A letter to my firstborn boy on your first day of Kindergarten,
Hudson. Today is a big day. A really big day. For you. But also for me. Today is the day I send you out into the school world. Into a world of backpacks and school supplies, teachers and classmates, cafeterias and gyms, libraries and computer labs, cold lunches and hot lunches, playgrounds and recess. It's a world you don't know yet. But I do. And son...I'm scared.
We have been on quite a journey together over the last 5 years. And I cannot even begin to explain how much my heart is wrapped up into yours. Like truly wrapped up. I have spent most moments of your life right beside you. I have eaten every meal with you, planned every activity, answered every inquisitive question, and wiped away every tear. I have sat in waiting rooms, doctors offices, hospital bedsides.
I have walked you through every complex emotion. I was there the first time you felt angry and hit me. I was there the first time you felt anxious and burst into tears. I was there the first time you felt fear and wrapped your tiny arms around my neck.
We have seen it all.
We've been on the inside of MRI machines, operating rooms, and x-rays. We've played on every slide, monkey bar, and swing set right alongside each other. We've been through it all. Good and bad. Light and dark. Together.
And today. On this really big day. I have to loosen my grip on you and send you off to do some of these things on your own. I have to trust that I have prepared you well enough to handle this big scary school world. And Hudson. Sweet boy of mine. I'm just not ready. I just want to hold onto you a little bit longer.
For the past 5 years your dad and I have tried so hard to never stereo-type or define you by what the world calls a disability. But let's be honest for a minute. Because you have Spina Bifida, you are walking into this school world with a very obvious challenge. A very obvious difference. And son, it breaks my heart to tell you this, but the world is going to make you feel less than because of it. Some kids will laugh. Some kids will name call. Some kids will bully you and make you feel small. But Hudson, hear me when I tell you, none of what they say will be true.
I know. I walked through every moment of these last 5 years with you. I'm an expert. I've studied you since the moment you entered this world.
So listen to this truth, my dear son. When all of the lies are thrown at you, cling to this truth.
You are the bravest boy that I know. Not because you never feel fear, but because you have experienced and felt deeply more scary things than most people go through in a lifetime. And still, every morning you wake up cheerfully ready to take on another day.
You are the strongest boy that I know. Not because you are the fastest or can lift the heaviest things, but because you push yourself to your limit every single time. And when you fall down, you get right back up and keep moving. You don't cry when life kicks you down, Hudson. Ever. You don't stop. You don't feel sorry for yourself. This, my dear boy, is strength most others can only dream about having. You live it. Every. Single. Day.
You are the sweetest, most tender-hearted, boy that I know. Not because you always say nice things, but because when you are mean I see your heart break. You have a deep compassion inside you that leads to repentance and restoration. You see into the souls of people, Hudson. You know when people need support and help. When you could sit around and feel sorry for yourself, instead, you zero in on the most vulnerable and pour yourself out for their sake.
Hudson, you see this world so much differently than the rest of us do. What others may see as your weaknesses, I see as your greatest strengths.
Don't you see? WE have so much to learn from YOU.
It's not the other way around.
Hudson...my boy. I pray you would always choose this truth. Even on the hard days. Even when you feel like you just aren't measuring up. I pray that you will be a light in the darkness. That you won't run from your differences, but will lean into them. That you would know your place in the Kingdom of God.
Remember. You don't have to be the best, the winner, or the fastest. You don't have to fight for your place in this world. You've been given a place. You've been given a name. You have nothing to prove. You are secure.
So go out there, and show this world what you've got.
I am so proud to call you mine.
Love, your Mama
Saturday, January 20, 2018
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Where are you Christmas?
'Where are you Christmas
Why can't I find you
Why have you gone away
Where is the laughter
You used to bring me
Why can't I hear music play
Why can't I find you
Why have you gone away
Where is the laughter
You used to bring me
Why can't I hear music play
My world is changing
I'm rearranging
Does that mean Christmas changes too
I'm rearranging
Does that mean Christmas changes too
Where are you Christmas
Do you remember
The one you used to know
I'm not the same one
See what the time's done
Is that why you have let me go'...
Do you remember
The one you used to know
I'm not the same one
See what the time's done
Is that why you have let me go'...
Christmas (enter big sigh here). What a season. A season that for me used to feel so magical, has turned into... well...let's just say a not so magical time. And honestly, I have been blaming a lot of things for that. And granted, some of these things seem like legitimate reasons that could have made Christmas time not so jolly over the past 4 years; including job losses, moving in and out of different homes, even down to our baby boy's first Christmas being spent isolated in the hospital with a horrible infection. These are good reasons, right? Good reasons to feel sorry for myself. To get depressed. To even get obsessive about trying to bring back the magic in my home. Some would say yes. I have been saying yes. For the past 4 years I have blamed the state of my heart this time of year on the broken and hurtful circumstances surrounding it. But really, how selfish? How self-obsessed? I mean there's always pain and hurt and tragedy happening in this world all around me. It might not be directly affecting me, but people struggle this time of year with death and illness, starvation and homelessness, and more pain and loss than I may ever taste in my lifetime. Whether it's December 25th or the middle of July, we are all hurting. We are all hopeless. We are all exhausted and stressed. This season really has nothing to do with it, except the immense amount of pressure to be merry & bright despite the brokenness.
By the way, I feel it's important to insert a disclaimer here, I write these words simply as a processing of my own heart. Not as a judgment on anyone else's. I learn best from writing. I am a processor. I don't plan the words that get typed through my fingers. I simply spill them onto the keyboard and more often than not re-read what I wrote and think, that wasn't really what I thought I wanted to say when I first sat down to write, but it's just real and honest and is healing for my heart. Could I privately write this in a journal? Yes. But I know for me, other people's words and experiences touch and inspire me. When a heart is willing to be vulnerable and real and put that out for the world to see and possibly scrutinize, I find it courageous and refreshing. So this blog of mine really is nothing more than a tired and worn out wife and mom, trying her best to be raw. Hoping that someone out there won't feel so alone in their emotions. And really, just trying to find an outlet that allows me to digest all of mine.
So...back to the topic at hand. Christmas. I used to think that joy was found in the absence of sadness, or mourning, or pain. But what I think I am starting to discover, starting to peel back a tiny little corner of, is the fact that joy not only IS found, but CAN ONLY be found in and through pain and loss. It is only in the hopelessness that we can recognize our one and only true HOPE. I will never forget the Christmas I spent 4 years ago by Hudson's bedside. And while I often have used this as a reason to hate the season, what I am beginning to see even as these words fly onto the screen is that this desperate and painful Christmas actually taught me more on joy and peace and hope than all of the others combined. Because on the day I walked in to find my son with a life-threatening infection from one of his surgeries The day I literally signed this little life away into the hands of the doctors. It was on this day that I lost something. I lost something major. I lost the Christmas I had hand-made. The one I had crafted all on my own. The one that wasn't even about all the bad things like consumerism, and greed, and getting that present that I just couldn't live without. Instead, I lost the Christmas that was about all the good things like family togetherness, health, and happiness. I wish I could put into words what happened in my heart that night as I went to sleep. I literally prepared myself to lose my son. I considered the possibility that all would not be well with him. And I let him go. And for a moment, a very brief moment, I felt free. Because I let go of Christmas. And I clung so hard to Christ. That night, Jesus Christ was not just one part of the Christmas story, or a cute little baby lying in a manager...He was all that I had. He was THE story. The only story. My only hope. My only joy. Through the pain, and the anger, and the tears, I found Him. In a way I never had before.
So here I am. 4 years later. 5 days before Christmas. Stressed about the wrapping that hasn't been done. Feeling inadequate for all the things I didn't do this holiday season with my kids that I wanted to. The Christmas cookies that never did make their way to the neighbors doorsteps, the unopened advent calendar days that sit and mock me, and the baby Jesus from our nativity scene that has been lost since the day I put it out for the kids to play with. And all I can think is how I have done it again. I have made Christmas about all of these good things and let go of the One who makes ALL THINGS GOOD. Oh this wayward and foolish heart of mine. How quickly it can run from the freedom and life offered to it.
So I guess it's never too late. 5 days before Christmas, it's not too late to turn from my foolish ways and to cling once more to my precious Savior. To hug my kids tight and sit close to them on Christmas Day as they struggle with their own selfishness and desire to have this day look a certain way. To understand them, and not reprimand them. To allow the tears, the anger, the pain and the losses...in my heart and in theirs. Knowing full well it is this brokenness that will lead us to our only true JOY.
Thanks for listening, blogosphere. Here's to hoping this brief glimmer of wisdom and peace doesn't disappear the moment I hit 'Publish.' Merry Christmas to all of you!
Monday, September 29, 2014
Somewhere Out There
It has been 8 years.
8 years. And yet, I can still hear their little voices. I can feel their tiny arms gripping tight around my neck. The sights of the Volga river and the smell of 'white squishy' being prepared in the kitchen. It's still so fresh in my mind.
It's been 8 years since I stepped foot in that Russian orphanage. Bunk beds lined against the wall. Little faces one by one staring back at me. Looking into their precious eyes. Eyes that spoke of their longing to be held. To be treasured. To be chosen. To be loved. My heart was broken. And I knew I would never be the same.
So here I am, 8 years later, with my heart burning fiercely to hold one of these precious angels again. Because what once started as a small seed has now grown into a massive tree with roots so deep in my heart that I simply cannot ignore it.
This my friends, is what has led my husband and I to take action. And honestly, I have wrestled with how to best announce this. How to actually tell people the steps that we are taking. Because it is hard. So hard to convey how much this all means to us. So hard to find the perfect words. And so hard to overcome the fear that people aren't going to understand. But it's time. It's time for us to let everyone in on the journey we are taking. It's time to just say it. To put it out there and trust that my jumbled words will be found as coherent to at least some. So, here it is.....
Our family is starting the process of adopting a little girl from Bulgaria.
We are in the home study stage now, and they say it can still be up to 3 years until we get to bring our daughter home. And honestly, every time I say this out loud, I really can't help but burst into tears. Maybe that's why I find it hard to talk about. Hard to express to people. Because I really just feel like a puddle of emotions when it comes to thinking about my little girl who may already be out there half way across the world.
To answer at least one looming question...Yes, we are specifying a girl on our adoption paperwork. And without going into too many details or 'defenses' (because I'm slightly insecure of how this may be perceived), I just want to briefly explain why we came to this decision. It's simple really. The answer is because God has asked us to. It seems trite to say that, but I really can't say it any other way.
You see, long before I had any children of my own, long before I was blessed with 2 precious little boys...I fell in love. In the fields of Yoshkar-Ola, Russia I fell in love with an 8 year old girl named Zhenya.
We didn't speak the same language, but somehow found a way to communicate. We would spend hours walking through the fields and picking flowers, swinging on swings, and taking trips on our own down to the river bank.
Looking her in the eyes and telling her I wasn't going to be taking her home with me was literally one of the hardest things I've ever done. And as I drove away from camp on that last day with tears pouring down my face, I just knew that some day, somehow, when I was 'old' and married and had the means to do it, I would adopt a little girl from this side of the world.
So naturally, when my husband came to me 4 months ago and expressed his desire to put biological children on hold and instead move forward with adoption, I was elated (and slightly terrified) . And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't escape the still, small, yet relentless voice that said,
It's time. It's time to go get your daughter.
So on we move. In pursuit of this precious little girl. With some fear and trepidation, but with all the faith in the world that someday, somehow, we will meet our daughter and bring her home where she belongs. And until then, we trust our Father to watch over her, to protect her, and to love her.
One of the first songs I learned to play on the piano, which is now one that Hudson and I sing together often, seems to say it best:
Somewhere out there
Beneath the pale moonlight
Someone's thinking of me
And loving me tonight
Somewhere out there
Someone's saying a prayer
That we'll find one another
In that big somewhere out there
And even though I know how very far apart we are
It helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star
And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby
It helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky
Somewhere out there
If love can see us through
Then we'll be together
Somewhere out there
Out where dreams come true
Beneath the pale moonlight
Someone's thinking of me
And loving me tonight
Somewhere out there
Someone's saying a prayer
That we'll find one another
In that big somewhere out there
And even though I know how very far apart we are
It helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star
And when the night wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby
It helps to think we're sleeping underneath the same big sky
Somewhere out there
If love can see us through
Then we'll be together
Somewhere out there
Out where dreams come true
Sweet daughter of mine, my greatest fear in all of this is not what other's may think, but what you will. That you may grow up feeling like you were not wanted. Oh, my child, this couldn't be further from the truth. I, for one, have loved you before I ever officially became a mom. I've loved and longed for you before you even came into existence. My heart has always known that somewhere out there, I would find you. So as you lay your head down tonight, may these words find you and may your heart know you are deeply loved.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
A Proper First Birthday...
A year has gone by. I simply cannot believe it. I am stunned. There is no other word for it. Stunned that the tiny bundle that was placed on my chest not so long ago, has somehow turned into a wide-mouthed, toothy, squishy, sticky little jokester of a baby.
I have no idea how this happened. But happen, it did. This year has been a year of change for us all. And in the midst of the transformation in our hearts, in our homes, and in our lives; our littlest love has been growing, stretching, and changing right along side us.
Cohen. Oh my sweet Cohen. I have so many important things to tell you on this first birthday of yours. Lets just start with the obvious. You're adorable...
You are the most smiley, joy-filled baby there is. I literally can't take you anywhere without strangers stopping us dead in our tracks to get a close up look at this dimpled little guy who has been flirting with them from across the room. It's precious. You just love people. All people. Anybody that will stop and give you a smile.
Another one of your loves? Movement. All. the. time. Particularly when I am trying to change your diaper or put your clothes on. Or my all time favorite, when music is on and you just can't help but bop along to it. You move. You just move. And never quite seem to stop. You don't walk yet, but somehow I still find myself chasing and wrestling you to the floor. The day you get on those feet and take off...well, we are in trouble.
While I could go on and on about your awesomeness, here is what I really don't want you to forget on this special day, Cohen. Look around. Look around and remember what you see.
Yep...that's just me, your Daddy, and your brother. Do you see any other people? Do you see any decorations? Any 1st birthday shirts, or smash cakes, or wrapped presents? The answer is no. You aren't going to find any of these things on this birthday of yours. (But you will find store bought cupcakes and whole milk. Who needs anything else, right?)
You know what you will see? You will see our new home.
On this night you will be surrounded by the 4 walls of a home we prayed so fervently we would get to raise you in. A home that as crazy as it sounds, we truly feel was hand-picked for us. On this day, 1 year after your birth, we unloaded our moving truck and are sleeping in this home God gave us for the first time.
And here's the thing I want you to hear. Please hold onto this when you are grown and looking back at these pictures, feeling sorry for yourself for being the second child and not getting a 'proper' first birthday party. This was intentional. This was not by accident. We chose this day, July 12th, to be the day we moved into our house. Because, honestly, we could think of no better way to celebrate you coming into this world. Not just anyone, but YOU specifically. You see, there was a time not too long ago, when the pressure to give my child a blow-out, pinterest inspired, 1st birthday party would have over-taken me and seemed like the only way to give a proper celebration. Where the guilt of not doing so would have kept me up at night. Where i would have spent months planning, strategizing, and prepping for this occasion.
But this past year with you, my son, has changed me in so many ways.
God has used your life to change my heart. I mean truly change my heart. To where I'm not even sure I recognize myself anymore. Through you, He has taught me to let go of the things that simply do not matter. Through you, He has brought me freedom. Freedom from worry. Freedom from stress. Freedom from the love of this world. Freedom from other people's scrutiny or judgments. Freedom from the need to have it all together. Freedom to just be me. The mom that flat out doesn't care if I have the best birthday bash of the century, but simply wants to spend a moment reflecting on the great blessing you have been in my life.
Your presence...your very existence has brought this to me. Peace. Peace in the midst of chaos. In your smiles, in your snuggles, and in your giggles. Peace. Cohen, you've lived in 3 different homes in your first year of life. You moved states when you were 2 weeks old. And through it all, you have brought peace. Peace that is beyond understanding.
And so, on this 1st birthday of yours, we celebrate YOU by intentionally shedding all of the things that simply don't matter; and we gather as a family upholding the things that do. We praise the One who brought you to us, Cohen. And I can only pray you understand this is the greatest love we could ever show you, our son, on this very special day.
Our hearts overflow with love for you. Happy 1st Birthday!
Love,
Your Mama
I have no idea how this happened. But happen, it did. This year has been a year of change for us all. And in the midst of the transformation in our hearts, in our homes, and in our lives; our littlest love has been growing, stretching, and changing right along side us.
Cohen. Oh my sweet Cohen. I have so many important things to tell you on this first birthday of yours. Lets just start with the obvious. You're adorable...
You are the most smiley, joy-filled baby there is. I literally can't take you anywhere without strangers stopping us dead in our tracks to get a close up look at this dimpled little guy who has been flirting with them from across the room. It's precious. You just love people. All people. Anybody that will stop and give you a smile.
Another one of your loves? Movement. All. the. time. Particularly when I am trying to change your diaper or put your clothes on. Or my all time favorite, when music is on and you just can't help but bop along to it. You move. You just move. And never quite seem to stop. You don't walk yet, but somehow I still find myself chasing and wrestling you to the floor. The day you get on those feet and take off...well, we are in trouble.
While I could go on and on about your awesomeness, here is what I really don't want you to forget on this special day, Cohen. Look around. Look around and remember what you see.
Yep...that's just me, your Daddy, and your brother. Do you see any other people? Do you see any decorations? Any 1st birthday shirts, or smash cakes, or wrapped presents? The answer is no. You aren't going to find any of these things on this birthday of yours. (But you will find store bought cupcakes and whole milk. Who needs anything else, right?)
You know what you will see? You will see our new home.
On this night you will be surrounded by the 4 walls of a home we prayed so fervently we would get to raise you in. A home that as crazy as it sounds, we truly feel was hand-picked for us. On this day, 1 year after your birth, we unloaded our moving truck and are sleeping in this home God gave us for the first time.
And here's the thing I want you to hear. Please hold onto this when you are grown and looking back at these pictures, feeling sorry for yourself for being the second child and not getting a 'proper' first birthday party. This was intentional. This was not by accident. We chose this day, July 12th, to be the day we moved into our house. Because, honestly, we could think of no better way to celebrate you coming into this world. Not just anyone, but YOU specifically. You see, there was a time not too long ago, when the pressure to give my child a blow-out, pinterest inspired, 1st birthday party would have over-taken me and seemed like the only way to give a proper celebration. Where the guilt of not doing so would have kept me up at night. Where i would have spent months planning, strategizing, and prepping for this occasion.
But this past year with you, my son, has changed me in so many ways.
God has used your life to change my heart. I mean truly change my heart. To where I'm not even sure I recognize myself anymore. Through you, He has taught me to let go of the things that simply do not matter. Through you, He has brought me freedom. Freedom from worry. Freedom from stress. Freedom from the love of this world. Freedom from other people's scrutiny or judgments. Freedom from the need to have it all together. Freedom to just be me. The mom that flat out doesn't care if I have the best birthday bash of the century, but simply wants to spend a moment reflecting on the great blessing you have been in my life.
Your presence...your very existence has brought this to me. Peace. Peace in the midst of chaos. In your smiles, in your snuggles, and in your giggles. Peace. Cohen, you've lived in 3 different homes in your first year of life. You moved states when you were 2 weeks old. And through it all, you have brought peace. Peace that is beyond understanding.
And so, on this 1st birthday of yours, we celebrate YOU by intentionally shedding all of the things that simply don't matter; and we gather as a family upholding the things that do. We praise the One who brought you to us, Cohen. And I can only pray you understand this is the greatest love we could ever show you, our son, on this very special day.
Our hearts overflow with love for you. Happy 1st Birthday!
Love,
Your Mama
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Be Still...
Whew.
That's all I can really say after the past 4 weeks of chaos. Actually, after the past 9 months of chaos. It's been a whirlwind. It's been pretty foggy at times. But through it all I have experienced some of the greatest blessings to date.
Words cannot possibly express what this boy's short life on this earth has meant to me. But I must proclaim, I must shout from the rooftops, I must attempt to put into coherent sentences what God has done in this mama's heart because of him.
I didn't have the easiest introduction to motherhood. No first time mom dreams of their firstborn child being born with a birth defect. No mom at all for that matter. Nobody wants to miss out on their child's birth due to complications and to have to wait months to hold their son for the first time. And certainly, no one wishes to spend days, weeks, and months away from their fragile newborn baby.
It's a rough start. Let's face it. And as much as I love my firstborn son with all of my heart, I do not love the way in which he had to come into this world. I don't love the brokenness and the pain that came from it. I don't love the wide open wounds that were left behind. I just don't.
This world is ugly. It is full of hurt. Hudson knows that well already. I do too. It is no secret to our family and is a reality that will be spoken of frequently and openly. Not because we want to be Debbie-downers, but because it is only through our understanding of the brokenness of this world that we can truly experience the life-altering and healing power of God's redemptive work in it.
That's what my second born son has been in my life. Redemption. A little piece of my Father's love, grace, protection, and understanding for the wounds I have experienced thus far in motherhood.
Now before I go any further, please do not misunderstand. Hudson was just as much a gift to our lives as Cohen has been. We love and cherish ALL that he is and will continue to be. But just as each child is different, I believe that we can learn different lessons through each child as well. I believe God reveals himself in a new way. Speaks to our hearts differently. Uniquely. With each life that blesses ours.
And the fact of the matter is, the gift of Cohen's life has brought me healing. In more ways than I can count. And for that, I am thankful.
It all started back when we first talked about wanting a second child. After our experience with Hudson, I must say I was a little scarred and was unsure if I was even going to have more biological children because of it. I didn't want to risk it. Didn't want to take the chance of something happening again. I didn't think I could handle it a second time. I didn't want to handle it a second time. And yet, through all of this fear, there was a still small voice inside my heart.
One that whispered... Be Still. Be Still and know that I am God. Be Still and know I Am.
And so I was. I was still. I surrendered. I stopped trying to control what my family looked like. It wasn't mine to control. I knew that. He taught me that. And so I let go.
8 months later, I was pregnant. And we were moving back into my parents house because Clint had lost his job. Not exactly ideal. But through all of my fear, I heard that still small voice inside my heart once again.
Be Still. Be Still and know that I am God. Be Still and know I Am.
And so I was. I was still. Well, as still as I could be at this point. I'm not gonna lie. I squirmed a little bit here. The situation was looking all too familiar. We had been here before. We had been jobless and pregnant not 2 years ago when we found out about Hudson. Everything in me wanted to flee. Wanted to take back my surrendered heart. Wanted to tell God that I could do it better. That my plans were far superior to His. But instead, I sat in the arms of my Father. I sat silently. I sat still. Even when I wasn't happy about it.
20 weeks later, I was walking into the same ultrasound room where we found out about Hudson's Spina Bifida. I was anxious to say the least. I had knots in my stomach. I almost couldn't breathe. I closed my eyes and begged God to give me peace. And he did. With that still small voice saying exactly what I needed to hear.
Be Still. Be Still and know that I am God. Be Still and know I Am.
With each time this phrase was whispered to the inner darkness of my heart, I felt a little bit of healing. I felt my wounds closing up. I felt free. Free to enjoy the tiny little life growing inside of me. Free to love him no matter what. And free from the bondage of hanging on every word the doctors would say.
When the doctor came in that day to tell me my son looked 'perfect' I felt relief. But honestly, the true relief came far before that. It came in the waiting room when I chose not to worry. When I chose to believe that my Father was sitting right there with me, reassuring me that no matter what happened He was still God, and I was not.
And then we fast forward another 3 months, when we made the choice to move to Portland knowing this tiny little baby would be just 2 weeks old. Knowing that if there were any complications with his health, we would be heading to a new state, with new health insurance, and absolutely no support from family and friends nearby. Not knowing where our income would be coming from. Not knowing when exactly the baby would come. Not knowing where we were going to live. Pretty much knowing nothing but the fact that we had to go. We just had to. Because we felt the urgency of our call. We felt a conviction so deep in our core that we couldn't ignore it.
This is when I could have absolutely lost it (and did a couple times). Because this was never part of my plan. I wanted my little boy to be safe. I wanted to make sure he had proper health insurance. I wanted to make sure he was healthy and strong before making plans to uproot our entire family. I wanted him to grow up with his family, with his cousins, with our friends. I wanted to be in control of it all!!! And yet, when I sat in the corner of my room in tears, feeling helpless and so unsure...my God kept whispering. He kept shouting at me until I would listen.
Haley, my daughter; Be Still. Be Still and know that I am God. Be still and know I am.
And so I lifted up my little boy into the Father's capable arms once again. Knowing he was much safer there than he ever would be in mine.
2 months later, my due date had arrived. And sure enough I found myself in the hospital with contractions coming 3-5 minutes apart. Our son was on his way. Clint and I had made the decision that I was going to forego a C-section as well as an epidural for my delivery. We wanted things to be different this time around. I didn't want to miss out on my son's birth. Clint and I wanted to experience our little guy coming into this world together. With him by my side, as my coach. Talking me through contractions. Breathing alongside me. Offering me water. Taking me to the bathroom. My amazing husband was willing to do it all.
And by the time I was about 5 hours into labor and my water had broken, boy did I need him by my side!! The pain was intense. Breathing through the contractions became harder. Screaming through them was a much more natural response :) There were moments I wanted to give up. There were moments when the pain felt unbearable. When I thought of abandoning our plan and instead crying out for the epidural. But through it all, my heart was at peace. Because again, my Father was there. Right there. Walking me through the pain one step at a time.
Be Still. Be Still and know that I am God. Be Still and know I am.
We had come on quite a journey, He and I. And I wasn't about to stop now. Not when I was moments away from meeting my son.
And so, just when I thought I couldn't expend one more ounce of energy. Just when I thought I couldn't push one more time. I did. I pushed. And I fought. And I struggled. I listened to my husband's excited voice as he saw our son slowly coming into the world. I thought about seeing my son for the first time. I imagined his little body. His tiny cry. I used this as motivation to continue on.
And sure enough, after 12 long hours and one final push, Cohen came swooping into my arms. A moment I had dreamed about for so long. Getting to hold my baby boy within seconds of his time on this earth. I sat in disbelief, staring at him as he laid on my body. He was there. With me. I looked to my right and saw my husband. There. With me.
Words cannot express the joy this moment brought. At 12:11pm on July 12, 2013, my Father gave me an incredible gift. One that felt so special and unique to me. It's as if he wanted to show me that he knew the desires of my heart. That they mattered to Him. He saw the wounds and scars I carried with me, and for the past 9 months was showing me that he alone heals. And he alone redeems. I felt that in this moment come to completion. And my undeserving heart was so full.
Since his birth, Cohen has continued to bless not only my life, but our entire family's. Clint and I have talked about how much closer we feel as a couple because of going through Cohen's birth together. United as one. Our precious son gave us the opportunity to experience something together we may never get to again.
And as far as Hudson goes, he doesn't want to go anywhere without 'baby brother.' He is enamored with him. I can see their little relationship forming even now. I can see the bond they will share. The way they will love and protect each other. I couldn't have given a more perfect gift to Hudson. Just what he needed. Right when he needed it. What should have brought a lot of insecurity into his life, actually seems to have brought about more peace. During a time of being unsettled with a big move and so much changing, it's as though Hudson feels more comfortable and at home with Cohen by his side.
Cohen, this family would not be the same without you. You are a blessing in every sense of the word.
That's all I can really say after the past 4 weeks of chaos. Actually, after the past 9 months of chaos. It's been a whirlwind. It's been pretty foggy at times. But through it all I have experienced some of the greatest blessings to date.
And for me, it all came in the form of one tiny little human.
This boy.
Cohen Jeffrey Shamblin.
My son.
A gift.
From my loving and gracious Father.
To my heart and to my life.
Words cannot possibly express what this boy's short life on this earth has meant to me. But I must proclaim, I must shout from the rooftops, I must attempt to put into coherent sentences what God has done in this mama's heart because of him.
I didn't have the easiest introduction to motherhood. No first time mom dreams of their firstborn child being born with a birth defect. No mom at all for that matter. Nobody wants to miss out on their child's birth due to complications and to have to wait months to hold their son for the first time. And certainly, no one wishes to spend days, weeks, and months away from their fragile newborn baby.
It's a rough start. Let's face it. And as much as I love my firstborn son with all of my heart, I do not love the way in which he had to come into this world. I don't love the brokenness and the pain that came from it. I don't love the wide open wounds that were left behind. I just don't.
This world is ugly. It is full of hurt. Hudson knows that well already. I do too. It is no secret to our family and is a reality that will be spoken of frequently and openly. Not because we want to be Debbie-downers, but because it is only through our understanding of the brokenness of this world that we can truly experience the life-altering and healing power of God's redemptive work in it.
That's what my second born son has been in my life. Redemption. A little piece of my Father's love, grace, protection, and understanding for the wounds I have experienced thus far in motherhood.
Now before I go any further, please do not misunderstand. Hudson was just as much a gift to our lives as Cohen has been. We love and cherish ALL that he is and will continue to be. But just as each child is different, I believe that we can learn different lessons through each child as well. I believe God reveals himself in a new way. Speaks to our hearts differently. Uniquely. With each life that blesses ours.
And the fact of the matter is, the gift of Cohen's life has brought me healing. In more ways than I can count. And for that, I am thankful.
It all started back when we first talked about wanting a second child. After our experience with Hudson, I must say I was a little scarred and was unsure if I was even going to have more biological children because of it. I didn't want to risk it. Didn't want to take the chance of something happening again. I didn't think I could handle it a second time. I didn't want to handle it a second time. And yet, through all of this fear, there was a still small voice inside my heart.
One that whispered... Be Still. Be Still and know that I am God. Be Still and know I Am.
And so I was. I was still. I surrendered. I stopped trying to control what my family looked like. It wasn't mine to control. I knew that. He taught me that. And so I let go.
8 months later, I was pregnant. And we were moving back into my parents house because Clint had lost his job. Not exactly ideal. But through all of my fear, I heard that still small voice inside my heart once again.
Be Still. Be Still and know that I am God. Be Still and know I Am.
And so I was. I was still. Well, as still as I could be at this point. I'm not gonna lie. I squirmed a little bit here. The situation was looking all too familiar. We had been here before. We had been jobless and pregnant not 2 years ago when we found out about Hudson. Everything in me wanted to flee. Wanted to take back my surrendered heart. Wanted to tell God that I could do it better. That my plans were far superior to His. But instead, I sat in the arms of my Father. I sat silently. I sat still. Even when I wasn't happy about it.
20 weeks later, I was walking into the same ultrasound room where we found out about Hudson's Spina Bifida. I was anxious to say the least. I had knots in my stomach. I almost couldn't breathe. I closed my eyes and begged God to give me peace. And he did. With that still small voice saying exactly what I needed to hear.
Be Still. Be Still and know that I am God. Be Still and know I Am.
With each time this phrase was whispered to the inner darkness of my heart, I felt a little bit of healing. I felt my wounds closing up. I felt free. Free to enjoy the tiny little life growing inside of me. Free to love him no matter what. And free from the bondage of hanging on every word the doctors would say.
When the doctor came in that day to tell me my son looked 'perfect' I felt relief. But honestly, the true relief came far before that. It came in the waiting room when I chose not to worry. When I chose to believe that my Father was sitting right there with me, reassuring me that no matter what happened He was still God, and I was not.
And then we fast forward another 3 months, when we made the choice to move to Portland knowing this tiny little baby would be just 2 weeks old. Knowing that if there were any complications with his health, we would be heading to a new state, with new health insurance, and absolutely no support from family and friends nearby. Not knowing where our income would be coming from. Not knowing when exactly the baby would come. Not knowing where we were going to live. Pretty much knowing nothing but the fact that we had to go. We just had to. Because we felt the urgency of our call. We felt a conviction so deep in our core that we couldn't ignore it.
This is when I could have absolutely lost it (and did a couple times). Because this was never part of my plan. I wanted my little boy to be safe. I wanted to make sure he had proper health insurance. I wanted to make sure he was healthy and strong before making plans to uproot our entire family. I wanted him to grow up with his family, with his cousins, with our friends. I wanted to be in control of it all!!! And yet, when I sat in the corner of my room in tears, feeling helpless and so unsure...my God kept whispering. He kept shouting at me until I would listen.
Haley, my daughter; Be Still. Be Still and know that I am God. Be still and know I am.
And so I lifted up my little boy into the Father's capable arms once again. Knowing he was much safer there than he ever would be in mine.
2 months later, my due date had arrived. And sure enough I found myself in the hospital with contractions coming 3-5 minutes apart. Our son was on his way. Clint and I had made the decision that I was going to forego a C-section as well as an epidural for my delivery. We wanted things to be different this time around. I didn't want to miss out on my son's birth. Clint and I wanted to experience our little guy coming into this world together. With him by my side, as my coach. Talking me through contractions. Breathing alongside me. Offering me water. Taking me to the bathroom. My amazing husband was willing to do it all.
And by the time I was about 5 hours into labor and my water had broken, boy did I need him by my side!! The pain was intense. Breathing through the contractions became harder. Screaming through them was a much more natural response :) There were moments I wanted to give up. There were moments when the pain felt unbearable. When I thought of abandoning our plan and instead crying out for the epidural. But through it all, my heart was at peace. Because again, my Father was there. Right there. Walking me through the pain one step at a time.
Be Still. Be Still and know that I am God. Be Still and know I am.
We had come on quite a journey, He and I. And I wasn't about to stop now. Not when I was moments away from meeting my son.
And so, just when I thought I couldn't expend one more ounce of energy. Just when I thought I couldn't push one more time. I did. I pushed. And I fought. And I struggled. I listened to my husband's excited voice as he saw our son slowly coming into the world. I thought about seeing my son for the first time. I imagined his little body. His tiny cry. I used this as motivation to continue on.
And sure enough, after 12 long hours and one final push, Cohen came swooping into my arms. A moment I had dreamed about for so long. Getting to hold my baby boy within seconds of his time on this earth. I sat in disbelief, staring at him as he laid on my body. He was there. With me. I looked to my right and saw my husband. There. With me.
Words cannot express the joy this moment brought. At 12:11pm on July 12, 2013, my Father gave me an incredible gift. One that felt so special and unique to me. It's as if he wanted to show me that he knew the desires of my heart. That they mattered to Him. He saw the wounds and scars I carried with me, and for the past 9 months was showing me that he alone heals. And he alone redeems. I felt that in this moment come to completion. And my undeserving heart was so full.
Since his birth, Cohen has continued to bless not only my life, but our entire family's. Clint and I have talked about how much closer we feel as a couple because of going through Cohen's birth together. United as one. Our precious son gave us the opportunity to experience something together we may never get to again.
And as far as Hudson goes, he doesn't want to go anywhere without 'baby brother.' He is enamored with him. I can see their little relationship forming even now. I can see the bond they will share. The way they will love and protect each other. I couldn't have given a more perfect gift to Hudson. Just what he needed. Right when he needed it. What should have brought a lot of insecurity into his life, actually seems to have brought about more peace. During a time of being unsettled with a big move and so much changing, it's as though Hudson feels more comfortable and at home with Cohen by his side.
Cohen, this family would not be the same without you. You are a blessing in every sense of the word.
Love you to pieces my littlest monster.
Monday, June 24, 2013
First Steps!!!
I keep meaning to post this video. It was taken about a month ago. When my baby boy (although he's not really that much of a baby anymore) took his very first steps on his own!
This has been a day that I have much anticipated. Not just for the 2 and a half years Hudson has been on this earth, but starting at that 20 week ultrasound when I first found out he had Spina Bifida.
I know it sounds crazy, but I mourned on that day. I mourned the image I had in my mind of my son. I mourned the loss of his legs. I mourned the image of him running down the street and playing in the park with complete freedom and abandonment.
Because my son taking his first steps has never been a given in our family. It has never been an expectation.
Instead, it has become a gift. A precious and undeserving gift.
I wish I could sit here and tell you that in this moment I broke down in tears and rejoiced full-heartedly for the gift of my son walking. But to be honest, I didn't. I was joyful, and oh so proud, don't get me wrong. But it wasn't quite the magical moment I had built up in my head for so long.
I just kept wanting more. Like this accomplishment in my son's life wasn't good enough for my human heart. I wanted him to take more steps. I wanted him to not need his walker anymore. I wanted him to run. I wanted so much more than these first baby steps. And honestly, the ugliness of my heart's response was really disappointing.
But this is what I love about my son. I love that he teaches me to slow down. I love that he teaches me about thankfulness. And I love that being his mom reveals so much of the brokenness inside of me. Because it reminds me of the absolute completeness of the Father's love.
I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there was rejoicing in Heaven on this day. As Hudson's earthly mom sat there wanting more, his Heavenly Father beamed proudly with more love in his heart than we could possibly fathom. He needed nothing else from his precious son. He loved him just as he was...
Brokenness and all.
I know I will never be able to love my son the way his Father does. But I also know, that through my son, God is teaching me the incredible vastness of His goodness, grace, and love.
And this is the truest, most precious, and most undeserving gift there is.
Sweet Hudson, here is to many more steps to come. And many more gifts to be thankful for. Love you so much, buddy!
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
God is Good
Yesterday was a day of reflection for me.
On February 11th, just 2 short years ago, we were able to bring our baby boy home from the NICU for the first time. Given that he was born on December 9th, this was a date that was a long time coming for us.
However, I kind of thought that as time went on days like this would quickly begin to fade from my memory. That I would begin to feel more and more like a 'normal' parent (whatever that is), who got to bring their baby home from the hospital with them from day 1. And yet, here I am, 2 years later still thinking about it. Still processing through how I feel. Still feeling so unbelievably 'abnormal' in the way my child got ushered into this world.
Many of you have asked me (and many of you haven't, yet I'm sure are curious) about how my experience with Hudson has or will continue to affect my current pregnancy. In light of my reflective state, I thought this would be a good time to share my heart on this.
Let's start with the statistics first. The numbers that really mean absolutely nothing, yet are thrown at us as complete truth and often paralyze us in complete fear.
Because Hudson was born with Spina Bifida, we have been told that we are 3% more likely to have another child with Spina Bifida than the average person.
There it is. The phrase that haunts me. And while 3% doesn't sound like a lot, in our experience, small percentages are certainly not out of the question. Just because it's unlikely to happen, doesn't mean it won't. We know. We watched our first-born son fall into the 1% statistics too many times to think that we are immune to it.
And yet, God is Good. All the time.
This we know with absolute certainty.
I must admit, that the day I got the phone call from the Genetics department telling me that my son was going to be born with Spina Bifida, I questioned God's goodness. The day I walked in and found out he had a life-threatening infection, which happened to be Christmas and the exact day I had prayed for months and months that he would be able to be home by, I doubted again the goodness of God. The days and the months I spent tirelessly praying for Hudson's healing and begging God to allow my son to walk, only to be met with silence...once again, left me refusing to believe in God's goodness.
And yet, God is Good. All the time.
Growing up in the church, I heard this phrase a lot. The funny thing, though, is that it always seemed to correspond with a positive circumstance or answered prayer.
"I just got a promotion." God is Good.
"I finally got pregnant." God is Good.
"My son was healed." God is Good.
And the list could go on and on. For whatever reason, I kept waiting for God to bless me. Kept waiting for the answered prayer. Kept waiting for the trial to be over. And kept waiting for my circumstances to change before I was willing to declare the goodness of God.
But not this time.
This time around, with my next son (yes, we are having another boy) I made a pact with God that things would be different. That I would declare God's goodness despite our circumstances. That all glory would go to him, no matter what.
We have our 20 week ultrasound in 2 weeks. That's when we will find out if our second child has Spina Bifida, or any other birth defect. Have I been anxious about this date? Absolutely. But only when I allow myself to believe the lie that God's goodness depends on the health of my children.
This pregnancy I have not spent a lot of time praying for this baby boy to be healthy. Or praying for me to get to hold him in my arms and take him home right away. Instead, this has been my prayer.
May the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, guard my heart and my mind in Christ Jesus. (Phil 4:7)
I have prayed for peace. And nothing more. That I may trust so fervently in the goodness of God that no circumstance would ever shake that. And so, without yet knowing the health of my son, I declare with absolute conviction that...
God is Good. All the time.
And when I walk into the same scary ultrasound room I did 2 years ago, I pray audaciously not that the results will be different, but that my heart will remain steadfast in the truth of who my Abba Father is. No matter what.
Some of you have asked how you can be praying for me over the next couple weeks. This is it. Please pray that my husband and I will have a peace that transcends all understanding, one that can only come from our gracious and loving Heavenly Father.
On February 11th, just 2 short years ago, we were able to bring our baby boy home from the NICU for the first time. Given that he was born on December 9th, this was a date that was a long time coming for us.
Many of you have asked me (and many of you haven't, yet I'm sure are curious) about how my experience with Hudson has or will continue to affect my current pregnancy. In light of my reflective state, I thought this would be a good time to share my heart on this.
Let's start with the statistics first. The numbers that really mean absolutely nothing, yet are thrown at us as complete truth and often paralyze us in complete fear.
Because Hudson was born with Spina Bifida, we have been told that we are 3% more likely to have another child with Spina Bifida than the average person.
There it is. The phrase that haunts me. And while 3% doesn't sound like a lot, in our experience, small percentages are certainly not out of the question. Just because it's unlikely to happen, doesn't mean it won't. We know. We watched our first-born son fall into the 1% statistics too many times to think that we are immune to it.
And yet, God is Good. All the time.
This we know with absolute certainty.
I must admit, that the day I got the phone call from the Genetics department telling me that my son was going to be born with Spina Bifida, I questioned God's goodness. The day I walked in and found out he had a life-threatening infection, which happened to be Christmas and the exact day I had prayed for months and months that he would be able to be home by, I doubted again the goodness of God. The days and the months I spent tirelessly praying for Hudson's healing and begging God to allow my son to walk, only to be met with silence...once again, left me refusing to believe in God's goodness.
And yet, God is Good. All the time.
Growing up in the church, I heard this phrase a lot. The funny thing, though, is that it always seemed to correspond with a positive circumstance or answered prayer.
"I just got a promotion." God is Good.
"I finally got pregnant." God is Good.
"My son was healed." God is Good.
And the list could go on and on. For whatever reason, I kept waiting for God to bless me. Kept waiting for the answered prayer. Kept waiting for the trial to be over. And kept waiting for my circumstances to change before I was willing to declare the goodness of God.
But not this time.
This time around, with my next son (yes, we are having another boy) I made a pact with God that things would be different. That I would declare God's goodness despite our circumstances. That all glory would go to him, no matter what.
We have our 20 week ultrasound in 2 weeks. That's when we will find out if our second child has Spina Bifida, or any other birth defect. Have I been anxious about this date? Absolutely. But only when I allow myself to believe the lie that God's goodness depends on the health of my children.
This pregnancy I have not spent a lot of time praying for this baby boy to be healthy. Or praying for me to get to hold him in my arms and take him home right away. Instead, this has been my prayer.
May the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, guard my heart and my mind in Christ Jesus. (Phil 4:7)
I have prayed for peace. And nothing more. That I may trust so fervently in the goodness of God that no circumstance would ever shake that. And so, without yet knowing the health of my son, I declare with absolute conviction that...
God is Good. All the time.
And when I walk into the same scary ultrasound room I did 2 years ago, I pray audaciously not that the results will be different, but that my heart will remain steadfast in the truth of who my Abba Father is. No matter what.
Some of you have asked how you can be praying for me over the next couple weeks. This is it. Please pray that my husband and I will have a peace that transcends all understanding, one that can only come from our gracious and loving Heavenly Father.
God is so good.
All the time.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Sweet Baby of Mine
Precious baby,
I wanted to let you know something on this day. It has been weighing on my heart to tell you since the moment I knew you existed.
My fears have already come true about you being our second child. Because there is not a single picture taken of me being pregnant with you yet. There is not a single journal entry written to you (until today that is), and honestly I'm pretty sure I have forgotten to tell most people that I am even pregnant at all with you.
15 weeks into this journey, and I have no idea how any of this happened. It just feels like time whizzes by and I have no control over it at all.
But, here is a little secret that I want you to hold onto throughout your childhood and beyond...
None of that stuff really means anything.
If there are less pictures of you, it just means I am spending more time enjoying you rather than stressing out about grabbing the camera to capture a moment.
If there are less words written to you, it just means that I am so consumed with my love for you, that I can't quite put it into words.
And if there are less people that I talk to about you, it just means that I am spending more time talking to you.
My love for you knows no bounds. It hasn't from the moment I knew you were going to be a part of our family.
Please know that.
If there is one thing your brother Hudson has taught me, it's that being a mom opens your heart up to love in a way you never thought possible.
Honestly, I thought it would be impossible to love another child the way I did the first time around. But in fact, I have found it so much easier to fall in love with you each day. In such a unique and special way. Completely separate from your brother.
You have a special place in my heart, little child of mine, and you always will. You are a gift. I could sit and wonder for hours what you will be like and who you will become. But what I know for sure is that this family doesn't feel complete anymore without you.
So remember, don't worry about the pictures, don't worry about the scrapbooks. Just hear my words when I tell you...
We dropped to our knees and endlessly prayed we would get you.
We fell down and wept the moment we knew we had you.
And we wait with longing in our hearts for the moment we can finally hold you in our arms.
You are loved so desperately, sweet baby of mine.
Love, Mama
P.S. I promise there will be at least some pictures of you soon :)
Sunday, December 9, 2012
2 Years Old
Today, my boy is 2 years old. And I am overjoyed.
I don't know how to explain how grateful I am for this day. The day that this tiny, fragile little baby took his first breath and changed my life forever.
This day has so much meaning to me, both good and bad. It carries with it some fearful memories as my son was born only to head into surgery the very next day. It carries with it some painful wounds of not getting to hold or even see my son when he was born. The first time I laid eyes on him was a picture my husband took on his phone. I was the last one of my family and close friends to meet Hudson down in the NICU. And a part of me still breaks over this.
But on the day of my son's birth, I am so thankful for EVERYTHING this day means to me. I love reflecting even on the old wounds because with it I see the true miracle of my son. The miracle of redemption. Because God redeems all things. It's an iron clad promise. And sometimes, just sometimes, we get the privledge of experiencing His redemptive work this side of heaven.
Today I celebrate my little boy, and the fact that this year has been free of surgeries and hospitals and any health scares what-so-ever. Instead, this year has been full of growing and changing, strengthing and healing.
And when I take the time to reflect on that, suddenly the fact that I didn't meet my son for the first 12 hours of his life doesn't matter. Suddenly the months I couldn't hold him and take him home pails in comparison to the endless days we get to snuggle and play and dance together now.
I am blessed. Truly blessed beyond all comparison, for this spunky sweet little life.
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He loves doggies, guitars, pianos, phones, dancing, wrestling, tickling, and playing with friends and family. He is smart. Sometimes too smart for his own good. He is sensitive. And cares deeply about other people. He is goofy. He's got the funniest sense of humor and the greatest deep belly laugh there is. He is strong. And keeps a joyful spirit in light of some difficult circumstances. I admire who is already. And know there is so much I can learn from him.
Before I was a mom, I always thought having a child was about teaching them the ways of this world. I would teach my children about manners, responsibilities, consequences, rewards. I would teach them their ABC's, colors, numbers, and words. Most importantly I would teach them about God. About who He is and what He has done for us. I had so much knowledge I had gathered over the years. And I was ready to pass this on to my children.
What I was not prepared for about being a mom, however, was everything my child would teach me. Here I was thinking I was on top of the world and had it all figured out...and then this tiny little boy came sweeping through my life and showed me how little I really knew.
Hudson, in your 2 years of life you have taught me more than I ever learned in the 24 years I had before you.
You have taught me how to love...really love, with no strings attached.
You've taught me how to surrender...truly surrender my desires, my plans, and my life.
You've taught me how to be patient...humbly waiting for God's timing and not my own.
You've taught me that the things that once mattered so much to me in this world, hold no bearing to the steadfast love, grace, and peace that can only come from our Father.
You've taught me how to be a mom. You've let me learn and make mistakes and have loved me through it. We've stuck together through a lot, you and me. And I love the bond we share because of it.
Hudson, I will never understand how I got so lucky as to be your mom. You have my heart. In a way no one else does.
Happy 2nd Birthday precious boy of mine.
I don't know how to explain how grateful I am for this day. The day that this tiny, fragile little baby took his first breath and changed my life forever.
This day has so much meaning to me, both good and bad. It carries with it some fearful memories as my son was born only to head into surgery the very next day. It carries with it some painful wounds of not getting to hold or even see my son when he was born. The first time I laid eyes on him was a picture my husband took on his phone. I was the last one of my family and close friends to meet Hudson down in the NICU. And a part of me still breaks over this.
But on the day of my son's birth, I am so thankful for EVERYTHING this day means to me. I love reflecting even on the old wounds because with it I see the true miracle of my son. The miracle of redemption. Because God redeems all things. It's an iron clad promise. And sometimes, just sometimes, we get the privledge of experiencing His redemptive work this side of heaven.
Today I celebrate my little boy, and the fact that this year has been free of surgeries and hospitals and any health scares what-so-ever. Instead, this year has been full of growing and changing, strengthing and healing.
And when I take the time to reflect on that, suddenly the fact that I didn't meet my son for the first 12 hours of his life doesn't matter. Suddenly the months I couldn't hold him and take him home pails in comparison to the endless days we get to snuggle and play and dance together now.
I am blessed. Truly blessed beyond all comparison, for this spunky sweet little life.
.jpg)
He loves doggies, guitars, pianos, phones, dancing, wrestling, tickling, and playing with friends and family. He is smart. Sometimes too smart for his own good. He is sensitive. And cares deeply about other people. He is goofy. He's got the funniest sense of humor and the greatest deep belly laugh there is. He is strong. And keeps a joyful spirit in light of some difficult circumstances. I admire who is already. And know there is so much I can learn from him.
Before I was a mom, I always thought having a child was about teaching them the ways of this world. I would teach my children about manners, responsibilities, consequences, rewards. I would teach them their ABC's, colors, numbers, and words. Most importantly I would teach them about God. About who He is and what He has done for us. I had so much knowledge I had gathered over the years. And I was ready to pass this on to my children.
What I was not prepared for about being a mom, however, was everything my child would teach me. Here I was thinking I was on top of the world and had it all figured out...and then this tiny little boy came sweeping through my life and showed me how little I really knew.
Hudson, in your 2 years of life you have taught me more than I ever learned in the 24 years I had before you.
You have taught me how to love...really love, with no strings attached.
You've taught me how to surrender...truly surrender my desires, my plans, and my life.
You've taught me how to be patient...humbly waiting for God's timing and not my own.
You've taught me that the things that once mattered so much to me in this world, hold no bearing to the steadfast love, grace, and peace that can only come from our Father.
You've taught me how to be a mom. You've let me learn and make mistakes and have loved me through it. We've stuck together through a lot, you and me. And I love the bond we share because of it.
Hudson, I will never understand how I got so lucky as to be your mom. You have my heart. In a way no one else does.
Happy 2nd Birthday precious boy of mine.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Gratitude
It has been awhile. A long while. The truth is, I have had no idea what to blog about.
On top of that I go back and forth about whether I even want to continue to have a blog. When I first started this, it was a way to keep everyone updated on Hudson and the whereabouts of our family.
However, I figured out over the past 6 months of silence, that this blog is less about updating everyone and more about an outlet for my ever streaming and never organized thoughts. One thing I've learned in my 2 years of motherhood is that organized and processed-out thinking is not to be taken for granted. It's something that rarely gets to happen, yet is so important for sanity and well-being.
So here I am. Sitting at Starbucks. Sipping my chai latte. Enjoying the time my husband has given me away from the house. Reading a book that speaks directly to the place I am at in my life. Remembering why it is I started this blog of mine. And strongly desiring to pay it a visit.
Because lately, I have been stuck. My thoughts have halted. My mind has been consumed. My soul uninspired. And my self-pity at an all time high. Until I picked up this book.
And I realized that maybe, just maybe, I have a lot to be grateful for.
I must admit that since moving to Lodi 8 months ago for Clint's job I have been feeling pretty sorry for myself. My list of grievances has been large.
I am lonely in this new town.
Clint gets to go to work everyday doing something he loves, and I stay at home. ALL DAY.
Hudson is defiant and doesn't listen to anything I say.
I feel like I have no purpose. Nothing to call MINE.
Hudson still isn't walking. This means I have to carry him EVERYWHERE. And he is HEAVY.
Our house is old and dirty.
The neighbors dogs bark too loud.
The shower is too small.
There is nothing to do in Lodi.
I had to move away from my closest friends and family.
I don't want to be here.
Life isn't fair.
I could go on and on and on and on.
This has been my life. And it is exhausting. It is exhausting being completely dissatisfied. And being resentful towards God for not crafting the kind of life I want. For not doing things according to MY plan.
I must admit that I battle almost daily with feeling like it is unfair that Hudson has Spina Bifida. It is at times a stumbling block in my relationship with God. It is what spirals my self-pity. And it is what makes me feel so alone. Like no one else in the world has to deal with what I am dealing with. It is hard for me to go to a park and watch children so freely run around and play. I feel bitterness rise up, that for everyone else seeing their child walk is a given. But for me, it has and never will be a guarantee.
I dream of the day when Hudson may run around and play. And I angrily tell God that I don't approve of the struggles he has allowed my son to have. That I would have done things so much differently if I were in his shoes.
And just when I think that I am completely justified in my complaints and grievances, something or someone knocks me dead in the face. And brings me to my knees again.
In her book, One Thousand Gifts, Ann Voskamp speaks exactly to this issue. Saying that our sin and ultimate fall was, has always been, and always will be, that we aren't satisfied in God and what He gives. That we hunger for something more, something other.
Does this sound familiar?
The pride of thinking we can do better than God is the very thing that brought Satan down. The desire to know all the mysteries of God is what caused Adam and Eve to disobey and eat the fruit. And to this day, I fall into these same sins and somehow think I am in the right. Time and time again.
What it seems I fail to see, are the thousands of blessings that God bestows upon me daily. And every time I come to him with my list of complaints I am showing him my ungratefulness for all he has done.
Because the truth is, I will never fully understand why things happen the way that they do. Why their seems to be injustice, pain, and suffering lurking around every corner. But it is not my place to figure it out. It is not my place to question. It is however, my call and my command, to be thankful in all circumstances.
Because God IS Good. He has proven this. Time and time again.
And so, on this day, I choose to be grateful. I choose to lay down my pride and selfishness, and to thank my Father for saving a wretch like me. And for bestowing thousands of blessings on this defiant child.
I am grateful for my husband. The man with whom I have gotten to grow up with. To walk through many stages of life with by my side. The most inspirational person I have ever known. And my very best friend.
I am grateful for this precious son of ours.
For his crinkle-nosed smile.
And sweet giggle
Today, I choose to be grateful for this little family of mine. For the provision God has had over us. For leading us to Lodi to serve and minister to His people. It is never what we would have chosen. But it is very clearly what He has chosen for us.
And for that, I am grateful.
On top of that I go back and forth about whether I even want to continue to have a blog. When I first started this, it was a way to keep everyone updated on Hudson and the whereabouts of our family.
However, I figured out over the past 6 months of silence, that this blog is less about updating everyone and more about an outlet for my ever streaming and never organized thoughts. One thing I've learned in my 2 years of motherhood is that organized and processed-out thinking is not to be taken for granted. It's something that rarely gets to happen, yet is so important for sanity and well-being.
So here I am. Sitting at Starbucks. Sipping my chai latte. Enjoying the time my husband has given me away from the house. Reading a book that speaks directly to the place I am at in my life. Remembering why it is I started this blog of mine. And strongly desiring to pay it a visit.
Because lately, I have been stuck. My thoughts have halted. My mind has been consumed. My soul uninspired. And my self-pity at an all time high. Until I picked up this book.
And I realized that maybe, just maybe, I have a lot to be grateful for.
I must admit that since moving to Lodi 8 months ago for Clint's job I have been feeling pretty sorry for myself. My list of grievances has been large.
I am lonely in this new town.
Clint gets to go to work everyday doing something he loves, and I stay at home. ALL DAY.
Hudson is defiant and doesn't listen to anything I say.
I feel like I have no purpose. Nothing to call MINE.
Hudson still isn't walking. This means I have to carry him EVERYWHERE. And he is HEAVY.
Our house is old and dirty.
The neighbors dogs bark too loud.
The shower is too small.
There is nothing to do in Lodi.
I had to move away from my closest friends and family.
I don't want to be here.
Life isn't fair.
I could go on and on and on and on.
This has been my life. And it is exhausting. It is exhausting being completely dissatisfied. And being resentful towards God for not crafting the kind of life I want. For not doing things according to MY plan.
I must admit that I battle almost daily with feeling like it is unfair that Hudson has Spina Bifida. It is at times a stumbling block in my relationship with God. It is what spirals my self-pity. And it is what makes me feel so alone. Like no one else in the world has to deal with what I am dealing with. It is hard for me to go to a park and watch children so freely run around and play. I feel bitterness rise up, that for everyone else seeing their child walk is a given. But for me, it has and never will be a guarantee.
I dream of the day when Hudson may run around and play. And I angrily tell God that I don't approve of the struggles he has allowed my son to have. That I would have done things so much differently if I were in his shoes.
And just when I think that I am completely justified in my complaints and grievances, something or someone knocks me dead in the face. And brings me to my knees again.
In her book, One Thousand Gifts, Ann Voskamp speaks exactly to this issue. Saying that our sin and ultimate fall was, has always been, and always will be, that we aren't satisfied in God and what He gives. That we hunger for something more, something other.
Does this sound familiar?
The pride of thinking we can do better than God is the very thing that brought Satan down. The desire to know all the mysteries of God is what caused Adam and Eve to disobey and eat the fruit. And to this day, I fall into these same sins and somehow think I am in the right. Time and time again.
What it seems I fail to see, are the thousands of blessings that God bestows upon me daily. And every time I come to him with my list of complaints I am showing him my ungratefulness for all he has done.
Because the truth is, I will never fully understand why things happen the way that they do. Why their seems to be injustice, pain, and suffering lurking around every corner. But it is not my place to figure it out. It is not my place to question. It is however, my call and my command, to be thankful in all circumstances.
Because God IS Good. He has proven this. Time and time again.
And so, on this day, I choose to be grateful. I choose to lay down my pride and selfishness, and to thank my Father for saving a wretch like me. And for bestowing thousands of blessings on this defiant child.
I am grateful for my husband. The man with whom I have gotten to grow up with. To walk through many stages of life with by my side. The most inspirational person I have ever known. And my very best friend.
I am grateful for this precious son of ours.
For his crinkle-nosed smile.
And sweet giggle
Today, I choose to be grateful for this little family of mine. For the provision God has had over us. For leading us to Lodi to serve and minister to His people. It is never what we would have chosen. But it is very clearly what He has chosen for us.
And for that, I am grateful.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Homecoming Day!
Today marks a very special day for our family.
It's one of those days that will never get passed by unnoticed on the calendar.
Because a year ago today, February 11th of 2011...we brought our baby boy home from the hospital for the very first time!! And it was by far one of the most anticipated and joyous moments of my life.
I will never forget the feeling of holding my boy close to my body for the very first time. No wires, no tubes, no heavy duty machinery. Just him and I; skin to skin; mama to son. I had to wait 9 weeks to give my boy a proper hug, to dress him for the first time, to put him in a car seat, and to sleep under the same roof. But man, was it worth the wait!
Because on this day, February 11th, none of what we had been through with him in the past months mattered. This was our fresh start, our new beginning as a family of 3. Because our boy was FINALLY home! Right where he belonged.
I still have this picture of Hudson on my phone. It was taken on the drive home from the hospital. It was so fun to watch him look out the window and experience the world around him. He didn't cry once. Just sat there with wide open eyes, taking it all in. He had never seen the outdoors, never experienced the sun or wind on his face. Everything was brand new to him. And it was incredible to watch him experience it. This moment was so special to me, and always will be. Which is why I just can't seem to replace this photo on my phone with any other one, even though it's extremely outdated and he now looks a little more like this...
(this was the first time HE dressed himself. Only he put on daddy's shirt instead of his own)
So on this homecoming day I will share with you all, once again, the video Clint made of Hudson that we showed at his 'Welcome Home' Party. Because watching this is a constant reminder of the blessings we experienced through a very special little boy.
(If you get squeamish about seeing babies hooked to hospital equipment or seeing some scars from surgery, don't watch the video! It has become common to us, but I get that it's not for a lot of people. Consider yourself warned :)
http://www.shamblinfamily.com/Shamblin_Family/Blog/Entries/2011/2/14_NICU_Video.html
We love you Hudson, on this day, and every one after. Happy Homecoming Day!
It's one of those days that will never get passed by unnoticed on the calendar.
Because a year ago today, February 11th of 2011...we brought our baby boy home from the hospital for the very first time!! And it was by far one of the most anticipated and joyous moments of my life.
I will never forget the feeling of holding my boy close to my body for the very first time. No wires, no tubes, no heavy duty machinery. Just him and I; skin to skin; mama to son. I had to wait 9 weeks to give my boy a proper hug, to dress him for the first time, to put him in a car seat, and to sleep under the same roof. But man, was it worth the wait!
Because on this day, February 11th, none of what we had been through with him in the past months mattered. This was our fresh start, our new beginning as a family of 3. Because our boy was FINALLY home! Right where he belonged.
I still have this picture of Hudson on my phone. It was taken on the drive home from the hospital. It was so fun to watch him look out the window and experience the world around him. He didn't cry once. Just sat there with wide open eyes, taking it all in. He had never seen the outdoors, never experienced the sun or wind on his face. Everything was brand new to him. And it was incredible to watch him experience it. This moment was so special to me, and always will be. Which is why I just can't seem to replace this photo on my phone with any other one, even though it's extremely outdated and he now looks a little more like this...
So on this homecoming day I will share with you all, once again, the video Clint made of Hudson that we showed at his 'Welcome Home' Party. Because watching this is a constant reminder of the blessings we experienced through a very special little boy.
(If you get squeamish about seeing babies hooked to hospital equipment or seeing some scars from surgery, don't watch the video! It has become common to us, but I get that it's not for a lot of people. Consider yourself warned :)
http://www.shamblinfamily.com/Shamblin_Family/Blog/Entries/2011/2/14_NICU_Video.html
We love you Hudson, on this day, and every one after. Happy Homecoming Day!
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Days Like This
There are many days that go by lately that are very ordinary. I don't think about much except for how to get the laundry done, and the house picked up, and food down Hudson. And on these very ordinary days I forget about the fact that my son has Spina Bifida. I forget the months he spent in the NICU not so long ago. And I forget about how far he has come since he came home screaming every time we moved him.
Then there are days when I can think of nothing except the fact that Hudson has Spina Bifida. These are the days that I see drops of water on his head and think that it is spinal fluid leaking out of his incision site. Not really an ordinary response for most moms, but for me, it is something I experienced many times with him in the NICU, and apparently still worry about. On these days I get frustrated that Hudson is not even close to walking. I watch his little legs fight and struggle and wonder if he will ever learn to stand. I dream about the day he is able to run and play in our backyard and I doubt that it will ever come true. And on these days, I drop to my knees and pray that God will heal my son. I pray that Hudson will be able to stand, and walk, and run. That our efforts every day to strengthen his body will come to fruition.
And then there are days like today. Days when I remember how far he has come in his first year of life. Days where he has the strength to sit up on his knees for the first time without having to hold on to anything to help him get there. Days where he crawls up to me, lifts his hands high in the air, sits up on his own, and shouts for joy.
And on days like this I am humbled and brought to tears. Because this is who my son is. He is a fighter. And he continues to press on and celebrate his victories, no matter how small they may seem to anyone else. He doesn't give up. He doesn't doubt. He just keeps moving forward one baby step at a time. On days like this I realize that nothing else matters. It doesn't matter whether he will stand, or walk, or run. It just doesn't matter. Because that's not what makes him who he is. On days like this I enjoy my son for exactly who God created him to be. Nothing more and nothing less. And I celebrate that. With him.
It's on days like today, that I drop to my knees and pray for nothing else but more days like this.
Then there are days when I can think of nothing except the fact that Hudson has Spina Bifida. These are the days that I see drops of water on his head and think that it is spinal fluid leaking out of his incision site. Not really an ordinary response for most moms, but for me, it is something I experienced many times with him in the NICU, and apparently still worry about. On these days I get frustrated that Hudson is not even close to walking. I watch his little legs fight and struggle and wonder if he will ever learn to stand. I dream about the day he is able to run and play in our backyard and I doubt that it will ever come true. And on these days, I drop to my knees and pray that God will heal my son. I pray that Hudson will be able to stand, and walk, and run. That our efforts every day to strengthen his body will come to fruition.
And then there are days like today. Days when I remember how far he has come in his first year of life. Days where he has the strength to sit up on his knees for the first time without having to hold on to anything to help him get there. Days where he crawls up to me, lifts his hands high in the air, sits up on his own, and shouts for joy.
And on days like this I am humbled and brought to tears. Because this is who my son is. He is a fighter. And he continues to press on and celebrate his victories, no matter how small they may seem to anyone else. He doesn't give up. He doesn't doubt. He just keeps moving forward one baby step at a time. On days like this I realize that nothing else matters. It doesn't matter whether he will stand, or walk, or run. It just doesn't matter. Because that's not what makes him who he is. On days like this I enjoy my son for exactly who God created him to be. Nothing more and nothing less. And I celebrate that. With him.
It's on days like today, that I drop to my knees and pray for nothing else but more days like this.
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