"... As Long as It's Healthy."

This blog might sound on the rant-ish side, because it's something that I've felt very passionate about for a very long time. It's a response to a cultural cliche'. Case and point: Matt and I were out for a wonderful dinner at my favorite restaurant, Benihana's. We were sitting at a table with 5 other people that we've never met. The mother of the family sat next to me, and very pleasantly asked how far I was along. (Not really something that I can avoid these days. The big belly is quite the conversation starter.) Eight months, I replied. And the next question that always, always follows is "Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?" I reply, No, we didn't find out. Well, this nice mom was so tickled and proceeded to tell me that she didn't find out either because they didn't have good ultrasound machines back then, yadda, yadda, and then the comment that cuts me every time: "It really doesn't matter if it's a boy or a girl, as long as it's healthy."

I know that this statement is supposed to be an appropriate, encouraging, cheerful way to end talking with an expectant mom. It has an unspoken good-luck quality, as if one were giving you a charm or shaking salt over their shoulder. Honestly, it's all I can do to keep my big mouth shut and not say something like, "Really??? Is that ultimate the goal here? Is that how I'll know if I've "made it", when I have a healthy, whole child? And what then would you say to all those women, of whom my mother is one, who deliver babies that have obviously not met that standard? Babies that are not perfect, not healthy?!?"

I especially feel like believers could re-examine the use of this trite statement. What if I have a baby that has abnormalities? We would all agree that God loves this baby, God created this baby, God knows this baby. But it doesn't fit the "healthy" description. Did I not pray enough? Did I not have faith enough that this baby would be whole? Did I sin (remember the old Bible stories)? I know all of the answers are "no." So what in the world can we do with a statement like that? In the process of working towards a mother's heart I have come to the point of wanting to please God by joyfully accepting every child He gives me. While I, of course, desire a healthy child, my heart's cry is to be an obedient servant, even if it means that my baby (babies) might not be healthy. Even if it means that God takes me down a different path to do something in me that only a child with disabilities could do... if I could love and trust Him that much... whatever it would take, I would do it.

I personally like this: It doesn't matter if it's a boy or a girl, it will be loved no matter what.

I realize this may come off very b*tchy, perhaps finger-shaking-shame on-you; it's not my intent. People close to me and far from me have made this statement. But can I be honest with the universe? I'm never prepared for the "healthy" statement when I hear it. I often think about moms who have what appears to be a healthy baby, but instead the little one has or develops unseen problems. Hearing, sight, autism, learning disabled, and the list continues. Then heap on top of it the problem that they seem to be a healthy looking child... but a mom's heart is secretly breaking. I have no doubt that growing up in a home with a handicapped older sister is the seedbed of my thinking. It's a way in which having a disabled sibling has irrevocably changed my perspective.

Okay, there's downloading for you. Hope it wasn't too harsh.

Defeat - the tool of Motherhood continued

At a very young age I took this scripture to heart, "Be holy as I am holy, says the Lord your God." "Mom, what's holy mean?" "Perfect." Be perfect as I am perfect... and that became one of my mortal flaws from my earliest memories. I've always wanted to get it right, be correct, not corrected, be on target or even ahead of the game. Rebuke brings humiliation, correction is shame. I have always jokingly used this to my advantage, "Don't you want a nurse who is a perfectionist?!? Or would you rather have someone who sometimes gets things right?" God knew this seed would be constant battle for me, so He lovingly uses the tool of Motherhood to dig it out of me. Motherhood is a spade. Motherhood gets at the heart of control, image, and the need to be right. Motherhood lays her silver blade at the base of Perfection and cuts down deep to the root of the problem.

From time to time I find myself uptight about parenting issues. Discipline. Speech. Potty training. Walking/crawling. I look at the problem from every angle I can find, ask millions of questions, read every article and board I can find, make every comparison possible... not to necessarily know how to best serve my son or daughter (though that's a part of it), but to find out if I'm right. It becomes more about the feelings of inadequacy and failure that I am feeling, than about the normal, timely process it takes for some things to take hold in my child's life. I worry more about whether I'm measuring up in other people's eyes, than whether I'm being kind and loving to my child in their time of transition. I came to the conclusion early on that I wouldn't post about struggles with my children because of their right to a private life, their chance to develop without me throwing up my blogging hands at their failures. I don't think this is an image game. But in my deepest heart, when I feel anger and resentment boil up when he/she doesn't seem to be "getting it," I've learned to step back and say, "What's the REAL issue here? Is it because I can't control this situation? Is it because I feel the pressure to check one more thing off my parental list? Is it because I can't be perfect?" These thoughts are a sign to me of the Holy Spirit's tender work in me, for nothing is more defeating to a perfectionist than knowing that to be perfectly human is to be imperfect, and to strive for anything else is vanity.

Lord, fill me with your kindness today towards my children... and as I feel my limitations, may I also repent and receive your kindness for myself.

Shake, shake, shake... shake your bootie!

Tonight I had the privilege of helping put on a dance for the mentally challenged members of the Center for Enriched Living, a day program in Lake County. As a church we sponsored their summer dance, "A Night in Las Vegas." One of their board members, Laine, attends our church and helped dove-tail this event into our vision of outreach. This was our first community contact since Matt became the lead pastor. We provided food, drinks, decorations, and chaperones for a 2-hour dance. It was a blast! I haven't danced that hard for that long... ever.

I've mentioned in the past that I have a mentally and physically handicapped older sister. Every dance she's gone to she's been the prom queen because she's one of the most gregarious, bubbly people that you've ever met - and she can shake her bootie!!! I think she would've been proud of me tonight, because I was able to hang in there for almost two hours, 8-months pregnant, sweat and all. (Two cups of coffee and a bag of chocolate cookies helped boost my resolve.) Thankfully, the DJ had choreographers to follow, so I was able to look better than I actually am. Many, many times during the dance I thought, "If my sister were at a dance I would want someone to treat her with joy and excitement." So it helped me overcome being shy, and taking a member by the hand to help them swing their arms to the beat. I thought, "This man is someone's son, someone's baby boy," and it helped me overcome feelings of awkwardness in order to slow dance with him as he sat in his wheelchair.

The marginalized, the "least of these", is who Christ commanded us to love. It was truly a joy to do the electric slide and hokey-pokey with a group of individuals that didn't need my presence tonight nearly as much as I needed theirs.

The boy, happy at home. 

A run down

I'm not really about blogging on events, but lately that seems to be the crux of things. So I suppose it's fair to do a bit of reporting. For the record, I haven't ever been as busy as I have been for the past month. I pride myself in quiet, cozy schedules that focus around home routine and childcare. It's just been downright nuts lately.

Upon returning home from Buffalo I spent a few days getting my bearings back, and preparing for the next feat of events upcoming. Being about eight months pregnant has made the "bounce back" factor much slower than I'm used to. If I think about it, I've spent the entire time I've lived in Chicagoland battling the delayed return of energy and homeostasis since I was technically pregnant when we moved. I can only imagine what it will be like to not be pregnant in a few weeks... yipee!! Saturday afternoon we had wonderful friends stop and visit. We met the Spauldings in undergrad, Brad was one of Matt's groomsmen, Laura is a fellow nursing student. We're godparents to Adam and Hannah. It was a terrific visit. I'm amazed how some friendships seem timeless and deep, and some friendships, though closer in proximity and exposure, struggle to maintain relational depth and intensity. I was so encouraged and undergirded by their visit. They went to church with us Sunday morning and enjoyed Family Day. Brad said, "Hey, if I lived closer I'd love to come to your church!" Good words of encouragement for me.

Sunday afternoon we packed up and headed to West Michigan to meet our former small group friends from Buffalo. We stayed at my sister-in-law's huge country home that was only minutes from Lake Michigan. It was a great, but stunningly tiring, time. Six adults, five kids ages four and under. Two dogs (our former Newfoundland lives there), two kittens (read escape artists), about 10 chickens, a rooster, and a cage full of finches. A literal zoo. We enjoyed the gorgeous beach, white sand that squeaks when you walk on it, clear blue water. It was awesome, and a little scary for me. In my pediatrics rotation I cared for a baby who was drowned in the bathtub by her brother... I never thought about it again until I had a little boy and a little girl, and then it all came flooding back. I'm not necessarily trying to sound like the most neurotic mother you know, but it gives you a little context, I guess. I kept both eyes plastered on the kids at the beach. They did wonderfully. Lots of laughing and playing. We have a beach just up the road form us here in Lake County, and of course Izak asks for it constantly, even more so now. It was great to be in the same space with our dearest friends, though there wasn't a lot of time for heart-to-hearts. By the time we left the kids with sitters and went out for dinner Tuesday night we were all about asleep in our plates. It was hard to say goodbye, not knowing when we'll see each other again. My guess is it will be soon.

On our way out of West Michigan we stopped by and saw Aunt Suzy, the cousins, and G'ma G'pa Hilson. We navigated Chicago's traffic very well and got home in four hours. The kids have been so tired all day... but Izak INSISTS on potty-training himself. I've been practically discouraging him, but he runs to the bathroom and crawls up on the potty to do it anyway. For more information than you might want about our training adventures, feel free to click on my husband's blog link.

It's late. I'm tired. I'll talk to you all soon.

I ran away... but I came back

This last weekend I ran away to Buffalo for approximately 48 hours. It was a trip to surprise my friend, Barb, for her baby shower on Sunday afternoon. I just couldn't miss it. Barb and her husband, PJ, had tried for years and years to have a baby. Barb and I were so excited to be pregnant together at the same time last year. We were green and growing when a bomb fell on them. The official diagnosis is "incompetent cervix." She went into early labor, unbeknownst to her, around 22 weeks. She was hospitalized to try to stop the labor. After a week they couldn't hold it back any longer, her water broke, and she delivered her baby. In the process Hannah died. Barb and PJ had called Matt and I for support and counsel during the heartbreaking decisions and stages. We were good friends prior to that... this experience fused us. I was with Barb during the beginning of her labor, Matt visited the next morning and was one of the few people to see little Hannah. Matt took care of the memorial service a few days later, I sang and played the piano. It was a guilt that almost choked me as I stood before them singing songs of comfort with my belly round and active. It seemed so wrong. When Matt told them that we were moving to Chicago they were blown away, and through Barb's tears she cried, "You were the only one who saw Hannah." There are some things you will never forget...

Shortly after we moved, Barb called and surprised me with the wonderful news that they were pregnant!!! I surprised them back by telling them that I was too!!! Once again we are weeks apart with our due dates. She has been closely monitored by her medical team, and all is well! And she's no longer considered high-risk! In a few weeks she'll have a green flag to have that little baby whenever she can! I was hiding in the kitchen when she arrived at the shower a few minutes early. It was soooo much fun to see her reaction, and then, of course, we two pregnant women had a nice little cry together. I said, " We've wept together... now it's time to celebrate!" It was worth every mile to bless her, pray over her, and encourage her. I'm so proud of them. They've remained faithful in the face of devastation, and clung to the promises of God because their very lives have depended on it.

Just for fun I bet Barb that I'll beat her to the delivery room. We'll see... but I wouldn't bet against me. LOL

Seeing my old home was a striking experience. It was as if I'd never left. The fields were greener, and the trees bigger than I remembered. I called Matt from Carrie's and said, "I'm not coming back." I saw precious few friends, as I knew too many would put me in an emotional tailspin. I didn't go to church Sunday because I'm not ready to face 2000 people yet. I only had a little relational margin left. It was so cozy to sit down with old soulmates and share at a deep, meaningful level. I surprised the McGarrys and showed up on their doorstep for coffee. Jennifer, Chuck, and the kids met me at Uncle Joes for breakfast. Aud and I had dinner at Buffalo Street Grill, and Carrie and I sat on the deck while the kids ran in the sprinkler. Deep conversations, insightful questions, revealing answers, an occasional cry. It was almost like a dream... I awoke one morning and clearly thought, "I had the weirdest dream. I had moved to Chicago and Matt got his own church, and we left everything behind... Hey, why am I on the floor in Gavin's room?" It was really, really good to be back.

The best part was that Matt was home with the little ones while I was away, and he did a wonderful job. The slept well, napped well, and were happy when I returned home. He's awesome anyways, but to insist that I go for a weekend by myself was one of the greatest gifts. He's so selfless. So brave. And so thoughtful.

So there. I did run away... but I'm back.

Blessing me

God's been blessing me the past two days. My heart feels it, recognizes it... a sign of the thaw of the shock.

Yesterday I received two huge boxes of beautiful girl clothes from the Mother of Four Girls, Cheri Fox, back in Buffalo. Her friendship is steady. Her blessings are always dead-on, the exact thing that I need at the exact time. All these lovely clothes... makes me so pleased to have a little girl, perhaps two...

Yesterday Leslie called from Buffalo to ask some medical advice. It was like I had only been in her presence the day before. Beautiful, strong friend. Miles, yes, distance, no. She told me that she keeps up with me through my blog, but didn't want to intrude by leaving a comment. Sensitive to the heart-work of the move. Makes me hope that I never forget the (bitter)sweetness of the move, the eternal treasures that are emerging, the bonds of womanhood that I have been stumbling by for the past 6 months I am now beginning to grab onto...

Yesterday I talked with my friend here. And Sara told me that she thought I was very brave for moving here. And I could receive those words knowing that the light was coming at the tunnel's end. The angst and pain of wondering how I will survive each day has lessened, the ability to see the opportunities emerging is returning, the "hope of a future".

My beautiful children bless me with their soft, sweet skin, little eyes which peer into my soul. And my husband is always the jewel of my life with his kindness, humor, and handsome strength...

Just blessing after blessing.

Safe?

A funny thing has happened since moving to Chicagoland's suburban sprawl. I worry about my kids' safety in ways I never have before. I worry about them being snatched out of our fenced-in backyard. I worry about people breaking into their second-story bedrooms, through locked windows, and taking them in the night. I worry about car-jackings when they're in their car seats and I'm loading groceries, or abductions from the cart when I'm not looking. It's a curious thing that I think is founded in my sense of relative isolation. Hamburg was a smaller community, we lived more country, and didn't even lock our doors at night. I lived on the cusp of farmland that could've swallowed my toddler up in moments without a sign. But I felt like I knew, and was known by, the town. It was hard to go anywhere and not see a familiar face. I had an unspoken feeling that people were watching out for me. Here I think they watch me, but wouldn't necessarily intervene. In my heart I know that's not the truth. Midwesterners are known for good-heartedness, and I would step up to help anyone I saw in need. It just must be a weak spot that the Enemy knows to hit.

One late night I was wandering around the house, and I noticed that my computer wasn't closed. As I shut the lid the streetlight from behind me illuminated an outline on the dining room wall. There was someone in my house, right in front of my eyes! Intruder! But before I screamed I figured out that it was actually MY shadow that the streetlight had created. I don't think I've ever been that spooked. I promptly went into the bathroom and threw up.

I spend a lot of time offering this issue up to God in prayer, not so much asking to feel safe as much as taking comfort that He is ever-present. If anything devastating were to occur, would I rest assured that He had not turned His back? Would I know beyond a doubt that His gaze had never left me or my children? His promises are true, I believe that now in the face of security, but would I be faithful to that in the face of devastation? I have begun to think about people in two groups: either my children are safer because of your existence, or they're more endangered because you're in the world. That's fearful thinking, not one that puts forward the truth of God's promises. Lord, help the Enemy to not prevail in this block in my heart. Help me to surrender my children to you everyday, every moment, and know fully that you are the ultimate protector.

HA!

I DID IT! Have my ACLS card! Not bad for a SAHM. Thank you to those of you who prayed and encouraged me. Endless thanks to my awesome, capable husband who took care of my little ones while I did a 12-hour day away. The house was so peaceful and pleasant when I arrived home. Thank you to Charlotte who gave me loads of free hours to study while she filled my house with the happy laughter of my children playing and having fun. I feel like a million bucks.

Back to the Books

I'm spending the rest of this week studying my ACLS Provider Manual. I have about 150 pages to go. Saturday I'm taking an all day course to receive my ACLS (Advanced Cardiac Life Support) certification. It's the next step above CPR, intended to use while coding a patient. I've worked in ICUs all of these years, but was never thought to need it bad enough to send for training. I anticipate returning to work a few days a month around Christmas, so I wanted to have the ACLS cert. under my belt. I found a company who teaches it, paid for it myself, and am preparing to perform it. A wee bit nervous...

I was telling Matt last night that the vocabulary alone takes me back to the days when I had a career. Automaticity. Adrenergic agent. Laryngoscopy. Ah, Latin. Words that I haven't heard in forever, it seems. I love the medical terms that concisely describe a situation. One big word is sometimes worth a whole paragraph. But the deluge of words taxes my mental power. By the end of my readings I'm struggling to remember what CPR stands for. LOL

So I hope to report later that I received my ACLS without difficulty. It's a matter of professional pride at this time. I've toyed with going back to medical school... then we moved from Boston to Buffalo. I flirted with going back for a graduate degree as Nurse Practitioner... and then I started having babies. This small step is the most I can currently do to prove to myself that I'm still a good nurse with brain-power to boot. I know I'm going to need that confidence when I have to restart my career again after almost a year off in an entirely new health system and state.

This evening I am looking forward to welcoming Aunt Lo (Laura Goble) and her entourage (mom Louise and friend Amber) into our home. Lo is starting her graduate degree at Wheaton. She was my husband's administrative assistant while we lived in Buffalo, though she's actually more like family. I can't wait!

Lady Liberty stands 

Silence

Sorry for the silence. Last week I was working hard at keeping the wheels on the household as Matt was away for some recuperation from Monday to Friday. Thankfully my best babysitter from Buffalo timed her trip out here for a visit to overlap with his absence, which was to only way I survived it. THANK YOU, RACHE!! It's cute, Rache (pronounced Ray-chee) is not her real name, it's Rachel. Nor has that ever been an acceptable nick-name either, she tells me, until our family adopted it for her. But it's the only name that folks here in Chicago refer to her by. "Where's Rache?" "Did Rache come out to visit?" She's a great sport.

Matt came home looking refreshed and a bit renewed. We'd had long discussions about how to best get a vacation this year, and concluded that 1) he needed it more since his job requires a clear head, and 2) he wasn't going to get it with the three of us in tow. So we split up. I'm weary in a way that even time on vacation will not correct. Pregnancy takes it's toll, that's for sure, especially 3 in 3 years. I feel like I can go a bit longer without absolutely frying...

Next week I enter my third trimester. Baby is kicking and turning, nausea is only a problem in the afternoon, and a little Zofran corrects it. My due date is October 18th, two days after Izak's third birthday. I bet I'll go end of September, early October.

Our neighbor has started driving his Harley motorcycle to work every morning. The problem is that when he starts it, Izak automatically wakes up. So rising times have been between 530 and 6a again. Poor kid. And yes, poor me! Most mornings he awakens so loudly that it's poor Bibby too. Alas... dear God, please bring snow! Liberty is down to one nap, and Z has mostly dropped his, which isn't a big deal when rising is at 7a. But when it's so early, we're all off a bit. Today he's finally napping, and was kind enough to coordinate it with Libby and myself. Just a few precious minutes of quiet. That's my vacation!

I've noticed a funny thing since moving and becoming pregnant. Probably at least five times, people find out about our third baby on the way and say gingerly, "Congratulations or condolences?" Why can't anyone fathom that this might be a very intentionally-timed spacing of children? Why do people assume it's a mistake? Can anyone else out there see how important it is for us to stabilize our household and get the whole pack moving forward by generating the next baby now rather than later? Being a nurse I specialize in caregiving, and having 3 3 and under really works with my strengths. Diaper changes, line 'em up and let's go. Lunchtime, lock them in their seat and let's start dishing. It's kind of like rounding on an assignment of patients on a hospital floor. Be organized, have a plan, and execute that plan to the best of your ability. There are precious few people who have been genuinely encouraging. For the most part people think we're nuts. But my little brood will be sleeping through the night together sooner, able to ride the rollercoaster rides sooner, be potty trained in a shorter span of time, and big enough to carry their own backpacks when we hike sooner. In essence, the Furrs get to fun times together sooner by packing the kids together. This has always been the plan, and I feel God has been directing in the plan since the beginning. Hard work? Of course. Any type of spacing is. But intentional? You bet.

I have a lot more thoughts about adding a third baby to our family. I'll share it another time.

Need to go roll the boy out before he naps the day away and parties all night... and then gets up early again.

Blessings.

I Love July Fourth!

I am a closeted patriot. It seems as I get older, the country becomes more divided, rhetoric becomes more divisive, and very few people are found weeping out of thankfulness when the national anthem is played (I generally fall in that last camp year-round.). July Fourth gives us permission to actually admit that there's a remote possibility that America may be okay, if just for today. As I've said in the past, I am aware that America is not perfect, nor is she God's favorite. But she has been blessed by His hand. There are people that I've known that find great joy in beating up each administration as they lead, partisan and bitter. To this day I'm still trying to find my own response to certain administrations' weaknesses, but it doesn't mean that I throw away my love of this nation when man fails. I have to work really hard to think about political issues, maybe I fall short in reaching "proper" conclusions. I do see the subtle ways that the media seeks to destroy patriotic hearts like mine, but just because the country's occasionally (painfully) on the wrong side of the issues doesn't diminish my appreciativeness.

I tried to enlist in the service twice in high school and once during college. Unfortunately I have asthma that cannot be lied about. Five minutes in basic training and I'd be dead meat, my childhood physician told me as much, not to mention I would want to be healthy and strong in every way to serve. I have a deep admiration for men and women in uniform. I love to listen to stories from people who have been on tour during war-time. In high school I was adopted by the local vets as a bugler for their funerals and memorial services. Many times I'd be sitting in class and an elderly man in khakis and badges would peek in the door and motion me to come with him. Memorial day was a long morning full of short services all over Bay County. Between services the men and women liked to stop by a bar for a cold drink, and that's where the stories would unfold. Fighter pilots, medics, sailors, nurses would recount tale after tale for me about what they experienced. Some still cried when they talked, though well into their 70's. Some got a far away stare, others laughed nervously and sucked on their cigarettes. That was the age that I really began to grasp what had been given for my freedom. And it grew within me a thankful, humbled heart.

I hope to pass my patriotism on to my children. It may take some doing because I'm not really sure Matt and I see completely eye-to-eye on this. Can you be a true Christ-follower and be deeply patriotic? I would think that there are lessons about sacrifice and freedom that Christ embodied that would serve to undergird a love of America without eclipsing the gospel. Do I want automaton children that never question the government or the leaders? No, but I am committed to raising kids who are respectful, and I think many lessons of gratitude come from the men and women who gave, and continue to give us freedom. If your an armchair general or a wanna-be politician, don't waste your breath on me. Next to my thankfulness for the freedom I find in Christ is my love of my country. To spit in the face of a country's sacrifice... well, I can't even finish the sentence.

Liberty's namesake speaks to two of my favorite realities: the freedom of life we enjoy in a great country, and the everlasting, life-saving liberation of the soul.

Privacy

Thanks to the family that lived here before us, the entire neighborhood knew before we moved in that Matt's a pastor, making me "the pastor's wife." I actually look forward to new neighbors coming in that don't know our real identities. (Sorta feels like the Incredibles.) You're not allowed to raise your voice at one another while outside, or be too gruff with the toddler, or listen to anything but satellite hymns-r-us radio... not that I would do anything other than that. LOL A very nice lady and her two little girls stopped by selling raffle tickets. I try to buy something from all the little entrepreneurs to make a connection with them (except magazines, NO MORE MAGAZINES!!). Then the mom engages me, "We haven't met. I live at that house, yadda, yadda, yadda... so you're a pastor's wife?" And I wanted to say, "You know, it's really none of your !@$^%! business!" I'm giggling as I write this because I'm having visions of my supressed altar-ego on the loose! This is why I don't drink, people! You WANT me surpressed. Being back in the Midwest brings with it an increased percentage of protestants. With that increased demographic comes an increased number of impressions and expectations of said pastor's wives because of increased exposure. Not to mention my own memories of the "pastor's wife" from my childhood years aren't fond or fuzzy. So I get this twitch in my left eye at the very term. ("Jaws" theme in background.) I smile, grit my teeth and say, "Yes, that's right." Remember, I swore that I'd never marry a pastor. Enter Matthew, stage left.

You know, I put my huge maternity shorts on one leg at a time, and I like to listen to the latest R and B music. I have a problem with wicked thoughts sometimes, and must restrain myself while disciplining my son. I bite my tongue when I stub my toe though I think a variety of descriptive words, and I don't drink because I don't want to, not because it's been put upon me. I get grouchy in the evenings and whine when I'm tired. What you may think a pastor's home is like and the reality of it may be two different things, but it's not my job to try to re-establish people's preconceived notions of the "parsonage." It's also not my job to play the piano and lead Sunday school (a hearkening back to the earlier model of the "wife".) My main job right now is primarily taking great care of my husband, who happens to be the pastor, our children, and protecting my home, just like any other wife would. So there. LOL And I want friends and relationships like any other woman, preferrably not based on what my husband does or doesn't do.

So as for my not-so-secret identity, well, that's mostly between me and God. Btw, Lord, you're funny. Real funny.

Out of Practice

I've noticed something about myself since becoming a stay-at-home mom (SAHM). Being a good listener doesn't come as easily to me as it used to. Any other moms out there feel it too? I find myself exhibiting, in my opinion, very poor skills. My freshman year in college I was hanging out with an upper classman that I really admired. We were sitting in front of the dining hall one evening talking. At one point he looked straight at me and said, "Heidi, you're a bad listener." I about died, but the more I grew (matured), and the more I learned about the ebb and flow of communication, the more I saw he was pretty much right. Heck, I even took a class in college, Interpersonal Communication, to teach me what good listening was. I got an "A", but lately I'd give myself a C at best.

For me, being the listener takes discipline. Areas where I know I struggle: good eye contact and body position, not interrupting or talking over the speaker, asking good follow-up questions, not daydreaming about what I'm going to say next, and sometimes just plain staying interested in what's being said. When I initiate the subject then chances are I care about the topic enough to stay engaged, but when it begins to drift another direction it takes effort for me to focus. Perhaps it's because I travel in more unfamiliar territory now with people I don't have conversational history with. So much of establishing new friendships is about getting information needed in order to ask better questions, the heart questions. I think A LOT of it has to do with my daily interfacing with my little ones. They're not conversational geniuses yet, so I'm sloppy, and a bit unprepared when interacting with grown-ups. Big people have different needs than little people, and those needs pull on different muscles in me. Needing to do more listening than sharing also triggers different feelings in me too: Am I being heard? Am I understood? Am I liked because I am or am not understood? Good listeners are such an inspiration to me. They hear the underlying feelings and address them, sometimes very directly. I like to be concise with information, so a lot of times I leave out the feelings in the conversation to save on time. But good listeners come back around and say, "You're a good mom." "You're a good friend." "You can survive this period of time." "You're not screwing up." What a blessing it is to be heard. What skill it takes to be a good listener. (BTW, my husband is a really great listener.)

I've been in and out of the book of James lately. The quintessential book on controlling the tongue. A book that's easy to read, but hard to hear. Maybe that's why I keep putting it down and re-reading it over again the next day. I've got to get back in practice, get those muscles back, and take listening seriously again.

Correction: It comes in fours.

I took delivery on our new fridge last weekend. You guessed it, the old one was gasping, and rather than lose $100 of food, I struck first. Found a great appliance company in up in Zion, family-owned, Lucy's Appliances. Just fantastic people. And since my other three appliance should be going on the fritz I'll keep their number in speed-dial. Let's hope when the stove dies it doesn't burn down my kitchen...

We got word Monday that friends of ours back in Hamburg are being put through the mill. John, the youth pastor, and Becci have been friends of Matt's since he was a junior high-er. In fact, he was Matt's youth pastor. They have four kids. Ariel, the second born, was in an ATV accident, Mercy-flighted to Children's Hospital where they determined she broke a leg and dislocated her wrist. She was complaining of stomach pain (never good), and they found she tore her aorta. She was in surgery from 1-630 a.m. and it was worse than they initially thought. They had to graft part of the aorta, she lost a lot of blood, but was stable last I heard. Being far away when friends are walking through deep water is really hard. The blessing of just being present is such a gift (to the ones who chose to be present and the ones struggling). If thoughts and prayers count, then they're never truly far away at all.

Gardening and Prayer

So I don't forget, I will tell you about how gardening has become a time of mediation for me. I'm sure it doesn't take rocket scientist to figure out that when you're kneeling with your eyes down you see precious little of the world around you. Normally this doesn't directly lead me to a prayerful heart. Three, maybe four springtimes ago I was putting in annuals around my back door. It had been brought to my attention (by my MIL) that you can't just dig a whole and plop a flower in it. The ground needs to be "cultivated." Ah. See? I had no idea. She showed me how you get a shovel and work the entire area to maximize the soil's effectiveness, and then you use a fertilizer or hummus, etc... This seemed like a lot of energy for a little plunk of a plant, but okay, if you say so... The next day I was kneeling at the back step, working at removing the weeds from the turned-up soil, and the phone rang. It was Matt with a devastating prayer request. A young family, who had just retired from the military, had moved to our town to be near their best friends; actually, they were neighbors. They had been in town perhaps a month. That afternoon the youngest boy wandered off for only a moment, I believe he was 1-1/2 years. When they found him he was face down in a shallow, decorative pond, unresponsive. The best-friend mom began CPR, rescuers were called, he was raced to the hospital and placed on life-support. This was the call. And I was stunned. Normally this information didn't disrupt me much since I was an ICU nurse and not a mom at the time, but I was absolutely sickened. How could God allow this?! It was boggling to think of how new they were, no family, only loosely known at our church, how could this happen?!? I was still on my knees in the dirt. At that moment, I began to dig and weed and cry out to the Lord with a voice I'd never used before. I think it was the Mother-heart that God was beginning to create in me. I sobbed and groaned, and really lost my dignity there in my backyard. Mud smeared on my face, nose running, I told God that He MUST save that little boy. That I had not told Him what to do in critical circumstances before this, so just this once I was asking for a real miracle. That other situations I could accept, but not this one. That this was unjust. That this was wrong. That this was very un-God. And I begged with all my heart that the little boy would be made whole.

The outcome was the worst you can imagine. And a family experienced a grief that I think I would absolutely die from.

The next Spring I was out on a sunny day, shovel in hand, gloves on, turning up soil. And for some reason, the smell of the ground, the kneeling for weeds, rubbing my hands in the dirt, I was abruptly taken back to the year before. And again, my heart cried out for this young family. They had weathered the first year of loss. They had stayed in tact and even become active in the grief support group at church. And they were expecting another baby. I went inside and wrote them a little note to tell them that whenever I gardened I was driven to prayer for them. To this day I pray for them when I work in the dirt. And then I pray for others. There's just something about the physical posture that leads me to a time of earnest petitioning before God. I'm not much of an asker. Never have been. It is one of my spiritual blind spots, I admit it. I never bothered my earthly father for anything unless I absolutely couldn't avoid it, and that directly transferred to my Heavenly Father. But the humble position of gardening brings my soul to a vulnerable, honest place. "Lord, could you... ? God, I know you know, but would you mind... ? I don't know what your plan is, but there's this need... ."

Just like the earth needs the Creator's touch in order to produce, I need to bow and ask in order to see His hand at work. So the moments in the dirt... well, friend, to me that's just really, really precious.

Jacob's Ladder

I have a perennial addiction that I've had to curb this year. The lovely acreage that I enjoyed in Buffalo was a pallet that I enjoyed learning on. When Matt wasn't looking I'd run off to the Eckhart Road greenhouse, wholesalers of perennials for the local greenhouses and nurseries, and pick up a gallon pot (only $5!), or two, or three... . The game was I'd plant them and see how long it would take Matt to notice. As a former "lawn care specialist" (overstated, dear?) in high school, it generally took no time at all for him to catch me at my game. We loved to watch the land and how it grew. I was successful at full-sun flowers thanks to the great instruction of my friend, Lori, who just keep encouraging me, "You can't kill 'em, Heidi. It's a no-brainer." Rudbeckia, echinacea, coreopsis, day-lillies, Russian sage and double-daisies. She had luscious, gorgeous perennials that she, too, made over as if they were mini-children, making me a beautiful jar full of the current blooms for my birthday. I wanted to, and continue to want to invest in perennials.

Last year I spent a large amount of time fussing about the rock garden just out behind the house. It lived underneath two enormous shady trees. The only things it really grew well at it's sunny edges were myrtle and lily of the valley. I dug up and cultivated the top half with manure and hummus (ever watch a nine-month-pregnant woman garden?!? I imagine it was hillarious!) , and put in my best effort to populate it with something wonderful: Three Astilbe, sweet woodruff, one Solomon's seal, and two Jacob's ladder. The only survivors that first year were the astilbe and sweet woodruff. Solomon's seal and Jacob's ladder were accidentally stomped and broken by the toddler and the Newfoundland early in the process. Lori assured me if I cut them back I would see them return again this summer. So I waited and waited, looking forward to enjoying a garden full of swaying, smart shade flowers.

And then came the move.

I often think back to my garden and wonder what it looks like this year. Perennials are exciting because they show forward momentum with their growth. Lori said, "The first year they sleep. The second, they creep, and the third, they leap." I so wanted to believe that the Solomon's seal and Jacob's ladder would be in bloom, and that, somehow, my life would bloom with it. As you can imagine, there are endless life-lessons from flowers, especially perennials. Gardening has been an area where God speaks clearly and quietly to me as I kneel in the dirt and work. It's meditation and cultivation of my soul. (Another day I'll tell you why.)

This year, this new era, is marked by a big, beautiful sunny yard, complete with large hydrangea blooms (my Buffalo hydrangea only ever weakly bloomed on one half of the bush...), tiger lilies, little buttery day lilies, prairie onions, and lilac trees. Matt made me promise, "I, Heidi Furr, (right hand raised, left hand on the Bible) will not plant perennials this year. I promise to study the sun/shade patterns and watch what grows. I am pregnant and sick and chasing two babies. I promise to not frustrate myself (or my husband) by trying to plant a garden. This, I solemnly swear." So I have been good... and experiencing withdrawal. LOL

A woman in my church had a long conversation with me once at a party. We got to talking flowers, particularly perennials. She, too, had a similar love of flowers. I wanted to know the good greenhouses, good prices in this area, so that when I could buy I'd save time looking around. Every now and then I'd call out to her at church, "It was beautiful this week! I was thinking about you and flowers!"

In light of my "Hit Hard" blog, you may understand the subtle implications of what I'm about to write. Sunday, Dawn came to me with a large paper grocery bag. "Just because you promised Matt you wouldn't buy flowers doesn't mean that I can't buy you flowers." We laughed, but as I looked into the bag I burst into tears. There, standing tall, and in bloom, was a Jacob's ladder.

Birthday sweetie... chocolate chip mint ice cream and chocolate cake and Libby 

Miss Lib is one year old today.