to discover, with a substantial amount of relief and surprise, that I was just fine.

In fact, I was more than fine--I could even find joy in this potential moment of sadness. What a beautiful gift for me to discover--this delicately woven nest that I got to examine up close simply because its fall had been gentle enough to preserve both its structure and its contents.

How remarkable it is to observe the way God has grown and healed me and prepared my heart for the new life we pray will soon be in our future.

"I have learned, in whatever situation I am, to be content." (Phil. 4:11b)

As I sat in the waiting room of my RE's office* this morning, I was tempted to do several things. I wanted to indulge in the People magazine on the table next to me, to engage the other women in conversation about their journeys, to sip my coffee, to browse the web via my iPhone. In short, distractions were plentiful, and I was happy to be distracted, as I was awaiting a critical appointment that would determine if we were allowed to proceed with our fertility treatments today.

And then I realized that perhaps my attention needed to be on Someone rather than something. Out came the iPhone and up popped my Bible app (thanks to a good friend in small group who recommended it!). I thought for a moment, and then ran a quick search for an old faithful: Philippians 4. My desire was to find the "anxiety verse." ("Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God." Phil. 4:6) However, by what can only be God's design, I managed to miss the first section of the chapter and landed in the next part, one titled "God's Provision." For those of you unfamiliar with those verses, in my limited understanding, Paul is thanking the Philippian church for their concern for him. He talks about how he has learned contentment in both "plenty and hunger, abundance and need." As I read Paul's words, I nodded and smiled; like Paul, I "know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound" (Phil. 4:12a). And then the nurse called me in.

Fast forward through bloodwork (it's amazing how much I don't mind needles anymore!) and getting ready for the morning's ultrasound. As I then sat on the table waiting for the doctor, I simply began to pray. I told the Lord how much I don't like praying for contentment in whatever situation I'm in, because it means giving up the firm grip I have on a desire for positive outcomes. I informed Him, in no uncertain terms, that I'd really love a clear ultrasound. I thanked Him for the amazing army of women (and a few stalwart men!) praying for me this morning. Finally, I just asked for contentment, in whatever situation I would be in, in whatever plan He has for me and Jeff. And then the doctor walked in.

My ultrasound was clear, and Jeff and I get to start our injections tonight! This is amazing, joyful news for us after the journey of the last nine months, after two surgeries, two diagnostic tests, innumerable vials of blood taken, five medicated attempts to get my cycle on track, and one failed Clomid** cycle. We have reason to rejoice! But, as I drove the winding back roads to school, I realized that I had only had one prayer to lift, one of thanksgiving for contentment in the situation we are in today. I don't know what tomorrow's plan will bring, but I do know my fervent prayer from here on out:

"In whatever situation I am in, teach my stubborn nature to be content."


* RE: Reproductive Endocrinologist, a fertility specialist who monitors and assists women in getting pregnant.
** Clomid: a drug often prescribed by OBs to help with ovulation in women displaying symptoms of PCOS or other disorders.

On being present.

As a child, I often heard a refrain in my house: "Presence with a c is far preferred." Of course, the "other" kind of presents were the ones I hoped to find stacked by the side of the fireplace Christmas morning, heaped on the green bench for birthday dinners, and tucked in a basket with green grass on Easter Sunday. But my mum and dad never failed to place the most important weight where it was most needed: on our physical presence within our family rather than on the presents so often lavished on children in the affluent suburbs where I grew up.

This fall, for perhaps the first time ever, I am truly able to grasp the enduring truth of my parents' oft-repeated mantra. As I re-entered the classroom last week and met all fifty-two of my students, I quickly realized that my full attention would be required--to learn new names, to engage in intricate discussions, to read countless summer reading essays. And so, even in the midst of all the topics competing for attention in my mind this fall--and perhaps because of all of them--I made a decision. Here is my commitment: I will remain 100% present in the place where I am.

In just a few days, my resolution has already taken several forms. As I drive to work in the morning, red lights are no longer a reason to check my texts; when my students are engaged in small group discussions, it's not a time to shoehorn in a quick work email. Likewise, when I have a free block, I'm not trying to bounce between grading, posting online, and checking email; if Jeff is home in time for us to cook dinner together, I'm doing my best to leave the computer screen closed.

Being fully present is a gift--to my students, my husband, my family, my friends, and--perhaps most importantly--to myself. It gives me permission to leave grading at school and make weeknight plans with girlfriends; it allows me freedom from anxiety and release from guilt. Instead of constantly feeling like I'm not doing enough, I am finally certain that I am doing the very best I can, for the people who I'm with, for the moments when I'm with them.

I honestly don't know what the coming weeks and months will bring. I know that my attention will be pulled in numerous directions as we start our medicated cycle, as we draw closer to the fall/winter holiday seasons, as the papers pile up and the students clamor for one-on-one meetings. And I know one more thing for sure: when Jeff and I are blessed to become the parents we so deeply desire to be, I will absolutely have to be fully present in one thing at a time.

I can only pray that this fall is the training we will need for an imminent future.

A new set of numbers?

It is so, so easy for me to define myself in the numbers I see on the scale each morning. I can tell you exact ones along my journey: 135 pounds the first time I started working with a nutritionist, 151.2 pounds when I began Jenny Craig; 118 pounds when I left for college, 110 pounds when I was diagnosed as anorexic; 121 pounds two days before my wedding, 118 pounds two days after; 130 pounds the morning of our D&C, 134 pounds the morning of my hysteroscopy. In a recent therapy appointment, when my (wonderful) therapist said "so, you said it was tough when you saw 133.6 on the scale," I grimaced immediately; she was wrong, as I'd said 132.4, and that's a very big difference.*

Other numbers seem insignificant to me. When my therapist asked about my BMI, I had to admit that it falls within the healthy range, but I shrugged it off; it's above the middle of that range, so I refuse to believe that it's worthy of any kind of praise. (Besides, what if it just continues to grow? That fear claws at me daily.) Clothing sizes also plague me; a 6 seems to define success, while an 8 is alright, but a 10 is failure. Who made these arbitrary definitions of success? And exactly what sort of success am I measuring?

Wearing a size 6 doesn't make me teach a more effective lesson on the complicated Fool of King Lear to my seniors, nor does it make me a better advisor to the ten girls I love so much. Being under 130 pounds doesn't make me better able to love or care for my husband, and it certainly doesn't make me a better daughter, sister, or friend. None of these numbers will make me a better mother--in fact, my obsession with them may just have a detrimental impact on a future child, particularly if a daughter picks up on my compulsive behaviors.

And so, this week, I was challenged not once but twice to think of numbers in a new light. First, a nurse during my pre-op hospital appointment took my bloodwork, looked at me, and said, "are you a runner?" I scoffed; not only do I hate running, but I hardly think I have the body anyone would believe is willing to wake at the crack of dawn to pound the pavement. She continued, "an athlete, then? Your blood pressure is excellent: 99/57." I shrugged again, prepared to shuttle the compliment into the back corner of my mind--until my surgery Thursday. I woke up in PACU (Post-Anesthesiology Care Unit), eyes blurry and abdomen sore. The nurse quickly came over and said, "We've been wondering--you're a runner?" Groggy still, I shook my head. "An athlete, then? Your resting heart rate was just 40-50 BPM--excellent." What? Again with the athlete? Again with the assumption that me--the person in this body--could be athletic? Strong? Healthy? Beautiful?

And so, as the "twilight" sedation slipped away and I returned, I began to think. What if the 134 pounds I weighed in at that morning at the hospital was okay? What if I stopped thinking my healthy/beautiful/successful range was under 130 pounds? What if I accepted that I am not every petite, 5'4" woman, that I have curves, that I can be who I am and still be healthy (I'll never think of myself as an athlete, I don't think), still be beautiful, still be sexy to my husband?

I won't lie--I haven't accepted it yet. And I'm not certain if or when I will. But even the glimmer of a possibility, even the hope of believing I'm beautiful today--instead of tomorrow when I starve myself, or the next day when I weigh 129.8, or next week when I'm a size 6--is enough right now.

What if I'm actually enough--right now? That's a heady thought.

* I'd like to add a cautionary note at the end of this post: I know just how much of a catalyst numbers can be for one struggling with any kind of weight issues, but particularly for those with eating disorders. I don't share the numbers in this post for any kind of comparison or competition but merely to express just what a prominent place they hold in my mind, just how clearly I can remember numbers from 3 or 10 or 16 years ago. Instead of wanting to exacerbate issues for those of you who read this blog and struggle with the same things, I want to help those of you who don't face these battles understand just how much they consume the lives of those of us who do.

An Army of Warriors

In past years, when something major was about to take place in my life, I usually called two people: my mom and one of my best friends, S. They're the two people I know who pray by buckling on the full suit of spiritual armor, and they have an army who they'll call out on my behalf. As a result, it's no surprise that both of them (and S's mom, and my mom's prayer buddies) will be praying for Jeff and me at 6AM tomorrow morning when we head to the hospital for my hysteroscopy.

But here's the cool thing: for the first time in many, many years, I, too, have amassed an army of prayer warriors who are coming out in full battle regalia tonight and into the morning. They range from the wives and mothers in my small group to single women at our church, from close friends who live far away to the incredible women in my online support group who have also experienced losses and the surgeries that can follow. For the first time in a long time, I'm going into this one with my "feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the Gospel of peace" (Ephesians 6:15).

And so, when I think of rising bright and early tomorrow morning, putting on my comfortable clothes and preparing to be poked with needles and put into "twilight sedation" while Jeff anxiously awaits updates, I have no fear. Swimming in my head aren't images of hospital gowns and cold operating tables; instead, I envision that awesome scene in Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. 

Do you remember it? The battle's being waged at Helm's Deep, and things aren't looking good. The army of Rohan and the lone hero Aragorn are doing their best to resist the onslaught of Saruman, but it's not going well--not by a long shot. And then, all of a sudden, there's this bright light from the East pouring over the exhausted, hopeless armies: Gandalf has arrived with his train of reinforcements prepared to wage battle on behalf of their friends and allies.

Thanks for waging fearsome prayer battles on my behalf tomorrow, friends. I'm so blessed to be surrounded by such a fierce army.

UPDATE, 8pm: Surgery was swift, simple, and successful! The doctor is pleased with the outcome, there were no surprises, and Jeff, S, and M have spent the day ordering me back onto the sofa while they pamper me to ridiculously wonderful levels. Once again, I thank our God for you, sweet friends, who have been supporting me from near and far.

Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning. (Psalm 30.5)

It's one of my favorite songs we sing at our church, and, ever since our loss nearly seven months ago, it's been these opening chords that bring tears to my eyes. (And, yes, I still do measure time according to our loss. It's difficult not to do so.) I have to remember that, no matter how much weeping these times of darkness bring, there is joy that will come in the morning.

Those of you who read this blog know far too much of the night that has faced us in recent months, so allow me a moment to tell you some of the joy that has come in the light:

- One of my best friends--not trying to conceive herself--asked for a detailed update on our current situation so she could better pray for us.
- A friend I haven't seen in two years--a young mom herself--stumbled upon this blog and wrote a note of encouragement, solidarity, and love.
- My mum and I had the most incredible two days of "mother-daughter time," during which she told anyone who would listen--time and time again--how she loves me and prays for me daily.
- The girls in my online support group wrote messages of love and encouragement upon hearing the latest in our TTCAL (Trying to Conceive After a Loss) journey.

At Reston Community Church, there's another song that I love, too, though it's more fitting of Easter, perhaps. Its lyrics say this:

"Oh death! Where is your sting?
Oh hell! Where is your victory?
Oh church! Come stand in the light!
The glory of God has defeated the night!
Our God is not dead--He's alive! He's alive!"
(verses from 1 Corinthians 15:55)

I think this was played one of our first Sundays ever at RCC, but it still makes me stand up and shout--it is a battle cry that I want all the forces of darkness and weeping to hear the world over. I can't conquer darkness, but I know there is One who can. I can't erase suffering, but I know there is One who will. I can't eliminate despair, but I know there is One who does. Therein lies my joy.

One final thought: today, I was rereading a wonderful contemporary novel: Karma, by Cathy Ostlere. Towards the end of the story, the protagonist--who herself has seen so much suffering--posits this:

"But life is an enormous force. It doesn't let go easily."

No, it doesn't. Especially not when I am surrounded by evidence of such joy, such mornings, such LIFE. Thank you, all, for being tangible, real evidence that there are mornings to come that will bring joy I cannot yet fathom.

It's really, really, really not fair.

There are, beyond the shadow of a doubt, some amazingly wonderful people and things and circumstances in my life. I give thanks for those pieces of my world as often as I can remember to, and I try to focus on them when other things just aren't going well. But today, in spite of all the good things I can list, the evil is just coming out on top.

Earlier this week, I learned that I may actually have Asherman's Syndrome, which is basically the presence of uterine scarring that is a rare but dangerous side effect of a D&C. At this point, it's hard to tell exactly how severe my scarring is and whether or not it's causing my wacky cycles and lack of ability to get pregnant again, but the fact was confirmed today: I need another surgery. This one will be a hysteroscopy, performed by my OB. It means more hospital bills, more pain, and more recovery time. At the point, I don't even know if we can get it in before I go back to teaching, which means it would also require days off from work.

All around me are pregnant bellies and infants. Women in my online support group are "graduating" to the pregnancy board; close friends just brought their newborn home yesterday; the neighbor down the street is showing. Most days, it's okay; I can manage the pain by distracting myself. Today, it's just not. The absolute and incredible lack of fairness of where we are today is drowning me. I'm suffocated by the knowledge that we started trying a year ago now, by the reminder that we should have spent our anniversary yesterday with our own little one. I'm disheartened by the frustration friends seem to have with me; I've realized that I need to stop giving them updates, but that also breaks my heart, because it makes me feel like a lost cause. I'm so incredibly broken-hearted that I cannot give my Boo a son or daughter to hold in his arms--that he has to look at photos and videos of friends doing just that, all the while knowing that the problem for him is me.

Today, I'm drowning.

My First Byline!

Through an incredibly talented writer and teacher who I have the pleasure of working with at Potomac, I was recently offered an opportunity to write my first-ever formal theatre review. Jeff and I (as former house managers and box office personnel) have certainly spent time wooing theatre critics, but we've never been the ones handed the glossy folder and led to special "reserved" seats.

Shenandoah Press is a superb local blog; whether you live in the area or not, you'll likely enjoy perusing it. But, since this post is a celebration of my newest accomplishment, here's the direct link to my review: "Untying Gideon's Knot."

There's more to come--I've been asked to write future reviews of our trip to the American Shakespeare Center in Staunton, VA, in August, and I can't wait!

Our battered, bruised four leaf clover

(A disclaimer: We're not big believers in luck or good fortune--we choose to put our faith in our heavenly Father who we know with certainty cares for us in more ways than we can fathom. But this was a unique day.)

Remember the amaryllis blooming in the darkest winter of our lives? Or the budding victory rose Jeff left on my desk? Our tiny, battered, four-leaf clover belongs to that family.

As Jeff and I sat outside the Millbrook winery, sipping a delicious Chardonnay by the pond, musing about our lives, I idly began a search for an elusive four-leaf clover. There was no reason for my hunt; I merely needed a distraction for my fingers. But, despite that, just moments into my hunt, I discovered the treasure pictured at the bottom of this post.

Our four-leaf clover isn't perfect, but it's the only one we've ever had. Our four-leaf clover is a little worse for the wear, but so are we. Our four-leaf clover offers a kind of hope that is bathed in reality, and that's the only kind of hope we know or desire anymore.

We choose to believe in and hold onto such a joyful symbol that we feel certain fell into our hands by the grace of the only One who can rain blessings on us.

One inch at a time

As perhaps you can tell, I've been having a tough day, week, month... call it what you will. Anyway, after dissolving into tears before leaving the house yesterday morning, I went to my last day of school meetings before summer break. After three hours discussing students, I returned to my desk and found this:

Weird, right? A ruler in a miniature rose bush? But then I looked closer, and I noticed this:

If you visit this blog often, you know the title has nothing to do with my green thumb (which is, in actual fact, mostly brown). Rather, "Inch by Inch" is inscribed in my wedding band; "Row by Row" is in Jeff's. When we chose those words to wear forever, we chose them as a reminder to take life one step at a time, a reminder that a garden doesn't grow in an hour or a day but with a great deal of care and many months and years of effort. Yesterday, as he created this phenomenal gift for me, his wife, Jeff just wanted to give me the sweetest, gentlest reminder of that promise that he could.

Now I'm crying again--but these ones are tears of joy for a husband who loves me so dearly. Our family may not yet feel complete, but I am so grateful for the foundation it already has.

Disappointment.

Talk to any woman who is desperately trying to conceive a child, and she'll have an intimate, personal definition of the word disappointment. It comes in so many forms: a miscarriage, another BFN, a non-existent cycle, an elusive ovulation. Of course, there are varying degrees of disappointment--or that's what those on the outside tell you. The reality is that I've cried equally hard for each of the disappointments listed above. The sense of failure is overwhelming, the loss of hope threatens to swallow you whole, the discouragement that leads you to consider just giving up is what drowns you in your sleep.

I wish it were as easy as pulling one of the tabs off the sign at the top of this post. If I could just grab myself some hope or faith or patience today, I would--abundantly. But I can't. I don't know how to anymore. I have tried to look at the positives, tried to find the silver lining, tried to discover what God's teaching me in five of the saddest months of my life. But I can't do it anymore. It hurts too much to risk hope over and over and keep having it slip out of my grasp.

Duck--Duck--Goose!

On Earth Day, Potomac has a tradition of completing a half day of classes followed by bringing all the students outside to help care for our beautiful outdoor campus. This year, my sophomore advisees were paired up with a group of second graders to read a story and then plant milkweed on the hillside above the football field. The day was beautiful, my kids were wonderfully patient, and the younger students were awestruck by their good fortune of having special time with the "big kids." Once our planting was completed, we left the students to their own devices for a bit, and a massive game of duck-duck-goose quickly evolved. It was a pure delight to watch our lanky, sure-footed, quick-witted high school students artfully "forget" to get up or "trip" as they ran around the circle of squealing seven-year-olds. By the time twenty minutes had passed, the stewpot was overflowing with upperclassmen who vigorously cheered on their younger charges.

The sounds of laughter, the smell of the fresh grass, the vision of dappled sunlight brushing across grinning faces--all of it stuck with me for days. However, the part I remember most was the students' eager anticipation as a hand descended on their heads, some squeezing their eyes shut, praying they'd be the golden goose who got to leap up and sprint, others shrinking away, dreading the tap that would seal their fate and require them to stand and run.

As a child, I never wanted to be the goose.

I've never been an athlete--I've never won a championship or triumphed in a match--hence, the reason I never wanted to be selected in the game. However, for the last five months, in my personal game of duck-duck-goose, I've been straightening my spine and wiggling my butt in an anxious attempt to add inches to my short stature, hoping that God will select me as the goose and bestow--quite literally--a golden egg upon me. However, unlike so many of the children in our Earth Day circle, my desire didn't come from unbridled joy; it came from a paralyzing attack of the dreaded What-ifs. What if I'm 35 and not pregnant? What if we can't try for two children anymore? What if she gets pregnant before me? What if I'll never be a mom? What if...?


And then, in the blink of an eye, the What ifs come true. I turned 35 in May. I don't know if we'll have the opportunity to have two little ones. Several girls did get pregnant before me. And, despite all my hopes and prayers and dreams, there's no guarantee I'll be a mom. All my squirming and scooching to add inches got me nowhere--except to a few unattractively bitter pity parties of one.

Perhaps I just need to be content to be a duck. Or a goose. Or whatever God will have me.

Or maybe I need to just enjoy the children's laughter.

Blueberry's Folder

Disorganization distresses me. I spend half my day in my classroom realigning my desks; my "to do" list contains items like "make new to do list"; entering the grocery store without a tally of items needed is a horrifying concept. As a result, it should come as no surprise that my gmail inbox is neatly organized by folders with titles ranging from "Family" to "Real Estate" to "Insurance."

When we found out we were pregnant in December, I immediately started a new folder: "Blueberry." Into it went all baby-related items: confirmation emails for various newsletters and stores, correspondence with my doctor's office, information about day care options. Every time I saw the folder title pop up on my screen, I grinned.

And then, on January 11, the contents of the folder shifted. Now, it contained cancellation confirmations for all baby websites, correspondence with the new therapist I found, and information about medical matters related to our miscarriage. I just couldn't bring myself to delete the folder entirely, so it temporarily contained those emails that hurt my heart too much to see in my actual inbox. I wondered what the next few weeks or months might bring and how my perception of our loss might change...

And then, one day in March, I got my answer. My Blueberry folder is full again, but this time with the gifts my little one left here on earth for me; it's full of emails from the women I never would have known without being forced into some of the most difficult months of my life. These amazing, strong ladies who have also persevered through pain, who have encouraged and supported me, who are role models and friends, these are the ladies who I met through the gift of my tiny Blueberry.

Thank you, little one, for still taking care of your momma.

Today.

Today is a good day. Yesterday wasn't, but today is. Jeff and I took a lovely stroll to the Farmers' Market, we stopped for brunch and a drink outside, and then Jeff took this picture. And I love it. It captures my joy at having a Saturday outside with my husband, my anticipation of seeing my mom and dad this evening, my excitement about upcoming spring weekends with our friends.

So what has changed between last night and this afternoon? Last night, an incredible friend wrote an amazingly uplifting comment on my post. This morning, my sister-in-law sent me such an encouraging email, reminding me of how fortunate I am to have a phenomenal husband who loves me. Today, I finally figured out how to blow dry my new sideswept bangs correctly. :-) All small things, all adding up to joy now.

These rollercoaster moments are not new to me, but this weekend has inspired me to learn more about what defines body image in different cultures, about how young girls learn to view themselves, about how Jeff and I will, one day, raise a child to see him/herself as beautiful, no matter what.

Today I am not healed, but today is better than yesterday. And that's a start.

A World without Mirrors or Photos

This week, I was suddenly struck by how much I hate looking at my own reflection. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom on the way to the shower and duck my head down; I try not to glance up even while brushing my teeth. When I step in front of the mirror in the morning to check my clothing for "teacher-appropriateness," my eyes immediately dart to the parts of my body I hate--my mooshy midsection or perceived double chin or lack of prominent collarbones. I put my arms straight down by my sides to hide my hips and wonder what it would look like if I had the slim waist of a J. Crew model. Many times, I wonder if I try to make myself look worse, if I pudge out my stomach or pull my chin into my neck just to see the horror that everyone else must see.

Just last week, a colleague snapped a photo of Jeff and me at a party. When I left the house, I'd felt confident in my swingy blue dress and cork-soled espadrilles. As I sipped wine and chatted with friends, I was relaxed and at ease. But when Monday morning came and my well-meaning friend emailed me the photos she'd taken, I nearly cried at my desk. Gone was the girl I'd felt like; she'd been replaced by an ogre with jiggly arms, chipmunk cheeks, a massive forehead, and ridiculous hair. The second photo was no better; this one showcased a double chin and tiny eyes pushed nearly shut by great blobs of cheeks and lower eyelids. I immediately shut the photos, not even bothering to forward them to Jeff. What broke my heart more than anything, though, was that I suddenly knew what everyone else saw that night. They didn't see the cute, fashionable, pretty woman I'd thought I was; that was just a cruel joke. They all saw the fatty in the photos, the one who no one would ever call a looker. Though I'm not surprised they didn't laugh--after all, they are my friends, I'm saddened to know what they have to look at in the office every day.

The scale has gone up by 10 pounds since the day we got married. The mirror makes me see the ugliness every morning. The photos are tangible evidence of what I have become; even the good ones are just tricks of lighting or age or angle. Those are the facts. And while I do wish I could live in a world without mirrors or photos, would it really make a difference? Because I've already seen the truth, and there's no going back.

Catastrophizing

When I was in middle school, I got an eight-pox case of the chicken pox. Ever the resourceful child, I self-diagnosed after using the massive home reference medical book that lived on a shelf in our library. Reaching the massive tome required standing on a stool, balanced precariously as I lifted the book and brought it back to the sofa. Happily, I quickly found flow charts in the front section that seemed logical and useful. "Do you have a fever?" No. "Do you feel fatigued?" Yes. "Do you have a rash anywhere on your body, particularly the torso?" A quick glance revealed two raised, red bumps on my belly. Yes? Within two minutes, I'd arrived at chicken pox, and, just a few moments later, I was a tear-soaked mess, having discovered that I would surely need multiple shots and must be in the very small percentage of "potentially fatal" cases. Two pox or two hundred, I've always been one to "catastrophize."

Today marks a week since I stopped taking Provera to restart my cycle. Though the body can still respond up to two weeks later, the "normal" range is four to seven days. So, last night, I pulled down another weighty tome to help self-diagnose: Dr. Google. Within a half hour, I'd gone from mildly concerned to utterly panicked; by this morning, I was reading up on domestic adoption, convinced the D&C scarred my cervix and we'd lost all chance of a biological child of our own. No amount of planning to set up a doctor's appointment next week or reading stories with happy endings could calm my damp palms and speeding heart. Though adoption is an amazing gift and one we may consider one day, I had to recognize that I was, once again, catastrophizing.

As I remind Jeff daily, recognizing what I'm doing is the first step. The second one is to check in with what my therapist calls my "wise mind"--that gut feeling that I can choose to, or choose not to, heed. More often than not, I ignore it, deliberately and consciously, because resting in a state of limbo seems almost harder than actively acknowledging the worst case scenario and seeking to prevent it. If I can DO something, perhaps there will be less to fear.

I'm blogging from bed this morning; we'll be headed to RCC in a few hours. For this, I am so grateful. With our church family, I can be raw and hurting and not try to fix things all the time. I only pray to find that ability to rest in the moment throughout the rest of my week. Catastrophizing is the easy way out; what happens if, instead, I sit in a place of discomfort and lack of knowledge until things resolve themselves?

I wish Google could show me how to fix this one.

Thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

Cleft. At first glance, I knew the word was the past tense of "to cleave," so I went to Merriam-Webster for a bit more enlightenment. The second definition in the list was the one that I expected: "to divide by or as if by a cutting blow." It's the meaning Gertrude intends in act 4 of Hamlet, and it's the meaning that my heart intended this morning when I woke up thinking the words. I wanted to remember the tiny Blueberry who broke my heart in two, to sit in the sorrow and grief of still not being able to try again, to rage against those who carry little ones in their bellies and in their arms.

But then, quite unexpectedly, I found the primary definition of cleave: "to adhere firmly and closely or loyally and unwaveringly." Of course--in the Book of Ruth, Ruth cleaves to her mother-in-law, Naomi, saying, "Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go and where you stay I will stay" (Ruth 1:16). What does it mean if, instead of breaking my heart in two, our little Blueberry actually glued it back together? How possibly could carrying that little life with me wherever I go for the remainder of my days in some way bring me renewed life and hope?

I'm not certain of the answers yet, but, after musing on this line for the better part of a day, I am certain of one thing: I will forever cleave to the little one who cleft my heart in twain.

Exit, pursued by a bear.

In act 3 of Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale, a lord named Antigonus is tasked with the despicable job of leaving the newly born princess, Perdita, in the midst of the Bohemian woods. Believe it or not, this fate is actually preferable to the one she had before Antigonus and his wife, Paulina, intervened on her behalf; at first, her own father, the king of Sicilia, dictated that the infant should be burned alive.

Today, Jeff and I saw a touring production of the play by the American Shakespeare Center (ASC). I found myself so wrapped up in the emotional story that I nearly forgot that Shakespeare's most infamous stage direction would have to be played out at some point: Exit, pursued by a bear. While other productions have ranged from the comic (a teddy bear) to the mysterious (lighting and sound effects), ASC tackled the "problem" head on. As Antigonus laid Perdita on the ground in a basket, uttering the words, "Weep I cannot,  / But my heart bleeds," a bear entered from behind the upstage right curtain. Yes, it was an actor with a bear's head, but the impact was no less terrifying for that fact; I felt immediate concern for Perdita's safety and wished I, myself, could reach out and carry her home.

And then Antigonus did something I didn't expect. See, I don't like Antigonus very much. In spite of his earlier promise to "pawn the little blood which I have left / To save the innocent," he's all too willing to save his own skin by following Leontes's orders and leaving little Perdita alone at the mercy of the woods. Yet ASC's Antigonus did something shocking and totally unexpected: he saw the bear coming, quickly assessed Perdita's chances should the animal reach her, and boldly clapped his hands, drawing the bear's attention to himself. And then he exited, pursued by the bear that would take his life.

What a noble man! He sacrificed himself for the marginal chance at life for the sweet babe, yet he wouldn't break the oath he'd made to his king, no matter how disgusting he found that promise to be. In one moment, the Antigonus I'd hated became a man I admired, and he did so because he acted based on both instinct and loyalty, not on on intellectual consideration of his options.

Yesterday was Good Friday, when God made the greatest sacrifice imaginable for us: the life of his Son. Tomorrow, we'll celebrate the birth of new life in His resurrection. Like Perdita, who only survived because of Antigonus's sacrifice, I am only alive because a Sacrifice was made for my life.

I hope it doesn't take a bear for me to learn how to abandon my own needs and desires so selflessly.

We know each other now, don't we?

Living in northern New Jersey for seven years, I realized that most young adults there have lived in the same area for their entire lives. It's hard to break into tight-knit circles of friends who have known each other since they were in diapers; it's harder still when one lets you in, but her friends shut you out. Moving to northern Virginia was a different experience altogether; here, friends are temporary, people are transient, and jobs shift almost hourly. In the less than two years that Jeff and I have been here, we've already lost six close friends for various reasons; that's a hard blow, and it makes us newly cautious.

Going into this weekend, I was worried. M was away for a tournament, and L was out of town as well. Jeff had to work Friday and Saturday nights, as well as a few hours on Sunday. I did a great deal of figurative and literal hand-wringing, counting and recounting the small handful of women who actually know exactly what's happening in my life at all times, worrying that none of them were actually in the same state as me. I questioned how one makes new friends at 34, and I wished--for the umpteenth time--for the perfect getting-to-know you accessory: a baby or a dog. And then I recalled a wonderfully insightful text L sent me a few weeks before:

Try new things and take some chances. It opens doors for you!

Simple, right? At the time I received the message, I started on a quest for new classes to take at a community center or new shows to audition for in the area. However, it never occurred to me that the simple act of making a friend could be taking a chance--even though it's one of the biggest risks we take as adults.

This weekend, I made friends. Not every encounter was perfect, but I'd liken the experience to being back out in the dating pool; only one will be the man you'll marry, but every one is an opportunity for a relationship that may fit in some corner of your life. I got up the courage to invite a friend from RCC to lunch; Jeff and I spent time outside with our neighbors and their little ones on Saturday morning; I finally returned to The Bump's TTCAL board (that's Trying to Conceive After a Loss, for non-bumpies!). I found friendships in expected and unexpected ways, in real life and online communities, in women and men in similar stages of life to my own. Most importantly, perhaps, I realized that not everyone is going to move tomorrow or misjudge me in a week or feel completely horrified at the thought of talking about our little Blueberry. And even if they do, I learned that it just might be worth the risk to find the good ones.

In The Wizard of Oz, after she's joined forces with the Scarecrow and the Tin Man, Dorothy says the following:

Oh, you're the best friends anybody ever had!

And it's funny, but I feel as if I'd known you all the time, but I couldn't have, could I?

I guess it doesn't matter much anyway.

We know each other now, don't we?

Yes, I suppose we do, Dorothy. And, if we'd met ten years ago, perhaps we wouldn't have been friends at all.

Pride & Determination: The Little Amaryllis that Could

   

Every Christmas, my aunt and uncle send us a beautiful amaryllis. It comes in a brown box, and the bulb is tucked into the soil, safely nestled in a little pot. This winter, it arrived a bit late; due to our move and the fact that we'd been in Florida for Christmas, we didn't actually receive the flower until around the time of losing our little Blueberry. As a result, in the midst of our pain and confusion, we gave it a quick spritz of water and set it on top of the refrigerator to fend for itself.


Several weeks later, Jeff reached into the fridge one night and laughed. When I turned around, he pointed up; our little bulb had huge green leaves that were brushing the ceiling! We offered the little plant a bit more water and placed it on the kitchen table to give it more room to grow. If we're honest, we were fairly certain the cats would eat it or knock it over, but we just didn't have the energy to do anything more for it.


Just a week after that, our first bloom sprouted. And then another. We turned it towards the window, sharing the beauty with our neighbors who strolled by, walking their dogs or playing with their little ones. The cats investigated but didn't attack, and we watched with great joy as the petals opened more each day. When they began to fade, we could hardly be sad--what a beautiful life our little flower had had, and what joy it had given us!


And then, before we had time to consider what to do with the pot and bulb, we noticed a new bud. And then another. And then two more! Suddenly, that tiny plant--the thing we'd barely had the energy to offer care and love to--had rewarded us with four beautiful blossoms! We watched in awe as they opened, turning the pot daily, watering it more attentively, shoeing Rosie away from the leaves. For the first time, this was our miracle, and we were prepared to defend and nurture it at all costs.


When those four buds left, we waved them goodbye without sadness. What a blooming season we'd had! And then, many weeks later, as I was about to move the bulb into a bag for hibernation, Jeff startled me one evening by announcing, "Did you see our new bud?" I raced to the kitchen, and there it was. Our little miracle, bringing us joy one more time.


I'm an English teacher, so I'm supposed to love metaphors and symbols and imagery, but the significance of our little flower blooming bravely throughout one of the darkest winters of our lives is too much for even me to untangle. I only have these final thoughts to offer. The amaryllis is a flower that symbolizes pride, determination, and radiant beauty; its name comes from the Greek "to sparkle."


In the determined beauty of our seven sparkling blooms, I find hope in the radiant beauty of our future.