I thought “The Real Me Challenge” on Muses of Megret was over and done with.

Wrong.

It’s a fact: We’re all fluid characters — we change — daily — by the minute, even. God is always working on our hearts, molding our (hopefully) pliable personalities to be more like His.

In that light, I’ve been convicted of something recently and I decided to share….

Have you ever said, “Why me?” Not just in a funny way — but for real? Have you honestly ever thought you were a target for bad luck? Like poor fortune was stuck tight to you? Have you ever wallowed in self-pity?

There was a time in my life where Self-Pity could have been my middle name.

I’ve asked, “Why me?” countless times. There are many things I’m “plagued with,” so to speak, about which I could easily find reason to complain:

~ I’m shy. I feel awkward in social situations, especially when there’s lots of people (more than about five). I can never think of great things to say to someone until I’m in the car on the way home. I have a hard time making friends….it sometimes takes me years. People often mistake my shyness with snobbery, and I’m not quite sure how to remedy that.

~ I have migraines. For much of my adult life. I have two or three a month and they are quite debilitating. Things have helped some….chiropractic care, medicines, rest. But there are still many days lost due to my head pounding, blurred vision and feeling sick.

~ I have bad teeth. You can’t tell from looking at me — in fact, I have had thousands of dollars’ and many years’ worth of orthodontic work, including having braces on twice. And further back my mouth is full of a host of amalgam and silicone dental fillings. Two root canals have left me with two costly crowns. And you know what? I brush and floss 3x a day. I rinse with fluoride. I chew sugarless gum. But I’m one of those select few that get cavities….no matter what I do. I can get a cavity just by staring at a candy cane.

~ I have anxiety. I wrote extensively about my struggles with it in past posts. The truth is, it is a malady I’ve had most (if not all) of my life. It is currently under control, but it is not completely gone. I may be healed eventually — and I may not be. It is something I think about and deal with every single day.

The apostle Paul, one of Christ’s early followers, had some sort of an ailment or shortcoming, too. Paul felt singled out and picked on. His “thorn in his flesh” that may or may not have been visible to others. II Corinthians 12:7-10 describes his views of it:

To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong. (NIV)

(Read another description via The Message translation here.)

My pitfalls, shortcomings, deformities, ailments, and weaknesses? Yeah, they do seem like “thorns in my flesh.”

I have to believe that they are not in vain. They can be (and really are) used as vessels through with God can do His stuff.

And too, they are a part of, well, being human. Proof that life isn’t fair.

I have been challenged to divert my feelings away from self-pity and onto something else: What I’m blessed with. I can’t complain if I dwell on the good things God has given: A home to live in, a loving family, the lack of current life-threatening illness, financial peace.

The question “Why me?” takes on a different slant, then….as in, “Why me? Who am I to deserve such favor?”

Leaves no room for complaint.

(**Warning: This is going to be a lengthy post. I debated splitting it into parts, but I believe my thoughts can best be gotten across in one long narrative. Feel free to come back and read when you have more time.**)

This post has been a long time coming.

Really, all other “The Real Me Challenge” posts in the series have led to this last subject. It hasn’t been easy to sit down and finally write this down. But in delaying the task (or not writing about it at all), I feel I am being disobedient….as well as not 100% “real”….which I promised at the very beginning.

So let me tell you what my main struggle is right now. The thorn in my flesh. The chain on my ankle.

Its name? Anxiety.

Anxiety exists in many forms, and it appears at many ages. For me, it’s been a lifelong label.

My earliest memories of fear and anxiousness are ever-present with me:

- Constant stomachaches as a young child, then the diagnosis at age 4 of having a “nervous stomach.” A prescription for thick, olive-green lime-tasting liquid medicine that Mom gave me whenever I complained of having one.
- Unreasonable fears that persisted into mid-childhood. As a young child, I feared the worst and constantly asked, “What if?”
- Fears of illness, and extremely detailed memories of illnesses of my childhood.
- Nightmares and night terrors.
- Extreme nervousness before big events (camp, family vacations, etc.), to the point of not eating well for 1-2 days beforehand.

Though my fears and anxiety never totally left me as I grew up, they, thankfully, became less oppressive and more or less laid dormant throughout my high school and college years.

Fast-forward to late 2000 – early 2001. I was a newlywed, a college graduate, and the new owner of a home. I had everything I could ever ask for. But anxiety came back, a visitor that wasn’t welcome.

It all began as a resurgence of stomach issues. My family doctor put me on prescription medicine for irritable bowel syndrome (IBS). My weight plummeted, and I felt weak and tired all the time.

When we learned suddenly that we were being relocated to city in another part of the state (away from friends and family), I went back to the same doctor for advice on how to handle things. I didn’t know exactly why I went or what I thought he would say or do. I just knew I wasn’t taking things in stride. Maybe just something to “take the edge off” while we moved. What I received was a prescription for an antidepressant.

Feeling as if I had responded well to the medicine and was more or less settled, my new doctor in the new city took me off of that drug after a few months. It was then that anxiety began to manifest itself in a way I had not seen before — an incredibly scary way.

Anyone who has had a panic attack knows the sheer loss of control felt when one occurs. My first one happened in a movie theater. It wasn’t a scary movie. It was Shrek, for goodness sake. I was sitting there, enjoying a fountain drink and the film with Ken, when it hit me out of nowhere. Clammy hands. Racing heart rate. Dizziness. Shortness of breath. Flashes of light in my peripheral. Sick stomach. Tight chest. Utter and complete belief that, if I did not get out of there immediately, that I was going to die.

The movie was almost over, thankfully, so I was able to exit with everyone else, not cause a scene, not worry my husband. But what…had…just…happened?

This happened not one more time, but several, over the next few months. It was so severe that I quit going to the church we were attending. (Why? Because their services were held in a movie theater.) The avoidance of situations and places had begun with just one perpetrating, paralyzing event. The loss of control I felt was terrifying. My entire world was shaken. Nothing felt certain or safe anymore.

Obviously, this plunged me to depths I’d never before experienced. Desperate, I sought out the counsel of a local and respected Christian counselor/psychologist. That first meeting was surreal — and extremely hard to accept.

“I know all about this stuff,” I said, staring at the doctor. “I’m a psychology major, for pete’s sake. I know the DSM-IV back and forth and up and down. I know what this is. But I guess I’m here hoping that you’ll…..tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

Eight years later, I am still living with the diagnosis. I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder with Obsessive-Compulsive tendencies.

As I forecasted, having children did compound (and bring more to light) this condition. Nowhere in the definition of parenthood is the word “control.” I am forced, as a mom, to face my fears like never before. I fear germs and my kids being sick. I fear I’m not being a good-enough mom. I fear tragedy.

I am still seeing a counselor monthly, someone who is helping me make slow and steady progress forward. I am taking a prescription for an anti-anxiety medication, a prescription brand that I finally found works more for me than against me (some of you know what horrible side effects this class of drugs can carry.)

(photo from stock.xchng)

And, too — I have faith that I will be healed of this one day.

But even if I’m not, I will still give God glory.

For if there’s one thing I have learned from this exhausting journey, it’s that it is sometimes our weaknesses and shortfalls, our ailments and our afflictions, that God chooses to use to help others and reflect Him.

I’m not writing this post to seek out self-pity. I am not writing it as an excuse to talk about myself. I’m writing it because I feel that I need to write it — not for me, but for others. Other people out there who are in the middle of the the same things — or feel as if they’re on a road heading toward it. Those who feel like they’re the only ones. Those who are weary and tired of pretending. Those who feel as if it’s their fault.

Let me tell you that it’s not your fault. Another thing I know is that anxiety and depression are not just psychological — they are physical ailments. Whether the cause is unknown (like my own) or the condition is jumpstarted by a traumatic event, a chemical imbalance in the brain is the effect….the definition of this illness.

I want this type of ailment to be as understood and seriously regarded as other physical ailments such as cancer and multiple sclerosis. Like these diseases, it takes time (and often medicine) to heal.

I want to help to change the general opinion that mental illness is someone’s fault — for something they did or didn’t do right. I want to help stop the rumors. The misconceptions. Help bring to light and openly dicuss a taboo subject that’s nowadays more secretive and untouched than the subject of sex.

I was inspired and provoked to write about my struggle with anxiety on Muses of Megret after reading several posts recently on the subject….namely on the transparency that comes with blogging about it. (Janice at 5MinutesforMom was candid about her own story — and the comments on her post are about as candid as the post itself.)

Then I saw a couple of weeks ago where a friend of mine talked about stepping out on a limb to obey what God wants us to do. The very next Sunday our pastor spoke on the same thing. Coincidence? I think not.

So I’m taking this huge leap of faith today. Telling the truth because I feel that I need to. Knowing deep down inside that some of you will not see me the same ever again. I’m okay with that.

I’m not gearing up to fight opinions and deflect judgment. (Believe me — I am my own worst critic and have had enough judgment inflicted on myself BY myself to last for a lifetime.)

I’m focusing on other people today, those of you for whom my post today struck a familiar chord. Those of you who might be struggling with the same thing. This post is for you.

So to those of you who feel alone, you aren’t. I implore you to do as I did and seek out help, making a move toward taking control of the grip anxiety (or depression) has on your life. The first step is not easy — believe me, I know — pride crumbles and independence seems to flicker for a moment. But you’ll soon see the trail of positives behind your first few shaky steps.

Thank you for listening to my heart today.

In order to work our way out of debt, we had to think about money in a totally different way. For the longest time, I’d viewed money as many things, both “good” and bad:
~ therapy
~ controlling
~ tricky
~ confusing
~ the end-all, be-all
~ mine

Once I realized that I truly owned nothing in this world…but was instead a steward of the wealth in God’s storehouse…my outlook changed tremendously. Tithing became obvious….a joy, really. I let my brain rule my purchasing decisions instead of letting my feelings do the job. I relinquished my feelings of entitlement and instead sought to learn from others around me….how could I make it stretch, save it more and spend it less, handle it in a way that pleased God?

Here are some things I began to do in those early, early days as we were adjusting to one income and a child on the way. Many of them (most of them) I still do today. By doing these things, I’m not being cheap….I’m being wise about and mindful of our resources. Living this way has given us a more stable foundation, strengthened our marriage, and changed my perspective on just about everything:

Regarding a budget:
~ Make one! It’s not easy seeing all of the numbers laid out on that white page….but it’s necessary for clarity, as well as for planning ahead. It’s also accountability; you can’t argue with what’s staring back.
~ Create a zero-based budget, as outlined by Dave Ramsey. What does this mean? Your income minus expenses equal zero…every single month. Anything “left over” goes into savings or other mutual funds.
~ Use cash for household purchases. Research shows that people find it harder to spend cash than pay by check or credit card.

Regarding grocery purchases:
~ Make a weekly grocery list according to the sales at your favorite store(s) and stick to it. If you shop more than once a week or without a list, you’ll spend more. I used to, and I did.
~ For groceries, let the sales guide your food choices. Plan your menus by what’s on sale that week. Don’t just look at the store flyer….there are websites that can help you zero in on the best deals of all. I love Southern Savers…it helps me find the best sales nearby. Another top favorite is Grocery Freak.
~ Cook and eat at home more. When we first began sticking to a budget, we didn’t eat out. At all. Even for “brown bag” staff meetings when we both worked at our church, we were the only ones eating food truly made and brought from home. We dine out some now, but it’s mainly reserved for special occasions or date nights. (It’s crazy to think that you can buy a week’s worth of groceries for the cost of taking your family out to dinner just twice.)
~ Eating frugally doesn’t mean eating poorly. There are tons of healthy, cheap recipes out there….and when spring and summer hit, take advantage of local produce stands or farmers’ markets!

Regarding other household purchases:
~ We buy most of what we need with our groceries. This includes paper products, toiletries, and office supplies. We stock up when they’re on sale, and always use coupons. Since our favorite grocery store doubles coupons, we come out cheaper than if we’d gone to Walmart or Target.
~ Not going to Walmart and Target weekly has saved us TONS. I couldn’t go into Target without spending less than $100, even if I only had aluminum foil and diapers on my list. Those endcap displays, clearance racks, purse racks, and DVD bargains jump out at you. If you don’t see them in the first place, you don’t know they exist…and you don’t buy them.
~ When I shop for clothes for our family, I go with a list of specific items. (“I need a black shirt, khaki pants, new running shoes, and socks…. Gardner needs some PJs and some button-up shirts.”) Again, no getting swayed by elaborate store displays, cute mannequins, and pushy salespeople. You know what happens…you end up with a cart full of new clothes, but then realize when you get home that nothing matches anything (or anything else in your closet, either).

Regarding home services:
~ Reassess every 6 months how much use and value you’re really getting from various home services…things like cable, internet, newspaper subscriptions, even lawn care. Chip off what you can or think you aren’t getting your money’s worth for.
~ Call and ask for discounts. It never hurts to ask!

This is just the tip of the iceberg. So, so many lifestyle changes have led us to where we are today: Financially free, not under the bondage of credit cards or student loans, and with an emergency fund. I owe so many things to our sacrifices made at the beginning….first and foremost, my ability to stay home and raise our children as I’ve always dreamed of doing. A sacrifice here, a relinquishment there…..it was all expressly and utterly worth it.

As Dave Ramsey says (and it is to true): “Live like no one else….so one day, you can live like no one else.”

(If you didn’t read Part I, click here.)

Little did I know that, in just a few short months, everything I believed about money and how to handle it was going to be tested in the fire.

Ken was called into full-time ministry, and we made plans to move back to our hometown. (More about this decision and its effects in a later post.)

Suddenly his salary was cut in half and I totally lost mine. I won’t go into detail and tell you all of the financial pitfalls we had to dig ourselves out of, or about the struggles we faced returning to one income only. I will say that it wasn’t easy, and our faith was tried more than it had ever been, financially speaking, since we’d married three years before.

And all of this on top of my feeling called to motherhood shortly after our move home? This made for even more of a permanent quizzical look on our faces. “How on earth are we going to pull this off?” we thought. Good thing we didn’t need to — God had it already.

One of Ken’s highest spiritual gifts is faith….and conveniently, it’s one of my very lowest. We’ve been able to see God move and work in our finances since 2003 in ways that we cannot explain. We took initiative…we changed daily habits, established a budget (ugh!) and took a (Dave Ramsey) Financial Peace University class through our church.

We modified our lifestyle and it paid off exceedingly: I am excited to say that as soon as my car is fully paid off, we are debt free.

(Stay tuned for Part III, where I’ll share some of the ways I amended our lifestyle and how I have learned to release money’s control of us over these past few years.)

Growing up, I never really was a saver. I had a piggy bank that never got all the way full. I sure did envy and respect friends who could save up for coveted things, though I never believed I could do the same thing myself. A high school job at a department store that required a credit card in order to obtain an employee discount guaranteed my entry into the world of debt. College came, and with it living on my own and making more of my own choices. I’m sad to say that much of my extra spending money during those four years went towards things like veggie burgers, PopTarts, coffee drinks, CDs, concert and movie tickets.

I married Ken and was in utter bliss…for many reasons, of course, but one of them this: I was marrying a chemical engineer! His start-out salary was outstanding….and the ladder only had one way to go: Up. The first six months we were married, I happily spent the money he brought home. After all, our apartment needed interior decoration and our table needed decadent meals on it every evening.

We bought our first house ten months later — a modest, starter home that needed minimal fix-ups. Things were perfect. That is…until, just six months later, we were forced to move two hours away from family and friends due to a plant closure and job relocation.

I was distraught. No…I was crushed. It wasn’t what we wanted to do, but it was what we felt we had to do. A job away from “home” was better in our eyes than no job at all, so we moved away. We bought a brand new home this time, and I found a job that paid well.

But our house was just a shell. It was empty. It needed something. What did it need? More furniture? More electronic gadgets? More clothes in my closet? Paycheck after paycheck went to obtaining these fixtures…yet the void within me was never filled. I felt no guilt purchasing whatever my heart desired. After all, we had no children yet. We both had secure jobs. We were bored. And it made me….happy.

I had fallen head over heels in to the trap of “retail therapy.” What my job, my husband, my house, my health, my wardrobe couldn’t give me, I tried to write a check for, tried to charge to a plastic card.

I remember one particularly bad day at work that left me distraught and frustrated. Instead of going straight home, my car seemed to drive itself right over to the shopping mall nearest my workplace. Within moments I was standing in a glossy aisle, staring straight at an endcap display of brand new handbags put out for spring. White. Linen. Leather straps. Houndstooth interior. Gorgeous. And only $79.50.

“I have never, ever bought something right off of a season’s new line before. It’s so pretty. It’s so NEW. It looks like it was made for me. It smells good. It’s shiny. And after all….I did have a horrible day. This will be my salve, the little gift that makes it all better.”

And with that justification held as tightly in my grasp as the handles of the Macy’s shopping bag, I walked out of that store that night with a new handbag, wondering why I didn’t feel better. Not in the slightest.

Stay tuned for Part II….

And here is the first installment of that, where I let you see rare and candid glimpses of my early childhood, where my quirkiness blossomed in full form and my insatiable love for the camera was obvious to all.

An unfortunate cowlick derails the perfect Mary Lou Rhetton/Dorothy Hamill haircut.

The hot pink Strawberry Shortcake swimsuit undermines my hefty attempts to look ferocious.

You’d be hard-pressed to get me this excited about riding on the log flume nowadays.

It was all fine and well when I asked to wear these get-ups on Halloween….quite another thing, however, when I asked to also wear them to school.

A very rare look into my after-school job as a cat seamstress and set designer.

I don’t exactly know whether I’m more embarrassed about playing with Barbies at the age of 10…or my HAIR.

No words.

While still in the hospital, I experienced an euphoric feeling that can only be explained by 1) the lingering effects of the anesthesia and other meds, 2) the surrealism of being a patient in a hospital for the first time in a long, long time, and 3) the complete and utter consumption with a new little person who measures just 19-1/2″ long.

I had prepared in many ways for the birth and the coming home for the first time. The carseat had been securely fastened into the Jeep for over a month. I had meals prepared ahead and frozen. I had sent home from the hospital one of G’s swaddling blankets for our two cats to smell and become familiar with (since they were, in essence, the “older siblings,” so to speak).

The coming home was glorious. It was a bright, sunny day, three days after G’s arrival, and the weather was just beginning to show the slight crisp snap of autumn. I don’t think I turned around and looked at the road one time as Ken drove us home….I craned my neck and watched G’s tiny feet, all I could see of him in his teeny tiny carseat/carrier contraption.

Recovering from a c-section, physically, was a bit more painful than I’d expected. I was glad we only had one stair in our whole house, a step-down into our bedroom. I gladly let family help with laundry loads and lifting. I enjoyed the five or six consecutive suppers cooked and brought to our doorstep by loving friends and family.

Breastfeeding was going exceedingly well, which pleased me so much. I didn’t dislike getting up for 2am and 5am feedings. In fact, I relished it. I got to snuggle with my little son AND watch all of the fantastic re-runs of 80s sitcoms that are never, ever on television during the daytime.

Yet little by little, the sleep deprivation that all parents do face did catch up with me. By the time G was 5 weeks old, most of the photos taken of me show dark circles under my tired eyes. Being sleepy tends to put a hazy fog over you, and I feel that fog clouded many of the sweet memories of day to day life with Little G that I might have held onto otherwise.

Days and nights became somewhat hard to distinguish between. Drained, I began to feel as if time was painfully slow at moving forward, yet at the same time, felt a sense of panic that it was all flying by too quickly. Quite the unexpected paradox.

Stay tuned for Part II…

People like me….the type-A, love to plan sort….can be idealistic about things in life. Though I’m a staunch realist in so many areas, in regards to things I plan for and strive for personally, I set high goals and see no reason why those goals can’t (and shouldn’t) be obtained. I form a rosy, sunlit picture in my mind of “how things should be,” and I dream and dwell on that image regularly.

So after I was blessed with the news of my first pregnancy, this idealistic planner (read: controlling) part of me kicked into overdrive.

I had every pregnancy book. I abstained from every frowned upon food deemed unsafe for pregnancy. I stressed about what I ate. I stressed about what I didn’t eat. I drank lots of water. I bounced on the big ball. I only slept on my left side. I exercised. I rested. I signed up for birthing classes. I watched every episode of pregnancy and birth related shows on Discovery Health. I interviewed obstetricians, pediatricians. I toured hospitals. I kept a pregnancy journal. I stayed out of the sun and heat. I ate organic produce. I read books to the baby. I bought a body pillow. I put earphones on my belly and let our baby listen to classical music. I let Ken empty the cat litter box. I was early to all of my prenatal checkups. One ultrasound wasn’t enough, so I drove 40 minutes to let students at a technical college give me another one for training purposes. I cleaned. I sanitized. I laundered, folded, and organized.

And I made up a birth plan.

The way I figured is this. In almost all areas of life, you work hard, follow the rules, and stick to the instructions….and your “project” turns out well. You adhere to the assembly manual and you don’t leave out any bolts or screws. You follow the recipe exactly and you pull a perfect cake out of the oven. You handle your money right and you get to enjoy a comfortable retirement.

The only problem? Pregnancy and birth are uncertain and unpredictable. And babies? They don’t know (or care) what the term “birth plan” even means.

You want to know how really sure I was about this “birth plan?” I skipped over every single c-section chapter in my pregnancy books. I didn’t need it. No one in my family had to have a c-section — why would I? I watched them being performed on medical shows and thought, “That poor girl. Glad that won’t be me.” I was seriously that detached from reality. Floating on a dream cloud. Ignorant and naive!

So imagine my shock and utter unbelief when, lying in the OB triage room on a cloudy morning three days before my due date, I heard the doctor say, “His heartrate is in de-cel. It’s looking sort of spooky. We have to get this baby out now. We are going to head to the OR.”

OR? OR? Certainly he meant the Great State of Oregon, because the “operating room” was written nowhere on that birth plan of mine.

I cannot even begin to describe the insanity that ensued. The flurry of activity with doctors, nurses, anesthesiologists, and insurance specialists. Sign here. We have to take off your nail polish. We have to do a catheter (sorry). I’m here to shave your stomach. What’s the last thing you ate and when? I’m here to draw blood. Put this on. Take this off. Sit still. Lie down. This shouldn’t hurt. You’re in good hands. Hurry up! Breathe deep. Tell me if you can feel this?

Before I knew it, before I even fully realized exactly what was happening, I was draped in blue fabric and my abdomen was cut open. Our son was born at 11:52am on a Tuesday, the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck and also in a tight knot. His cry was loud and angry. And my eyes were suddenly filled with tears. Before I’d fully prepared to meet him, he was here. He was safe. He was breathing. He was okay. He was ours, and he was beautiful.

He got here just as he was meant to get here….whether the “plans” lined up to mine or not.

The sure certainty of pregnancy in the spring of 2003 (that actually wasn’t) set us both to thinking. Maybe it was time. Maybe we were ready. Not financially (who really is?)….but in all other areas, we felt ready. Babyhood was now on our agenda.

And I say “agenda” in a tongue-in-cheek kind of way. Like most every other thing in life, trying to get pregnant was another thing to accomplish….involving research and planning. It seemed simple and logical. It seemed sure. What I didn’t realize is that it isn’t.

We weren’t one of those lucky ones who were able to become pregnant within a month. In fact, quite a few months went by. There were a lot of negative pregnancy tests and a ton of disappointment. By month six, disappointment began to morph into fear and concern. What if something was wrong?

(In those brief (but seemingly unending) months, I felt just a touch of what women struggling with infertility must feel. I had no medical basis for my pessimism, no good reasons for my doubt. I can only imagine the magnification of those feelings for those women who don’t have much (or any) hope of conceiving. My heart aches still for those who are struggling now.)

Since my doctor wasn’t calling us “infertile” until at least a year’s mark, we just had to wait. The waiting wasn’t easy. It was downright difficult. I took it personally and felt guilty. I worried about my state of health. I wondered why God had me give up all of those enormous dreams and didn’t immediately replace that void with this thing that I also wanted so badly: A baby. A lot of doubt. A lot of tears. And a lot of questioning.

And then….there was that icy, sleety, overcast morning of January 19th, 2004 that we both stood, numbingly tired, hanging over the bathroom sink, groggily looking at the test that sat there on the counter. One pink line….and two. Two? TWO!? After months and months of only seeing one lonely line? It couldn’t be.

The lights weren’t on. Maybe I just wasn’t seeing clearly. The lights went on, and the pink lines shone pinker. Positive. It worked. It worked! We stood there, shaking and giddy, nervous and elated. It really worked! This was it!

I didn’t take those two pink lines for granted. I was thankful for every spot of pink pigment that appeared on that test. I didn’t accept the happy news flippantly or casually. In fact, my entire soul rejoiced.

And then, a feeling of calm washed over my entire self that cold morning. My fluttering spirit and restless heart finally settled down, at peace. I had no doubts about the safety of my baby, about the purpose for this gift, about the plan for our lives from this moment on. It was right. It was meant to be. This was what I was supposed to be doing at that very moment, that that exact point in my life. I was sure of it. I felt a surety of being in the center of God’s will without a shred of doubt, which I can’t say had happened very often of late. I was beyond joyful. I felt…..whole.

And you’d think that, upon letting go of my own stubborn pursuits in my life, all would fall right into place and a fairy tale set of circumstances would magically begin to happen.

Not exactly so.

Learning to let go of my own self’s desires was just the tip of the iceberg when it came to what God was going to be teaching me over the next few months. Many, many more things needed to be learned and accepted on my behalf:

~ Silence and solitude. The fast pace of our earlier life was suddenly ground to a halt. I was back in town but my friendships had drifted and would need rekindling. I was not working. We were really feeling the effects of cutting half of Ken’s (and all of my) income, and so much of our life revolved around the home. No cable. No internet. No non-necessary shopping.

Instead of being bitter and bored, I saw it as a new challenge. What are some hobbies I put on the back burner but still have a passion for? How can I teach myself to make homemade bread? How can I strengthen even more my already-strong relationship with the county library? What are some things that I relish in life that I’d forgotten about and let go of in fast lane living?

Our home was older (circa 1930s) and, though every square inch held charm, I instantly fell in love with the front bedroom. It housed nothing but a whitewashed, bricked-up fireplace, four large windows, a closet, and oak hardwood floors. I set up a small table in that sunny room and read, wrote, and reflected. It was my favorite place to be. I spent many spring days there, gazing out at the beautiful azalea coated shrubs and dogwood trees, alive in pinks and whites. It was like putting on much-needed glasses for the first time. Everything was special, brilliant, beautiful, and moving.

~ Regaining my health. Working at a stressful job, dealing with the effects of negative body image, and stomach ailments due to stress had left my flesh weak and unhealthy. I took time to learn more about nutrition. I began kickboxing and yoga, setting aside my former weight lifting routines for something a little more enjoyable. I began taking vitamins. I went outdoors whenever I could. I went back to sleeping eight hours a night.

~ Becoming comfortable in my own skin. I had to make the huge shift from being in the middle of everything to falling back into the background. After all, if I was going to stay home with our future children like I’d hoped, it was a behind-the-scenes, not-outwardly-glamorous profession, and I needed to be okay with slowness, with alone time, with a quieter life.

I needed to refocus my sight on who I was in Christ, not who I was in the eyes of my superiors, my workmates, my peers, or my husband. I needed to set my eyes securely on the plan and design He had for me, and I had to let go of the need to please everyone else. (This is still not something I’ve mastered by any means….but this was the very beginning of that journey for me.)

Looking back, I am thankful that God gave me this time to reignite my energy, to realize what’s important, and make better the things about my life that I’d abandoned or mishandled. Little by little, I began to add a bit more to my plate, all within the boundaries of how much I could handle and when.

In that life-altering year of 2003, I began working part-part-time for our church, right alongside Ken. I strengthened friendships and made brand new ones. I began to purge out the poison that had crept into my heart during the year-and-a-half that we were away from home, family & friends, thankful each day that we were back close to loved ones and could start anew.

Stay tuned for part VIII…