Bump, set, spike

During the five months that David lived up here without us, he began playing volleyball with a group that gets together at our church on Monday nights. Naturally, when I arrived he assumed that I would want to join him in this activity because, you know, I played volleyball once in P.E. in the 8th grade.

At first I said no. No way, no how. Absolutely not.

Yet, somehow he talked me into going the first week we lived here, and it was every bit as bad as I expected it to be. Maybe worse. On the way to the church that night he said, "Okay, do you know about the three hits in volleyball? You don't just hit it over when it comes to you. You're supposed to bump it, then set it for someone to spike. They don't like it when you just hit it." "They don't like it?! Bump, set, spike?! I'll be lucky to make contact at all! Why didn't you tell me this was seriously competitive volleyball. Did I mention I haven't touched a volleyball since the 8th grade?!"

Luckily for David, we pulled into the church parking lot then, and I figure that's not the best place to murder one's husband, so I let it slide. We arrived at the gym full of people I had never met in my life. They were just getting started, so David and I were quickly assigned to a side, and the play begin. No introductions. No "Hi, how are you?" Just volleyball. Now.

After the longest hour imaginable play stopped, and everyone headed off the court. Oh good, it's over. No, says David, it's just a water break. Apparently, they play for TWO endless hours. Not me; I was glad we had driven separately so I could tuck my tail between my legs and leave. I vowed never to return.

I've mentioned before that I usually give up pretty easily. You know that saying winners never quit and quitters never win? I never got that. Win what? Their dignity? Their shame? Their time spent doing something they don't suck at? I figure they win quite a bit, actually. Nevertheless, of all the things I could decide to be tenacious about, I apparently picked volleyball. Because I went back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I don't know what has possessed me to persevere in this athletic pursuit. Perhaps it is the fact that David and I don't have a lot of common interests or activities that we do together. (He likes trains; I like working out. He likes trumpets; I like taking naps.) Perhaps it's the opportunity to get some physical activity. (Though this one is doubtful since I barely even moved my arms for the first two months.) Perhaps it's the interaction with other adults. (Though again . . . not a lot of chit-chatty social interaction going on.)

Whatever it is, I've stuck with it, and tonight for the first time, I've begun to think that maybe there's hope for me. I still suck, but I suck a lot less than I did three months ago. And David and I are having a good time doing this together. If you had asked me at any point prior to six months ago what joint interest David and I would pursue, volleyball would have been at the VERY bottom of the list.

I definitely never saw it coming.

Much like the balls that whiz right past me week after week.

If that's my real name

Yeah, so those of you who know me in real life, I have news for you. You didn't really know me at. all. Not even my real name.

I finally went to the social security office yesterday and officially took my husband's name. That's right, after nine years, I'm starting to think this whole marriage thing may last, so I took the final step.

I know what you're thinking . . . "Becky, you don't look old enough to have been married nine years! That must be a typo!" And then after that, you'll probably think, "Wait. I thought you and David had the same last name already?" Alas, you are mistaken.

When we got married in 2000, I immediately went to the DMV and got a new driver's license with my alleged new name. They handed it right over. Well, actually, they took quite a bit of my hard-earned law clerk wage for it and made me sit for an hour and a half next to some woman with awful B.O. and approximately 63 tattoos on her neck, whom I'm pretty sure is now busy making license plates for the vehicle I'm driving with said license, THEN they handed it over.

But, for some reason, that was as far as I got. So, for nine years I've had a driver's license with David's last name, a checking account with said name, a couple of bar cards (which enable me to practice law, not evade a cover charge) with said name, and even a few children with said name. But, according to the Internal Revenue Service - and since when could they be wrong? - that is not my name.

At least it wasn't until yesterday. Yesterday I went to the social security office, waited 30 minutes for my number to be called, and then handed the lady at the window a copy of my marriage certificate. It took at least four whole minutes. Seriously.

Now you know why it took me nine years.

A few of my favorite things

1. Sleeping on the couch with fluffy pillows and a down blanket. Unlike most people, I actually love sleeping on the couch. It has just the right amount of back support and head propping ability . . . and no kids can fit on it with me.

2. Anesthesia. It's a good thing. I wish I had gotten some to go.

3. Chocolate trinity ice cream. Seriously, if you have never tried this, run - don't walk - to your nearest Publix and grab a carton or twelve. It's Publix brand, and the heavenly allusion in the name is no exaggeration.

4. What Not to Wear. David and I have not had cable for the past five years. I've been fine with this as I seem to find enough crap to watch on the regular networks. Plus, it makes staying in a hotel extra special. (I'm pretty easy to please.) Much like living at my parents house for the past five weeks. However, I am now in love with cable, especially What Not to Wear. If anyone wanted to nominate me for this show, I would not hate you. I would love you. (I really don't think my wardrobe would qualify me as I think I dress fairly decently, but EVERYONE they makeover also seems to think this in the beginning, so maybe we're all just delusional. I'm okay with that.)

5. Photoshop. I don't have it here, and I miss it. I guess the cable makes up for it.

6. My mom. She makes a great hospital companion and knows which bumpy roads to skip on the way home.

7. David and the kids. I love them, and it just seemed wrong not to include them in my favorite things list. And, no, this list is not in any particular order. Really, I love chocolate trinity ice cream, but I wouldn't trade my child for it. At least not at the moment.

8. Sunshine.

9. Great friends who know just how to encourage me. Yella, I loved the "What shoes go with this stress?" card. I think I found just the pair . . . assuming they don't clash with my anxiety.

10. Jodi Picoult books. I just started on her newest novel yesterday, and I have barely put it down. Her stories are so gripping and controversial yet so well written that I cannot ever decide who is right and wrong.

7 Quick Takes Friday

1.

Yes, I know it's Thursday, but I'm taking advantage of my brother and his PC laptop being here right now, so here are my early 7 Quick Takes.

Sigh . . . I'm in love with the control key.

2.

We've said for years that Joshua is the most likely of our children to follow in his parents' footsteps and become a lawyer. He proved it again during a conversation we had on the way home from school yesterday.

We were talking about Africa and what type of animals one might see on a safari. He asked me if there were alligators there. I said, "I think so, yes."

Josh's reply: "Mom, you said, 'I think so.' and 'Yes.' Which one is the answer?"

The kid's a master at cross already.

3.

I passed two police cars on the highway today, and through some freak chance, I happened not to be speeding. Am I the only one who feels proud of myself when this happens? Despite the fact that I am usually speeding, I'm pretty sure that when I'm not, the police officer is thinking to himself, "Wow, that hot young chick is the best driver I've seen in a long time."

I realize I'm quite delusional on many levels here.

4.

Speaking of ridiculous thoughts, a friend of mine was having an MRI the other day, and that caused me to think back on all the MRI's I've had.

I always have this horrible fear right before going into the machine that perhaps I've forgotten about some metal on myself. "What if I have on a necklace I forgot about?" "Do I have steel rods in my leg?" "Wait! What if I had brain surgery and had metal plates put in my head, and because of the whole brain surgery thing, I just forgot about it?!" It's quite panic-inducing.

5.

Boy, these really are random today aren't they?

6.

So, I took all four kids (my 3 plus my niece) out for a walk this afternoon on the street where I grew up. (Remember we're staying with my parents, and they live in the house we moved into when I was 5.)

My parents' house is in the woods, and when I was growing up this area was pretty sparsely populated. It was not uncommon to walk the entire 2 mile length of our street without seeing a single car.

Not so anymore. There are now several factories out here, and the traffic has increased twenty-fold. During our 1 mile walk today (1/2 mile each way), we were passed by at least two dozen cars, all traveling about 65 mph on this 45 mph road. I had told the kids we would go all the way to the railroad track, which is about a mile from the house, but I had to reneg and turn back sooner for fear that we would not all make it back alive if we continued.

It was not the desolate street of my youth, and even I, supermom extraordinaire, could not safely walk with a 3, 4, 6, and 7 year old an entire two miles.

7.

So, my point about the walk.

It may not be desolate anymore, but it's still in the woods. (This morning a coyote crossed the driveway in front of me when I left for Bible study, and we frequently see feral hogs, wild turkeys, and the like.)

While walking back tothe house this afternoon, we came across an almost completely decomposed animal of some sort. Not until we got about 10 feet farther and found the jawbone with teeth intact were we certain what kind of animal it was. It was a wild dog.

Joshua has show-and-tell tomorrow.

Do you see where this is going? Yes, I picked it up with a stick (didn't touch it) and brought it home and put it in two layers of gallon-sized zipoloc.

Will the teacher think, "Wow, what a great mom that boy has for being willing to let him keep such a cool piece of nature?" or "Wow, what a freak that boy has for a mom?" I can't decide the answer to this myself.

What a difference a year makes

On this day one year ago, I had life-saving surgery. At this exact time last year, I was lying in an ICU bed, throwing up from the morphine pump (bad idea), in and out of consciousness, having no idea whether it was day or night.

As I get ready for our church's women's retreat this weekend, I can't help but think back on this time last year. It was a Sunday afternoon when I pulled into the driveway returning from last year's retreat and found David standing in the driveway with my nephrologist's home phone number and a message to call him as soon as I got back in town. It was all a whirlwind after that.

I was laughing this week about how a friend from church who is a personal trainer almost killed us at last year's retreat when she led some of us in one of her famous workout sessions. I meant it only figuratively but had no idea at the time how literal it really was. Two days after that workout (from which I could barely move for a week!) I was sitting in the cardiovascular surgeon's office being told not to exercise at all because there was already too much strain on my heart when I was at rest. Exercise would be very dangerous. Who knew?

Looking back at all the ways God's gracious hand was on me, I am just amazed. He was in the details:

The head surgical nurse at the hospital where my surgery took place is a good family friend, and when she got to work that morning, she took me and David back with her so we did not have to wait to be called back. She was my nurse during the procedure and the one who gave me my i.v.

My anesthesiologist was someone I knew from church, and though I didn't know him well at the time, he and his family would become important friends to me, David, and the kids over the following months.

The surgeon who assisted Dr. Burdette went to church with - and was good friends with - my brother and sister-in-law.

All three of these people came into my pre-op area separately and prayed with me.

I spent several days in the ICU before being moved to a regular room. After my first night in my new room, I pressed the nurse call button to ask for some medication and found myself speaking to a close family friend whom I have known since I was a kid. I didn't know she worked there (she worked at Doctor's Hospital when I delivered all of my children there!), and she didn't know I was in the hospital. Turns out that she was my nurse for the next two days, and when I was discharged, she wheeled me out so David and I did not have to wait for the usual lengthy discharge procedure.

The details. The little things that make the difficult things more bearable.

Family. They took care of my children when I could not.

Friends. They fed and cared for David and me when I could not.

And, now a year has gone by, and as I type David is negotiating what we hope will be a contract on a house in Pennsylvania. It seems that one year to the day after having my life saved, we are finally finding a new home for the next adventure in our lives.

I realize this is sort of a rambling post on a subject I've probably visited far too often, but it was a defining part of my life this year. I've always known God in the big things, and in this ordeal, I met Him in the details.

I shudder to think how easily I could have missed Joshua starting school, Josh and Ethan playing soccer, Lauren taking gymnastics and lighting up the world of everyone she knows, and my husband taking the plunge he's always dreamed of and moving back home to hang up his shingle.

Thank you, God, for allowing me to remain a pilgrim here a little longer.

"Nerve block" is a Euphemism

*Warning: There is a picture of my surgical incision at the end of this post. If you do not like seeing such things, come back another day.*

I mentioned last week that I've been having some pain along part of the incision from my surgery last year. Well, I finally saw the surgeon about it last week, and he sent me to the anesthesiologist today to get what he casually, and apparently euphemistically, referred to as a "nerve block."

Figuring I may as well take advantage of the fact that I am friends with an anesthesiologist (that's an annoying word to type), I called him yesterday to get the scoop on this thing. Big deal? No big deal? Drive myself home? That type of thing.

Assured that it was no big deal and that I did not need anyone to drive me home, I arrived at the hospital expecting to go into a little dr's office type exam room, lift up my shirt, get a shot, and be on my way.

Instead, upon my arrival, I was ushered into the SAME pre-op room that I was prepped for surgery in last February. (Talk about scary flashback!) I was told to put on a gown, and then I had one of those oxygen thingys put on my finger. I said to the nurse, "I didn't expect such a big production for a shot." She didn't say much.

A few minutes later, Andy (my anesthesiologist friend) and two other anesthesiologists entered the room and began prodding and poking and discussing amongst themselves what might be the best course of action to help with my pain and my huge Frankenstein knot, formerly known as a rib. In walks a fourth anesthesiologist, and I told them I really wasn't comfortable making a decision on the advice of only four doctors.

So, they decided the best thing would be to inject a local anesthetic (Which I guess is another term for "nerve block?" I learned surprisingly little listening to four doctors discuss my medical care. I guess I can scratch that off my list of med school alternatives.) along the entire length of my incision and inject some steroids into part of it and into the Frankenstein knot.

(I was a little sad to have to give up my dreams of being an Olympic track star for this, but then I found out that there are different types of steroids, and that these would not disqualify me from from the 440, so now I have to decide whether to start running again or fake a really bad knee injury.)

About the time I heard mention of "going along the entire incision," I got a little panicky. This incision is not small; it's 10 1/2 inches long. This was sounding like it was going to involve a lot of needles.

"No problem," said anesthesiologist #2, "We'll give you someting to take the edge off." Which by the way, is one of my favorite things to hear a doctor say. Some people don't like being put to sleep or sedated. I am not one of those people. Unfortunately, anesthesiologist "friend" Andy spoke up and mentioned that I would be driving myself home and, therefore, could not be sedated. Yeah, because HE told me I didn't need anyone. Now thanks to him, I have to get multiple injections on an already painful incision, and I can't even get the good drugs that might have made it all worthwhile.

So, instead of going in and getting one little shot, here's what I got (I zoomed in really close so it wouldn't look *gasp* risque or anything, so you can't see the entire incision. It goes up about another inch at the top.):



Each of those dots is where he gave me an injection. I counted FIFTEEN of them.

The moral of this story: Always take a friend with you for medical procedures in case there's even the slightest possibility of being offered sedatives. Because one should never turn those down when there are needles in the room.

(By the way . . . an added bonus to such a great scar: If you look really closely toward the top left, you can see the "x" shaped scar where my chest tube was. My friend Katie suggested I draw a little pirate on my belly and be a treasure map for Halloween, but that part's really faded a lot now. Maybe I'll get lucky and need another one next year.)

7 Quick Takes Friday

I got this idea from a blog I love, The Conversion Diary. She posts seven random quick things that would be sort of short for real blog entries on their own. I'm not good at short, but I am good at random. :)

1.

In the category of "Why One Should Never Have Kids as a Method of Boosting Self-Esteem," Lauren loves to help me fold laundry. She's mastered dish rags and wash cloths quite well and has moved on to underwear, usually hers or the boys. This morning she picked up one of mine and said, "Can I fold these REALLY huge ones?"

2.

I have never been a fan of The Bachelor, but this season I'm particularly repulsed by the fact that the bachelor this season is a parent. I find it rather despicable. Almost as much as Congress giving itself a raise last month. (An open letter to Congress coming soon.)

3.

Did you know that I have a pathological aversion to scraping sounds, particularly teeth-brushing? Even writing about it is hard for me because it makes me think about the sound, and I'm getting skin-crawling goose bumps already. It doesn't bother me to brush my own (aren't you glad?), though I will confess I use massive amounts of toothpaste to minimize the scraping, and I always leave the water running despite the environmental warnings about wasting water. David has finally learned after 8 years of marriage NEVER to brush his teeth when I am in the bathroom. Where it becomes a problem is the kids. Brushing their teeth is quite possibly my least favorite parenting task. Yes, I'd rather change a dirty diaper. So, we should probably be praying for my kids' oral health.

4.

I cleaned out my dresser this morning and was very pleased at how nice it is to be able to open and close the drawers with ease. Everything fit quite nicely. Then I remembered the massive mountain of dirty laundry on the other side of the room. How the heck am I going to add THAT? Maybe I'll just never wash it so I don't have to ruin my nicely organized dresser.

5.

I'm going to see my surgeon on Monday because my incision has grown terribly painful again. Also, the rib that now pokes out the wrong way (did you know it was possible for your rib to poke out instead of in after it's been retracted for 3 hrs?) feels constantly bruised and painful. I had reached the point months ago where it practically didn't hurt at all, so I don't know why it hurts again now. Hope he has an answer. Or at least some good drugs?

6.

If I say, "Obeying slowly is the same as not obeying" one more time, I'm going to cry. And, probably my kids will, too.

7.

Hearsay has made himself right at home and is happy as a lark now that we've given up on the crate. This is what he's doing right now. (Ethan added the blanket.)

Dog poop and Gaza

I know, right? Just stay with me. Although, I should warn you up front that this post will contain a lot of references to poop. If you have an aversion to that type of thing, or if you're about to eat meat loaf for dinner, perhaps you should go find another corner of the world wide web to explore and try my blog another day.

If, however, you're a mom like me, or someone else who for whatever reason deals with crap on a regular basis, read on because I do have a point. It just may take a while to get there.

If I were to make a list of reasons today was a really crappy day, the list would begin something like this:

1. Found out at 8 am (while the boys were eating breakfast, I was not dressed, and Lauren was still sleeping) that David needed me to follow him to the auto shop and then take him to work. And pronto.

2. Spent hours this morning taking Hearsay (the dog) outside in an effort to somehow bribe, cajole, beg, or otherwise convince him that outside, not the hall outside the guest bathroom as apropos as that may seem, is the appropriate place to poop . . . and that he should do this before he had to be kenneled for three hours while I would be gone later. No luck.

3. Took the boys to Chik-fil-A to kill time between school and piano lesson. During the 50 minutes I was there, I took a child to the bathroom on three separate (long) occasions. I'm pretty sure I spent a total of 11 minutes actually sitting at the table.

(Of course, one of these bathroom trips was Ethan, which is an ordeal all unto itself. Given his inability to sit still (yes, he was sitting . . . after all this post is mostly about poop, remember), he constantly triggers the automatic flusher. I didn't put anything over it because I told him if he would just SIT STILL, it would stop flushing, but . . . this is Ethan we're talking about. It flushed three times while he was sitting on it.)

4. Here's my favorite: Upon arriving home from piano, it became instantly apparent that Hearsay did what we were told a dog would not do. He pooped in his kennel.

To make things worse, we don't know exactly what breeds he's a mix of, but if there was one called Goes Into a Super-Frenzy and Acts Like He's Being Drawn and Quartered Every Time His Owner Leaves the House, I believe that would be his dominant breed.

You know how kennels have those plastic slide out trays at the bottom? He manages to get so worked up that he slides the tray out of the kennel almost every time we leave. Fortunately, said tray is usually not covered in crap. Today it was, and consequently, said poop was not only on the plastic tray but also the floor, the baseboard, and somehow the wall. Apparently, he can fingerpaint.

5. While I was online griping to a friend about what Hearsay did, my completely potty trained 3 year-old came up to me and said, "Mommy, I got stinky on my hand." No, it was not the dog's; it was hers. Pooped in her pants and tried to "fix it" herself.

Seriously, did I somehow seem crap-deprived when I woke up this morning??!!

The list could go on, but I think you get the idea. I was having, from my perspective at the time, a really annoying, crappy (pun intended) day.

Then I had a perspective shift.

I found myself unexpectedly at home alone eating dinner at 6:30. (The kids had spur-of-the-minutely gone to Renae's for a bit.) I rarely watch the news, but since I was sitting there alone with no little ones to observe my vice, I decided to turn the television on while I ate.

That's when I saw Gaza.

Now, I'm no foreign policy analyst. I won't express an opinion about what's going on in the Middle East right now and who's right or wrong. But, I do know one look at Gaza was all it took.

Four minutes of a story on the world news, and suddenly I knew I would gladly relive this crap-filled day every day for the rest of my life. Watching a father weeping that his wife had been killed and that he couldn't find his two young daughters.

Rockets and bombs and smoke and fire.

I'll take dog poop over that any day. Suddenly, I feel like I had a very good day. Very, very good indeed.

A new diet pill perhaps?

I've been having trouble sleeping lately. A lot of trouble. So much so that David is going to cut up the credit cards soon because, in case you didn't know . . . My name is Becky, and I have a problem with infomercials. P90X? Check. Shark cordless sweeper? Check. Magic Bullet? Check.

So, in the interest of our family finances (and of not ending up like my grandmother who apparently owned 27 vacuum cleaners when she died), I went to the doctor and obtained some Lunesta. (Which is the happy, peaceful butterfly ad, not the talking Abe Lincoln and beavers ad . . . that's how I decided.)

So, I've taken Lunesta for the past 2 nights, and let me just say . . . it's not a fun pill. The packaging says it may cause "bad taste in mouth." Um, understatement of the year. About 25 minutes after taking it, it tastes like a piggy bank gave birth in your throat. And, even worse, it continues throughout the following day making everything - especially water - taste like the babies born to said piggy bank. I actually threw away a bottle of water yesterday morning, thinking something was wrong with it before I realized the problem was me.

So, now I have to choose. Sleep or eat? I think I'll take sleep and perhaps dream of a way to make money marketing Lunesta as a diet pill.

Chivalry is not dead . . . thank God!

I went out late last night. Yeah, I'm talking left my house at 9:15 PM and didn't return home until way past . . . 11. Okay, so I'm not a teenager anymore. I'm in my, ahem, late twenties. (Hey, it could be true if you adhere to a literal definition of "late.")

So, already last night I was out of my element in so many ways . . . out past dark, on my way home from a blues club (Broad Street Blues in Phenix City - my brother's band was playing there and will be again on 12/6. Like that plug, Dan?), and driving someone else's car (David's because, ironically as you'll soon see, my heater doesn't work).

Now, about the heater . . . it's the darnedest thing. The heater in my minivan (so just gave away my age fib, didn't I?) stopped working week before last. It blows air, just not hot air. Being on top of things as always, I have not gotten around to fixing it, and really, it has not mattered since the heat has not been necessary lately anyway. Until last night.

I left the house in David's car for the sole purpose of having heat. Imagine my surprise and chagrin when I couldn't get it to blow warm air. Nothing but cold. Normally, I would have called David and asked how the heck you turn his heater on, but given that I was having the exact same problem with my van, I started to think maybe it wasn't the vehicles after all. Maybe I was just an idiot. I mean, what are the odds that the heat would be broken in both of our vehicles when we've had them both for years and never had a temperature problem of any sort. Maybe having not used a heater since early spring, I'd just forgotten how. So, I kept fiddling with the buttons, and finally about halfway to the blues club, I pressed a defroster button I had not pressed theretofor, and the heat came on. Great, problem solved; I was indeed just an idiot.

Well, on the way home that defroster button did not work such magic. Nor did any others. Still thinking the problem must be me and that it's not a big deal anyway, what with the awesome seat warmer with which David's car is equipped (no such frivolities on my van, mind you), I persevered on my late night drive home freezing, but with a warm butt at least.

And then I saw it.

Smoke.

A lot of smoke.

I was stopped at a light waiting to turn onto the final highway toward my house when I noticed smoke in my rearview mirror. "Hmm," I thought, "wonder where that smoke is coming from." Looked around. No other cars in the turning lanes. Just me. That can't be good, I thought, but still not 100% sure it's me (yes, I'm a little slow), I decided to go ahead and start turning onto the on ramp and see if the smoke followed me. Of course, it did. Not only was it following me, it was coming out of my hood. So, I swerved into the other lane and turned into a gas station instead. By the time I parked, the smoke was coming into the car from under the dashboard.

Trying not to panic that my car was about to explode, I reminded myself of the independent, problem-solving, un-damsel in distress type woman that I am. I would just pop the hood and take a look. Well, um, I couldn't pop the hood. That's right . . . couldn't even pop the darn hood. Something told me that that fact, combined with my complete and total ignorance as to how a car works, did not bode well for me.

Thank God for chivalry. Two young guys in pickup trucks, one wearing a camouflage jacket and hat, saw my newly acquired damsel-in-distress status and offered their assistance. Turns out the radiator cap was not screwed on all the way, so the antifreeze had leaked out and spewed all over the engine. (That sort of sounded like I know something, didn't it? You'd never believe how long it took me to determine that this "antifreeze" and "radiator fluid" they were referring to were, in fact, one and the same.) So, I bought some anitfreeze, and my rescuers filled the radiator for me. Which was a good thing because apparently this task involves gloves and a funnel, both of which I neither possessed nor would have considered using.

So, please, if anyone tells you chivalry is dead, rest assured . . . it is not. However, just in case it does succumb to sudden death, I think I'll find out how a car works. Or at least the heater.

A worthwhile investment

Disclaimer: I've hesitated in hitting "post" on this one because I don't want anyone to think I may be referring to them in the following self-pity wallow. Chances are good that if you're reading my blog, I'm not talking about you at all. Please know that.

I love to invest in people. Time, finances, skills (the few I have) . . . it is one of my greatest pleasures in life to spend those things on other people, often without their knowing. I take joy in it. If I were guessing at my love languages (having not read the book in more than a decade, though apparently I can take a 30 second quiz), I'd say my primary two are acts of service and gifts. In doing things for other people - be it babysitting, cooking, writing a note, running an errand - I hope I am communicating to them that a.) they are important to me and b.) I have time in my life for them. (I could write a whole other post on the tension that arises between my desire to serve other people and the need to be present for my own family and serve them first and foremost. I'll save that post for another day.)

I have long been frustrated . . . no, that's not the right word . . . saddened is better, by what I perceive as a lack of return on my investment. Don't get me wrong; I realize how selfish that sentence sounds. I don't perform acts of service for others so that they will be reciprocated . . . that would be just the opposite of the motive I truly have. But, I am wired in such a way that longs for deep and meaningful friendships. (For the record, I am aware that I have 6 of the best and closest friends a person could ever dream of, but sadly 5 of them live far, far away, which doesn't help me much today, does it?)

The human, self-pitying part of me longs to know what more I can do. What is the point of caring so much and getting what feels like so little in return? This morning I feel like God revealed at least part of the answer to me. Of course, I've always known the textbook answers . . . Do everything as unto the Lord, seek not the applause of men, your reward is in heaven, etc, etc. But, this morning as I was talking to my kids about why we were putting together shoe boxes for Samaritan's Purse, it hit me . . . even if no one else ever knows (and I hope they don't) about all the time and effort I've put into the people around me . . . not only does God know, but so do my children. They see me day in and day out investing in the lives of the people around me. They know that I care and that the tangible evidence of that is in doing, giving, loving . . . often without obvious return. How valuable a lesson this is for them, I cannot even guess. It is my hope that they will grow up doing for others, serving, as naturally as breathing.

And, if that is the return I get on my investment, I will be a blessed woman indeed.

What has changed

I was reading a friend's facebook profile today. An unmarried, childless friend. It listed all kinds of cool hobbies like skydiving, hiking, traveling. I will admit to feeling a twinge of envy. Just for a moment. I used to be an adventurous person. Granted, not your pack-everything-I-need-
in-a-knapsack-and-live-on-a-Pacific-island type adventurous, but more than I am now. (Which I guess is not really saying a lot since these days my idea of being spontaneous is shaving both legs instead of just one.)

And, so I was thinking just now of all that has changed about me in the past decade. So, here's a short list.

Things that were true of me 10 years ago but are not true of me now:
1. I rock climb and rappel.
2. I stay out past midnight.
3. I travel to other cities just to attend a party or see a friend for a day.
4. While driving my car, I listen only to music that I like.
5. I watch Braves games most weekends and keep up with MLB stats.
6. I go to the movies a lot.
7. I consider an 8 am class early.
8. I go to the beach and actually relax.
9. I play sports a lot - softball, ultimate frisbee, basketball, flag football . . .
10. I have a paying job and career aspirations and sort of think I know what my future holds.
11. I intend to go to Barrow, Alaska someday no matter how crazy everyone thinks I am.

Things that are true of me now that were not true of me 10 years ago:
1. I watch Barney and Word Girl.
2. I consider going all the way to "downtown" Columbus traveling a long way.
3. I cook meals. Real meals.
4. I play Uno and Candyland. (Though I hate and usually refuse to play Chutes & Ladders. It may be an subconscious aversion to the title since I'm so coordinationally challenged.)
5. I love watching 4 and 5 year olds play soccer.
6. I get lots of hugs and kisses at bedtime.
7. I care more about what happens to three other people in this world than I do about myself.
8. I can somewhat relate to and understand God's love for his children.
9. I plan to move 1000 miles and a 17 hr drive away from home to follow the man I love to live in a town with snow and no Target. Or Walmart. Or Chik-fil-A. Or sweet tea. Or mall. Sorry, I digress.
10. I have no idea what my future holds, and I'm okay with that.
11. I intend to go to Barrow, Alaska someday no matter how crazy everyone thinks I am.

Gentleness

Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxoius about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. Philippians 4:4-6

Like most of you, I have read/heard the above passage of scripture a thousand times. As I was reading it today, however, it struck me that I could have quoted the "Rejoice" segment and the "anxious about nothing" segment pretty much verbatim, but I'm quite certain that I would not have included the "gentleness" part. I'm not sure I ever really even noticed that part, so quick am I usually to jump ahead to the part I like, the part where God comforts me and gives me direction for my prayers. But, the part about making my gentleness known? Nope, I'm pretty sure I missed that.

In fact, if I were making a list of qualities I possess, gentleness would almost certainly not appear. But, it strikes me that the scripture doesn't say, "If you possess gentleness . . ." or "those of you who are gentle . . .." No, it's a direct command to all of us. "Let your gentleness be evident."

This is a command I will do well to remember in dealing with my children. My tone does not always convey gentleness (how's that for understatement of the year?), nor are my actions always gentle. I get irritated and grumpy, and the people who bear the brunt of it the most are unquestionably the three little people I should take the most care to treat with kindness and gentleness.

Lord, you are bigger than my tone of voice, my mood, and even my heart. Help me to convey gentleness to all, and let it begin in my home with the three precious children you have, for now, entrusted to me.

Showing our house . . . again

Our house has been shown 4 times in the past 6 days. Do you have any idea how hard it is to have a house show-ready 4 times in 6 days when your house is inhabited by 3 children under 6? (Yes, Susan, I know I'll get no sympathy from you!) Instead of looking like no one lived here, it looked like a lousy housekeeper and her 3 needy children lived here. You know, theoretically.

Of course, today I had invited my parents, brother, and niece for dinner and had planned an afternoon of fun at home with the kids. Not doing anything special, just having fun as it seems we have been at each other's throats a lot lately. Okay, mostly me at their throats if we're being honest. And whey wouldn't we be? It's just anyone on the whole freakin' internet I'm talking to here.

So, on my way to pick up Josh at noon, my cell phone rang - a realtor wanting to bring some people by the house between 4 and 5. So much for an afternoon of doing nothing. Instead I had to hurry home and make rolls from the dough I had already made last night (at least the house smelled yummy), put together the chicken lasagna alfredo that I was making for dinner (I know, you're drooling now aren't you?), and make the house look like no one lives in it.

Now that half of our belongings have been stuffed into my van, the house looks pretty good. That counts as cleaning, right? On the upside, the showing was a good excuse to buy some pretty fall flowers in Publix today. I would tell you what was in the bouquet if I knew. I just know they're pretty. And they're not dead yet.

Once the house was clean, I was of course, NOT letting the kids back inside. Heck, I routinely lock them out when there's NOT a potential buyer coming over; there was no WAY they were getting back inside now! So, we hung out in the backyard until the potential buyers and their agent arrived and then hid out at our neighbor's house while the realtor showed ours. While walking to our neighbor's my cell phone rang again; it was a man who saw the house last week wanting to come see it again with his builder brother tonight. I told him we were having company for dinner, but if he could come before 6, we could make it work. Didn't hear from him again until almost 7 . . . just as we were finishing eating dinner but still sitting around the table. Fortunately, my mom, dad, and brother all pitched in and we were able to recreate the fairy tale kitchen look in under 10 minutes, complete with the pretty flower centerpiece and all. As soon as the man and his brother left, we put the nice placemats back in the pantry, put the plastic Lightning McQueen and Tinkerbell placemats back on the table and gave the kids their dessert. Gotta love reality.

Betty Crocker I'm Not

If you had asked me a decade ago if I would ever say that I like to cook, the answer would have been a resounding NO! Yet, I've discovered over the past few years that I actually do. I love trying new recipes, using spices I've never tasted before, getting a reaction from my family about whether they like it. (And by my family, I mean Josh. Ethan likes pretty much nothing except cheese and quesadillas, Lauren's unpredictable, and David likes exactly 2 things I make. Yes, Joshua is my favorite.)

Lately my cooking has been going quite well; I have a batch of yeast dough rising in the fridge at the moment . . . my second in three days. As I was making the dough tonight, I was remembering some of my culinary attempts that went slightly awry, including my first attempt at said dough.

1. My first batch of yeast dough. When I was in law school my sister-in-law agreed to teach me how to make homemade dough. You'd think she would have learned after the disastrous attempt to teach me to sew when I was in college, but she's apparently pretty tenacious. So, she gave me the recipes with step-by-step instructions, one of which is to put the dough in the fridge to rise overnight in a large bowl covered with a dishtowel. I did exactly that. However, when I opened the fridge a little while later, the dishtowel no longer covered the massively expanding ball of dough. Dough was overflowing the bowl in every direction like a size 20 woman spilling out of a size 2 bathing suit. It kept growing . . . and growing . . . and growing. Turns out I left out the salt, which is apparently responsible for counter-acting the yeast so that the dough doesn't rise . . . and rise . . . and rise. It was useless for baking bread, but it was pretty fun as the world's larges glob of silly putty.

2. When I was in college I decided to bake a red velvet cake for a friend. The last step in making a red velvet cake is to add an entire 1 oz bottle of red food coloring. Unfortunately, food coloring and extracts come in very similar looking bottles. I poured into my cake batter an entire bottle of vanilla extract. I thought Vanilla Velvet Cake seemed like a brilliant idea what with the alliteration and all, but everyone else, not so much.

3. Another law school fiasco. Some family friends were in Va Beach with their son checking out the law school I attended. I invited them over for dinner and told them I was making some delicious vegetable soup. I think I built it up quite a bit telling them how good it would be. And then I served it. Oops. Forgot to put in ANY of the spices. Zip. Nada. None. Suffice it to say it was a little on the bland side. How does a person forget ALL of the spices?!

4. I can't tell you how many times I have cooked chicken, intending to make chicken soup and have accidentally drained the chicken by pouring all of the broth right down the drain . . . just before remembering it was supposed to be SOUP! Yes, many times.

5. David's one cooking attempt during our 8 years of marriage takes the cake. He was attempting mac-n-cheese . . . no, not the homemade kind, the Kraft in a blue box kind. He somehow neglected to notice the very crucial word "drain" in the instructions and proceeded to put the milk, butter, and cheese sauce in without draining the noodles! What's worse is that he INSISTED the instructions did not say drain. I had to dig the box out of the freakin' trash can to show him that it did. For some reason mac-n-cheese soup does not seem to have taken off as a culinary idea.

What about you? Any cooking fiascos to share with the world?

It must be tough to be my kid

I'm not a hoarder. I am a purger by nature; when I am finished with something, I get rid of it. It's so bad that it truly never even occurred to me to keep a piece of my children's baby clothing until after Lauren was born. I kept nothing from the boys . . . not one thing. Of course, in preparation for moving soon, I have been in over-purge mode, which is saying A LOT for me. A conversation with Joshua last night makes me wonder if I haven't gone a bit overboard:

Josh: Mommy, some night soon can I please stay up all night to play with all of my toys?
Me: What?
Josh: I never have time to play with aaallll of my toys, so can I stay up all night to do it?
Me: No, of course you can't stay up all night. Why do you need to play with every toy at once?
Josh: Because sometimes you say you're getting rid of something because we haven't played with it in a long time.

Yes, he's a smart kid. Note to self: keep Joshua.

I'm baffled

Before my surgery, Dr. B said my heart was doing an 8 minute mile while I was at rest. How is it that with a properly functioning circulatory system, I couldn't run an 8 minute mile now if my life depended on it? I run (and I use the term loosely) closer to an 8 minute half-mile! Is it just me or does this seem horribly, horribly wrong. (Which were probably the exact words going through the minds of every car that passed me tonight . . . horribly, horribly wrong.)

How We Ended up in Georgia (And Why We’re Leaving)

The year was 2000. The setting was a snow-covered mountain in northern Pennsylvania; the prop, a diamond ring.

David chose to ask me to marry him on this mountain for a very specific reason: he felt I deserved to see his hometown, the town to which we would move when we finished law school the next year, before I agreed to marry him. So, he took me there over a weekend in January when the temperature was a balmy 4 degrees so that I could see the town in all its glory. After meeting several relatives, traveling every street in town (seriously - there are 6 of them), and spending the day sledding on a beautiful pristine hillside, he popped the question. I don't know if it was the effect of the bitter cold on my brain cells, the blinding glare of the diamond ring/snow, or if it was just a momentary delusion in which I saw myself as a brave, adventurous person, but for whatever reason, I said, "Yes, I can live here!"

Now lest you misunderstand me, let me be clear: I agreed to marry David because I love him - a decision I have not regretted in at least the past 48 hours. (I jest, I jest!) It was not my answer to the "Will you marry me?" part that would come to haunt me; it was the "Can you live here?" part.

I should give you a little background about myself at this point. I tried to go away on a summer-long mission trip to Hungary when I was 16. I lasted 5 days. I started college at Auburn but transferred home after a semester. (In reality, my intent was to transfer to a Christian school, but it never happened. I finished my degree at CSU, which does not stand for Colorado State.) I finally succeeded at the summer missions thing the summer after I graduated from college, during which I lived for an entire summer in a warehouse/church in inner-city Chicago. I lasted the whole summer and loved it. However, the complete story is that I flew home for a weekend after one week so that I could walk in my college graduation, returned home 3 weeks after that because I needed semi-emergency surgery, and traveled to California to be my cousin's maid of honor during a few weeks after that. So, assuming there are about 10 weeks in the summer, I still managed to spend a total of almost 2 weeks with my family during that time. A few days before I was to leave for law school in Virginia Beach, my family and some friends got together to pray for me and bless me before I left. My big brother seemed skeptical that I would really go. I said, "Ben, I'm going. I'm packed! I have an apartment!" He said, "Yeah, but you haven't left yet." That statement held more meaning than he intended.

I did, indeed, leave that week and spent three fabulous years living in Virginia Beach. I made the closest friends of my entire life (all you have to do is call my name, and I'll be there . . . on the next train . . .) and never for a minute wished I wasn't there.

It was halfway through our second year that David proposed. I was still doing great then. We got married the summer before our final year of law school. The first few months, still great. And, then . . . downhill fast. I was suddenly gripped by an overwhelming, paralyzing fear of moving to Pennsylvania. I sunk into a depression, cried at the mere thought, much less mention, of moving there and being away from my family for even longer than I had already been. I just could not do it, and I was falling apart. Those of you who are married can imagine what a joyful first year of marriage this made for David and me. Let's just say we have great empathy for couples who struggle.

So, I was a wee bit apprehensive about moving to PA after graduation. You know, in the sense that the Sahara desert is a wee bit warm. As I said, the mere thought or mention of it would reduce me to tears, and since it was our final year of law school, there was of course, a LOT of talk about it. We had to apply to take the bar exam in whatever state we would be moving to, so I spent our last semester getting together the materials needed to apply to the PA state bar (which consists of your birth certificate, your driving record, your criminal record, your blood samples, your firstborn, etc.). I had talked David into agreeing to take the GA bar, too, but we could not take them at the same time because the days overlapped. (Most bar exams are 2-day affairs, given at approximately the same time.) The exams are offered only twice a year - in July and February - so we agreed we would take the PA bar in July and the GA bar in Feb.

Here's where things got a little better (ie, I got my way): because studying for the bar exam is theoretically full-time work and we had to move out of our university apartment when we graduated in May, we had no place to live. So, my parents agreed that we could live with them for the summer while we studied for the bar exam. We flew to PA in July to take the exam . . . but exam results are not issued until October. So, now what do to? Getting a job as a lawyer is tough when you don't have a law license yet, so that left us from late July to late October with little employment opportunities. We weren't in PA to look for jobs there, and we hadn't even taken the GA bar exam yet, so looking for legal jobs here was pretty impossible, too. By August we realized we needed to do something to put bread on the table and move out of my parents' house. Seeing as how David had gotten an oh-so-marketable political science degree, the job-hunting was pretty much left to me since I had a teaching degree and certificate and a yaer of teaching experience pre-law school to boot. So, I got a job teaching 7th grade grammar. (Grammar I love; 7th graders, not so much. No offense, Mal and Grant!)

Boy this story is getting long, huh? So, the teaching job committed us to GA for the year. By then end of that year, we had obtained law licenses in both PA and GA, David had gotten a job with a firm here, and I was pregnant! During this time, David was still knocking on doors (figuratively) in PA from time to time, but nothing was opening. So, he ended up in the DA's office, I had a baby and then went to work part-time for a law firm. Over the next three years, we would have three children, I would become a stay-at-home mom, and David would leave the DA's office to work for the firm he is still with today. (Our time there, sadly, overlapped by only a couple of months before I left to stay at home.)

During all this time, up until Fall of 2006, I would hear him on the phone with his dad in the other room talking about plans for living and working in PA, and I would fall apart all over again. (David's dad graduated from law school with us. He and David went to law school together with the intent to open their own firm afterward; call me the monkey-wrench.) I spent the first six years of our marriage living, quite literally, in abject fear of moving to PA. I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted to live near my family, have my mom to help with my kids, be here to watch my nieces and nephew grow up, have all the comforts and familiarites of my hometown at my fingertips, and last but not least, live within 1/2 hr of actual stores and restaurants! Any talk of PA left me shaken, afraid, and quite honestly bitter and angry. It made much more sense to me that we stay here since I have siblings and David does not. His parents needed to just move to GA to be close to their grandchildren since ours are the only ones they have. Makes sense, doesn't it? Meanwhile, David and his parents kept playing the "God card" - they felt like God wanted them to live there and that we were "supposed to" move there at some point. Thanks a lot - how can you argue with the God card, right?

So, after six years of marriage here I was resenting David for wanting to put me through the pain of leaving my family, resenting his parents for expecting us to do that, and pretty much creating a mile-wide chasm between myself and my husband. It would have made sense during this time for me to have prayed for God to change my heart about the whole thing . . . to help me desire the things my husband desired, to give me peace about following my husband and supporting him in his goals and plans. Plans, he wouldn't hesitate to remind me, that he fully disclosed when he took me to that mountain and proposed all those years before. He had wanted to make sure I would be able to live in that tiny frozen speck in the mountains, and I had said I could. How frustrating this must have been for him, I cannot imagine.

Despite my fear and resentment, for reasons unbeknownst to me, I suggested in the Fall of 06 that we take a family trip to David's hometown. We had not been there since we got engaged, and none of his family had seen any of our children. (Except his parents, but they have been living in Harrisburg - about 4 hrs from the hometown - since after law school, so that was where we always visited.) We drove to Harrisburg first and spent a couple of days at his parents' house. Then we headed up into the mountains.

I was prepared for battle. I fully expected David to hail the virtues of the town the entire time we were there and to try to convince me that it was where we should live. I was ready with my defense. My guard was up, and I would not let him penetrate it. Bring it on, honey, I know this is what you're going to do.

Nope. Silence. We were there for three days, and in a display of probably the wisest self-restraint anyone has ever shown, David said not one word about moving there. Not one word. I was stunned.

But, Someone else spoke to me instead. David's arguments I could resist. His mom and dad's arguments I could thwart. But, there is One whose words cannot be resisted no matter how hard we try. Over the course of the three days we were there, God and God alone, totally and miraculously changed my heart. I saw the town and his family with new eyes. I would be okay. God would go with me, and I would be fine. He gave me a peace that is truly beyond understanding.

God was steadily working in my heart the entire time we were there, but I didn't say anything to David until our final day. On the morning we were packing to leave, we were standing outside (in the bitter October cold and snow!), and I said to him, "If you really feel like this is where we need to be, I'm okay with that." You could have knocked him over with a feather! What??!! After six years of crying and hyperventilating when he even mentioned PA, suddenly I was fine with it? We were both utterly amazed. I knew that this peace had come from God and that He had given it to me mercifully. I had not asked for it. I had only ever prayed that God would change David's heart and that we would not have to go. Never had I asked for my heart to be changed. But, doesn't God always give us what we need even if we're too foolish to ask for it or to recognize it?

That was two years ago next month. Yet, here we are in GA. Over the course of the past year I would wonder why God didn't open doors for us to move right after He gave me peace about it, but we would discover the answer to that. If we had moved to his tiny hometown prior to this year, I probably would have died because my life-threatening health condition would almost certainly not have been found in time. Turns out God had us here for a reason, and now that I've had surgery and my health is good, doors are opening and signs are appearing at every turn that let us know the time to go is soon. I could not ask for a sweeter blessing from God than this peace and like-mindedness with my husband. How terrible putting up the for-sale sign would have been if I were still in the state I was in two years ago. How miserable it is to live life full of fear and resentment, and how great and gracious and merciful God is to give us what we need despite our protestations.

So, I was right all along that we ought to be in Georgia, wasn't I? In the end, though, does that really make me right? No. I read a verse during that final semester of law school which convicted me: I Peter 3:5-6, which says, "For in this way in former times the holy women also, who hoped in God, used to adorn themselves, being submissive to their own husbands; just as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord, and you have become her children if you do what is right without being frightened by any fear." (emphasis mine) That pierced my heart, and I knew then that the right thing to do was to support my husband and to ask God to help us want the same things and to give me courage and peace. But, I didn't. I stubbornly resisted. God did not need me to be bitter and resentful for us to live where He wanted us. He did not need me to stubbornly refuse to submit to my husband and to do everything I could to manipulate circumstances to keep us here. He could have kept us in Georgia without any help from me. I was wrong even if the place was right. Thank God for his mercies that are new every morning.

How God Saved My Life (A long story)

I've been feeling compelled to write out my story lately . . . not because I think anyone wants to read it, but more because I will benefit from remembering and writing it. This will be a 2-part story describing two distinct ways the Lord has been working in my heart this year. I'm having trouble deciding whether to tell the "contentment no matter where He takes me" tale or the "thankful He saved my life" tale first. Hmm . . . I guess being alive is always a good place to start. (By the way, this is a loooooong story, so if you already know my medical saga, skip the first 13 or 14 paragraphs (yes, it's THAT long).)

For those who may not know my story, I have had a chronic kidney condition all my life. It's most likely benign, but I have seen a nephrologist for the past 15 years to monitor it, and in the interest of being on the safe side, my first nephrologist 15 years ago decided it would be prudent to biopsy one of my kidneys. This took place in 1994 when I was 19 years old. Unfortunately the biopsy was inconclusive - it revealed abnormalities but was not conclusive as to what the underlying defect was.

So, fast-forward about 10 years. I was 29 and barely pregnant with our third child (so barely that I wasn't even aware of her yet) when I developed high blood pressure for the first time. The drs pretty much treated it as pregnancy-induced hypertension even though they thought it highly unlikely that it would have developed so early in the pregnancy if that's really what it was. I began taking medicine to control my bp, and in the end Lauren was induced 3 weeks early because the medication was beginning to lose its efficacy.

Now comes the first time in this tale when I began to truly fear for my life. When Lauren was 3 days old, I developed the worst headache known to mankind. I had never experienced anything like it. It began on a Monday afternoon, and by the next morning I was in tears. We had to take Lauren to the pediatrician to get her billiruben checked that morning (yes, ALL of my kids decided to be jaundiced), and several nurses asked if I was okay. I struggled through that visit, which ended around 9:30 am. I had made an appt to see my midwife at noon but dropped the kids off at my mom's and headed on over there hoping she could see me sooner. I waited for about an hour in tears when finally I went to ask the nurse how much longer it would be. Taking one look at my face, she said, "Just one more minute." Within a minute I was having my bp taken, and at this point it had risen only to about 170/90. (It would continue to rise until it finally peaked at 210/115.) At that point, my midwife and the consulting OB sent me straight to the hospital with my "Do not pass go. Do not collect $200" card. I spent 4 days in the hospital with post-partum pre-eclampsia (which I did not know could occur), 2 of those days in critical care as they worked to get my bp under control. I finally got relief from the headache on about the middle of the second day.

I was sent home on day 4 (finally being able to see my 9 day old baby I hadn't seen since she was 5 days old) but my bp continued to be a roller coaster. Finally after a few weeks, the OB said this was clearly not pregnancy-related anymore and I needed to see my pcp because he would know of a wider range of bp medications to try. Of course, about this time our insurance changed, and our pcp was no longer covered, so I had to go see a new dr. He was listening to my heart and said, "Do you know you have a heart murmur?" Um, no. He said, "It's actually quite loud. Are you sure no one's ever mentioned it." Of course, I'm very sure, so he does a chest x-ray. Here comes my next "Do not pass go" card. My heart was enlarged, so he sent me straight to the cardiologist at 5:30 that afternoon.

The cardiologist was concerned that I may have had cardiomyopathy; I did not. He said that my heart was definitely enlarged and a couple of my valves (mitral and aortic) didn't close all the way, but it was probably the result of how high my bp had gotten during my pre-eclampsia episode. He wanted to keep an eye on things and thought it would probably resolve itself in time. It did not.

All this time, I'd been seeing my nephrologist to keep an eye on my kidneys. Sometime in mid-2006 he decided to do a kidney ultrasound since I had not had one in many years. That ultrasound revealed some enlarged blood vessels in my left kidney. He thought it was probably just some scarring from the biopsy I had had years before, but he ordered an MRI to get a closer look. So, I had an MRI in the fall of 2006, which confirmed enlarged blood vessels in that kidney. My dr decided not to do anything at that point (a decision he would later question) but to keep an eye on things. So, in December of 2007 he ordered another MRI. (Meanwhile, my bp had continued to require more and more medication in order to keep it down.) This time the MRI report was that the vessels of my left kidney were even larger than they had been the year before. This concerned him, but he still said it could be anything from a minor aneurysm to scar tissue to . . .

So, in Jan. 2008 I had an arteriogram of my kidney. (That's not a fun procedure, but it is pretty cool. The radiologist pretty much steers a catheter through your arteries much like a kid playing a video game, with the controls entirely on the outside of your body as he watches the inside on a monitor. I'm amazed at how they can make it twist and turn through exactly the vessels they want to get it to your heart, brain, kidney, etc.) As soon as the radiologist injected the dye, he said, "Oh wow, you have a massive AVM." (a term I would later learn means arterior-venous malformation) He had told me prior to the procedure that he would inform me right away of what he saw but that he would NOT make any guesses about what my dr may want to do about it. He stressed this point quite emphatically before he began the procedure, so I was a bit taken aback when his next words (after, "Call and see if Dr. W is in the hospital at the moment - he's going to want to see this right away.") were, "You're definitely going to need surgery to fix this. Yeah, they're gonna have to fix this." So much for not taking any guesses!

So, at this point (while I'm lying flat and still in the hospital bed for four hours, as is required after an artiogram), the radiologist told me to call my nephrologist and ask if he really wants to see me or if I should just go ahead and let them make an appt with the cardio-vascular surgeon. I didn't have to call. The next morning my phone rang, and it was Dr. W's office saying, "We're making an appt with the cardio-vascular surgeon." Still, I didn't have any idea what to expect. As anyone on the planet would do, I began to research AVM's on the internet. It seemed that the most common treatment was an arteriographic procedure where they insert some type of stent through your leg to repair the problem. Of course, I also read that sometimes they have to take out your kidney, but I had absolutely no idea which of the things I was reading applied to me. So, I did what any normal person would do . . . didn't worry about it and went on our church's women's retreat.

We were gone from Fri evening until Sunday around noon. It was a great retreat and a time of sharing and connecting with friends that I will treasure forever. I pulled into my parents' driveway around 1:00 Sunday afternoon (David had, of course, gone to my parents' house with the kids) and found David standing in the driveway waiting for me with a piece of paper in his hand. He barely said hello before saying that Dr. W had called and left his home number for me to call him when I got back to town. Ding-ding-ding!! Alarm bells going off in my head . . . he called on a Sunday??? And he left his home number??? Those are never good signs.

So, I called him right away, and he said that he had been in his office looking over my pictures (from the arteriogram) and realized that a whole lot of doctors were talking about Rebecca R, but he wasn't sure if anyone had actually talked to Rebecca R. Umm, no, actually. He said he just wanted to prepare me for the fact that I as going to be having a "huge operation" and that there was a very good chance I would lose my left kidney. Huh?? At this point, I still wasn't even 100% sure what an AVM was, much less how it was threatening my life. He said that he had moved my appt with Dr. B (the surgeon) up to the next afternoon and wanted this taken care of asap.

So, the next afternoon I went to Dr. B's (aka, my life-saver and miracle-performer) office and finally began to understand exactly what was going on with me. I finally saw the previous two years of my life beginning to make sense. Have you ever watched one of those artists on tv who starts a painting with seemingly random strokes on a huge canvass? I saw one once where the artist spun this huge square canvass around as he made stroke after seemeingly meaningless stroke, until all at once - as it was practically finished - I saw the face of Albert Einstein. It wasn't until almost the final stroke of the brush and spin of the canvass that I saw any face at all, and once I did, it was unmistakeable, and I didn't know how it had taken me so long to see it. That's what it was like when Dr. B explained my AVM. So, here it is:

When I had that kidney biopsy back in '94, the biopsy needle had nicked a hole in an artery and a vein. Blood had begun to leak, so instead of going from the artery to the vein via a capillary bed as it's supposed to, the blood was shunting straight from the artery into the vein. Well, as you proably know, the blood in an artery is high pressure, in a vein low pressure. So, over time, as this blood was forced into the vein at high pressure, it began to pool there and create what's called a fistula - a bulging area of blood vessel where blood accumulates. Well, after almost 14 years, that fistula had grown so much that there was more than twice as much blood in it as there was in the entire rest of my body. The result: my heart was having to work waaaaay overtime to supply enough blood to my body, resulting in an enlarged heart, high blood pressure, and chronic exhaustion (which I had chalked up to having 3 kids aged 3 and under!).

So, Dr. B's plan of action, he said, was to go in through my abdomen (because the kidney's vascular system lies in the front), find the exact spot of the leak, and fix it. Sounds pretty simple, right? Well, he said that the fistula contained so much blood that when reading the arteriogram pictures, it was impossible to tell exactly where the hole was. It would fill with blood with every beat of my heart, and by the time in emptied during the off-beat, it was already full again . . . so, he basically said he would have to go in fairly blind, use an ultrasound once he got inside of me, and try to find the leak that way and hopefully be able to save my kidney . . . and my life.

Now's probably a good time to mention my grandmother. My dad's mom (who died in her 60's while I was in college) had high blood pressure and kidney problems most of her adult life. She had the first of several heart attacks in her 30's and eventually died of a massive heart attack on the operating table for an unrelated, relatively minor, sugery. (Thyroid, I think.) So, all this time, I've pretty much figured that my health issues are just genetic, and whatever happened to her would probably happen to me, too.

Now, if you know me at all, you know I'm not an easily freaked-out person. As my pastor, Bill, would say, my boat doesn't tip real easily. Even right up until this point, I've been my usual even-keeled self - not panicked, not worried, not anxious . . . but, then . . .

I went for my pre-op on what was supposed to be the day before my surgery (it ended up being postponed a week because I had the freakin' flu), and at LEAST 4 different medical professionals (drs and nurses) came into the pre-op area and said, "Oh, you're the woman with that AVM?" or "I saw the pictures of that AVM . . . amazing . . . mind if I listen?" (You could hear it with a stethoscope on my side, and they were all in awe of that . . . imagine how much more amazed they were when I showed them that you could actually feel it just by touching my side . . . I'd been feeling it for a long time and just thought it was a very-strong pulse.) Or, my favorite, from my anasthesiologist (who is also a good friend), "Wow! Do you exercise at all? You do? That is unbelievable. I can't believe you're alive."

So, now that I was turning into a medical freak-show - which is great if you want fast and friendly service from a medical office staff, but not so great if you want someone to allay your fears about your condition - I was starting to get a little concerned. In fact, by the time I was on my way home I was coming unglued. Fear and panic were apparently trying to make up for lost time, and I became almost fully convinced that I was going to die on the operating table exactly like my grandmother had. Yep, that was it. Everything else was so uncannily similar to her that this made pefect sense, and I morphed into panic personified, crying and hyperventilating like there was, pun intended, no tomorrow.

Here's where my favorite phrase comes in, "But, God . . ." How many times is that found in the Bible? I don't know, but it's in there a lot. Things are looking mighty hopeless . . . but, God . . . those must be two of the most beautiful words in the English language. As I was driving home from the hospital I was listening to a song that I had not heard in, literally, years. Thanks to my recent aquisition of an ipod, I had been traveling down memory lane and dowloading songs I hadn't heard in ages. One of these was by an old Christian folk singer named Don Francisco. Most anyone under 35 or 40 has probably never heard of him, but the majority of his songs were simply Bible stories told in a beautifully poetic way and set to folk music.

The song I was listening to (unintentionally; it was on shuffle) during my drive home that day was called "Voyage to Gennesaret" and was the story of Jesus walking on the water as the disciples' boat was caught in a storm. Here are a few of the lyrics (the rest are in the link):

A man was walking on the water, and we trembled, cried and prayed
Till He stopped and turned and spoke to us, "It is I, don't be afraid.

At that moment, I had the clearest sense of God's presence and voice as I have ever had in my life. I saw Jesus - the unseen presence through every twist and turn of my life's journey - looking at me with love and saying, "It is I. Don't be afraid. Everything you're going through, have gone through, and will go through. Every road your life takes you on. Every storm you weather. Every joy, every sorrow, every pain, every unknown. It is always I. Never be afraid." I'm sure many of us have experienced what the Bible refers to as "peace that passes understanding," and this was truly one of those times. Only God could take me from abject fear to peaceful calm in a heartbeat.

And more aware of my heartbeats, I had never been. After two years of trying not to worry, every palpitation (and they were many) felt like it could be the end of me. The feeling of peace God gave me that day would not last; it would come and go. But, the vision and the message remained. I would lie in bed at night with my hand on my side feeling the blood pouring through the AVM and imagine that it was suddenly harder, faster, stronger, fainter . . . I conjured up images of my heart stopping or my insides hemmoraging that would make a CSI writer proud. But, always, I remembered God's voice: It is I. Don't be afraid.

So, thank you, Don Francisco. Thank you, Dr. B. Oh, how did things turn out? The surgery was not fun, but it was successful. After making a 10 1/2 inch incision and retracting my ribs out of the way, Dr. B located the leak with an ultrasound and was able to bypass and patch it without having to remove my kidney. I'm told that when they opened me up, my heart was pumping almost fourteen liters of blood per minute, and by the time they closed me, it was pumping six. (Five is normal.) Recovery was not easy . . . 5 days in ICU, 2 days in a regular room, 4 weeks without my kids, 6 weeks sleeping (or, more accurately, not sleeping) on the couch, and going on 6 months now with ribs that protrude in places they previously didn't and lingering pain when I do certain things like close the door on the back of the van or lift a heavy casserole dish out of the oven. But, you know what? I'm alive. God is still there, the unseen presence comforting and holding me steady through every storm He allows to come my way. And, like Peter, I sometimes keep my eyes on Him and experience a peace that is as miraculous as walking on water, but I often take them off and panic anew. For those times, here are a few more of the lyrics from the song, which is really from the Word of God:

I climbed across the gunwhale looking straight into His eyes
But long before I reached His side, the wind began to rise
I forgot Him in an instant and I sank just like a stone.
I cried out, "Jesus save me!" and His hand was on my own.

The continuation (aka, God's amazing)

So, I was a wee bit apprehensive about moving to PA after graduation. You know, in the sense that the Sahara desert is a wee bit warm. As I said, the mere thought or mention of it would reduce me to tears, and since it was our final year of law school, there was of course, a LOT of talk about it. We had to apply to take the bar exam in whatever state we would be moving to, so I spent our last semester getting together the materials needed to apply to the PA state bar (which consists of your birth certificate, your driving record, your criminal record, your blood samples, your firstborn, etc.). I had talked David into agreeing to take the GA bar, too, but we could not take them at the same time because the days overlapped. (Most bar exams are 2-day affairs, given at approximately the same time.) The exams are offered only twice a year - in July and February - so we agreed we would take the PA bar in July and the GA bar in Feb.

Here's where things got a little better (ie, I got my way): because studying for the bar exam is theoretically full-time work and we had to move out of our university apartment when we graduated in May, we had no place to live. So, my parents agreed that we could live with them for the summer while we studied for the bar exam. We flew to PA in July to take the exam . . . but exam results are not issued until October. So, now what do to? Getting a job as a lawyer is tough when you don't have a law license yet, so that left us from late July to late October with little employment opportunities. We weren't in PA to look for jobs there, and we hadn't even taken the GA bar exam yet, so looking for legal jobs here was pretty impossible, too. By August we realized we needed to do something to put bread on the table and move out of my parents' house. Seeing as how David had gotten an oh-so-marketable political science degree, the job-hunting was pretty much left to me since I had a teaching degree and certificate and a yaer of teaching experience pre-law school to boot. So, I got a job teaching 7th grade grammar. (Grammar I love; 7th graders, not so much. No offense, Mal and Grant!)

Boy this story is getting long, huh? So, the teaching job committed us to GA for the year. By then end of that year, we had obtained law licenses in both PA and GA, David had gotten a job with a firm here, and I was pregnant! During this time, David was still knocking on doors (figuratively) in PA from time to time, but nothing was opening. So, he ended up in the DA's office, I had a baby and then went to work part-time for a law firm. Over the next three years, we would have three children, I would become a stay-at-home mom, and David would leave the DA's office to work for the firm he is still with today. (Our time there, sadly, overlapped by only a couple of months before I left to stay at home.)

During all this time, up until Fall of 2006, I would hear him on the phone with his dad in the other room talking about plans for living and working in PA, and I would fall apart all over again. (David's dad graduated from law school with us. He and David went to law school together with the intent to open their own firm afterward; call me the monkey-wrench.) I spent the first six years of our marriage living, quite literally, in abject fear of moving to PA. I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted to live near my family, have my mom to help with my kids, be here to watch my nieces and nephew grow up, have all the comforts and familiarites of my hometown at my fingertips, and last but not least, live within 1/2 hr of actual stores and restaurants! Any talk of PA left me shaken, afraid, and quite honestly bitter and angry. It made much more sense to me that we stay here since I have siblings and David does not. His parents needed to just move to GA to be close to their grandchildren since ours are the only ones they have. Makes sense, doesn't it? Meanwhile, David and his parents kept playing the "God card" - they felt like God wanted them to live there and that we were "supposed to" move there at some point. Thanks a lot - how can you argue with the God card, right?

So, after six years of marriage here I was resenting David for wanting to put me through the pain of leaving my family, resenting his parents for expecting us to do that, and pretty much creating a mile-wide chasm between myself and my husband. It would have made sense during this time for me to have prayed for God to change my heart about the whole thing . . . to help me desire the things my husband desired, to give me peace about following my husband and supporting him in his goals and plans. Plans, he wouldn't hesitate to remind me, that he fully disclosed when he took me to that mountain and proposed all those years before. He had wanted to make sure I would be able to live in that tiny frozen speck in the mountains, and I had said I could. How frustrating this must have been for him, I cannot imagine.

Despite my fear and resentment, for reasons unbeknownst to me, I suggested in the Fall of 06 that we take a family trip to David's hometown. We had not been there since we got engaged, and none of his family had seen any of our children. (Except his parents, but they have been living in Harrisburg - about 4 hrs from the hometown - since after law school, so that was where we always visited.) We drove to Harrisburg first and spent a couple of days at his parents' house. Then we headed up into the mountains.

I was prepared for battle. I fully expected David to hail the virtues of the town the entire time we were there and to try to convince me that it was where we should live. I was ready with my defense. My guard was up, and I would not let him penetrate it. Bring it on, honey, I know this is what you're going to do.

Nope. Silence. We were there for three days, and in a display of probably the wisest self-restraint anyone has ever shown, David said not one word about moving there. Not one word. I was stunned.

But, Someone else spoke to me instead. David's arguments I could resist. His mom and dad's arguments I could thwart. But, there is One whose words cannot be resisted no matter how hard we try. Over the course of the three days we were there, God and God alone, totally and miraculously changed my heart. I saw the town and his family with new eyes. I would be okay. God would go with me, and I would be fine. He gave me a peace that is truly beyond understanding.

God was steadily working in my heart the entire time we were there, but I didn't say anything to David until our final day. On the morning we were packing to leave, we were standing outside (in the bitter October cold and snow!), and I said to him, "If you really feel like this is where we need to be, I'm okay with that." You could have knocked him over with a feather! What??!! After six years of crying and hyperventilating when he even mentioned PA, suddenly I was fine with it? We were both utterly amazed. I knew that this peace had come from God and that He had given it to me mercifully. I had not asked for it. I had only ever prayed that God would change David's heart and that we would not have to go. Never had I asked for my heart to be changed. But, doesn't God always give us what we need even if we're too foolish to ask for it or to recognize it?

That was two years ago next month. Yet, here we are in GA. Over the course of the past year I would wonder why God didn't open doors for us to move right after He gave me peace about it, but we would discover the answer to that. If we had moved to his tiny hometown prior to this year, I probably would have died because my life-threatening health condition would almost certainly not have been found in time. Turns out God had us here for a reason, and now that I've had surgery and my health is good, doors are opening and signs are appearing at every turn that let us know the time to go is soon. I could not ask for a sweeter blessing from God than this peace and like-mindedness with my husband. How terrible putting up the for-sale sign would have been if I were still in the state I was in two years ago. How miserable it is to live life full of fear and resentment, and how great and gracious and merciful God is to give us what we need despite our protestations.

So, I was right all along that we ought to be in Georgia, wasn't I? In the end, though, does that really make me right? No. I read a verse during that final semester of law school which convicted me: I Peter 3:5-6, which says, "For in this way in former times the holy women also, who hoped in God, used to adorn themselves, being submissive to their own husbands; just as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord, and you have become her children if you do what is right without being frightened by any fear." (emphasis mine) That pierced my heart, and I knew then that the right thing to do was to support my husband and to ask God to help us want the same things and to give me courage and peace. But, I didn't. I stubbornly resisted. God did not need me to be bitter and resentful for us to live where He wanted us. He did not need me to stubbornly refuse to submit to my husband and to do everything I could to manipulate circumstances to keep us here. He could have kept us in Georgia without any help from me. I was wrong even if the place was right. Thank God for his mercies that are new every morning.